#this almost seems like a continuation of that

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ 07. FIRST TIMER ˎˊ˗

pairingᝰ.ᐟ yang jungwon x reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ masturbation, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 7/9 completed!

the late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds in slatted gold, painting the apartment floor in soft stripes of warmth that stretched toward the kitchen. the air was quiet, too quiet, filled only with the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the wood beneath shifting weight. sunoo leaned against the counter, his posture casual but his expression anything but, the curve of a knowing smile tugging at his lips as he twisted the cap on a water bottle absentmindedly. across the room, jungwon sat curled up on the couch with his legs folded beneath him, his brows slightly furrowed as he glanced between sunoo and jake, sensing something was off. jake hadn’t said much since jungwon walked in—his arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyes unreadable as they lingered on the floor and then flicked up every now and then, like he was holding something back. jungwon couldn’t tell if it was tension or anticipation that made the silence stretch so long, but either way, he felt it crawling up his spine. finally, it was sunoo who broke it, sighing through his nose before speaking in a quiet but steady voice. “i’m just gonna say it—we’re all kind of losing our shit over the same girl.”

the words seemed to echo in the stillness, landing heavier than jungwon expected as he blinked, startled. he didn’t interrupt, didn’t even breathe for a second, just watched sunoo’s fingers trace along the ridge of the bottle like he needed something to do with his hands. “heeseung, jay—almost all of us and now me too,” sunoo continued, his voice softer now, tinged with something close to disbelief. “we’ve all worked with her. and i don’t mean just filmed with her—i mean something’s different. she’s not like the others.” jungwon stayed quiet, the room feeling suddenly too warm as the weight of their obsession unfolded in front of him, more real now than any of the quiet mutterings he’d overheard before. the tension that had been brewing in the background of their group dynamic now made perfect sense—the sidelong glances, the vague references, the sudden drops in conversation when he walked in. sunoo shifted then, the mood lifting slightly as he tilted his head, tone taking on a teasing lilt. “you should check her out, won. the subs have been begging you to collab anyway. might as well see what you’re missing.” something deep in jungwon’s chest stirred at the suggestion—not just curiosity, but something hotter, something restless. “maybe i will,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, before rising to his feet with a determined set to his jaw.

the hallway was cooler, dimmer as he padded quietly toward the room at the end, his heart picking up pace for reasons he didn’t want to name yet. he paused outside ni-ki’s door, knuckles tapping twice before he pushed it open without waiting for a response. the scent of fabric softener and faint cologne hit him first, followed by the soft glow of ni-ki’s laptop screen as he sat at his desk, eyes flicking up to meet jungwon’s with mild surprise. “i think i’m gonna do it,” jungwon said, voice quiet but steady, his fingers curling into the pockets of his hoodie as he leaned against the frame. ni-ki didn’t respond right away—just arched a brow, gaze narrowing slightly as he waited for more. “i want to collab with her,” jungwon clarified, and though he didn’t say your name, they both knew who he meant. “the guys are all hooked and… i want to understand why. i think it’s time i actually start doing this for real.” ni-ki leaned back in his chair slowly, a smirk playing on his lips, but his tone stayed calm. “you sure? that’s not just a toe dip—you’re diving in.” jungwon nodded once, resolve settling behind his nerves. “if anyone’s gonna get me to do it, it’s her.” ni-ki gave a slow shrug and turned back to his screen. “then go for it,” he said simply. “but let me know if she’s really as addictive as they say.”

—

jungwon lies in bed, the sheets rumpled beneath him, legs slightly tangled as he props his phone just above his chest, the glow from the screen casting a faint shimmer over his features. the room is quiet except for the low hum of his fan, and the soft golden light from his desk lamp spreads across the duvet, flickering every time he shifts his hand or thumb taps against the glass. he’s been thinking about it all day—about the way sunoo leaned back in his chair, half-sighing as he talked about you, about how real his words had felt even when said with a smile. it wasn’t just the teasing tone or the half-jokes about how you had all of them wrapped around your finger—it was something deeper, something that stayed behind long after the conversation ended. jungwon had seen it in their eyes too—that distant dazedness whenever you came up, like you were still in the room even after they left you behind. it haunted him more than it should’ve, the image of someone they all seemed unable to forget, someone they never even described in detail. it felt like they were guarding something, like they wanted to keep you for themselves, and that alone made curiosity bloom hot and anxious in his chest. he didn’t know why it was affecting him this way—but it was, and it wasn’t going away. so he finally gives in, fingers hovering only a second before tapping into his chat with sunoo, typing out the message quick and messy before the nerves could tell him not to.

“hey… what’s her username?” 

and before he even locks his phone, his response comes back in a blink. 

@babydollxo, just so you know her name is y/n

no hesitation, just the bare name like he’s handing him the last puzzle piece. his thumb hovers for a second before he clicks over to the site, breathing slowly through his nose as he searches the tag, chest already tight with anticipation. and when your page loads, it’s like something in him stills completely—no profile photo, no long description, just two videos and a name that shouldn’t feel this intimate, but already does. he doesn’t even realize he’s started biting his lip until he presses play.

the first video begins slow, barely lit, the frame hazy in a way that looks accidental at first—until he realizes every detail is intentional, curated to feel soft and close and personal. you’re on your back, hand between your thighs, the lighting angled low so that your skin glows in soft gold and pink, every part of you glistening under the faint shimmer of sweat. your voice is quiet but clear, breathy like you’re whispering directly into his ear, like he’s stumbled into something he shouldn’t be seeing, but now that he is, he can’t look away. your hips lift slightly with each circle of your fingers, your thighs trembling, and the camera stays still—clean, unshaken, perfectly steady as if it were made just for his eyes. his hand dips under your waistband without thinking, his fingers wrapping slowly around himself as the pressure builds low in his stomach. he strokes once, twice, syncing with the way your breath catches, matching your pace as you whimper something too soft to catch but loud enough to ruin him. he exhale shakily, eyes glued to the screen, and his hips twitch forward as you arches, moaning for someone that isn’t him—but still somehow feels like it could be. his thumb brushes over the head of his cock and he hisses, teeth gritting as he closes his eyes briefly, trying not to fall apart before he even gets to the second clip.he pauses, heart pounding, fingers slick with precum as he hovers over the next thumbnail, the preview showing just the outline of your thighs and the curve of your stomach. his breath is ragged now, chest rising and falling with a kind of urgency he doesn’t recognize in himself, and for a second he considers stopping—just waiting until tomorrow, until he’s more in control. but he can’t. not when he’s already this far, not when the tension in his body is wound so tight that it hurts to move slowly. he taps the screen again, the second video loading with a flicker, and this time your kneeling—closer to the lens, your eyes still out of frame, but everything else on full display. the way your fingers glide between your legs is slower now, almost teasing, like you know someone new is watching. he swallows hard, gripping himself tighter as your moans rise softly into the silence, echoing off the walls of his room like they were made just for him. his hips jerk into his palm and he bites down on a whimper, heat coiling deep in his stomach as your pace builds again, and he can’t stop the way his hand moves faster—matching yours, chasing the same high.

he can’t help it anymore—he whispers your name, not even realizing it had left his lips until the syllables echo faintly in the space around him, his body tenses and trembles as his orgasm builds fast, urgent, relentless. your voice breaks in the video just as his does in real life, and he fall over the edge with a gasp, head falling back against his pillows, hand still stroking through it as he rides the wave to its end. the screen starts to fade into black, the last frame frozen on the soft part of your lips, swollen and wet with the weight of your pleasure, and he feels dizzy—like he’s just stepped out of something too big for his chest. his breath evens out slowly, chest still rising, and he closes his eyes for a beat, letting the air settle before glancing down at your username again. @babydollxo. it repeats in his mind like a chant, like a craving, and even though he had just finished, his fingers twitch with the urge to open the messages. not for a follow. not even to tip. but to say something.

something that would make you look at him next.

—

the soft chime of your doorbell slices through the quiet of your apartment, jolting you from the stillness that had settled like dust around you. your laptop hums quietly from the couch, screen still open on a half-finished assignment, but your focus has already scattered as your bare feet move toward the front door with hesitant steps. when you pull it open, expecting maybe a neighbor or a delivery you forgot about, you’re met with an empty hallway—silent, untouched—except for the delicate bouquet resting against the doorframe like a secret left behind. your breath catches in your throat as you crouch to pick it up, fingers brushing over the velvety petals, the soft pastel shades blooming like a painting against the late afternoon light. it smells like warmth and something tender—roses, peonies, tiny sprays of baby’s breath—and nestled between the stems is a folded piece of paper, your name written on it in handwriting you didn’t recognize. you shut the door behind you as you step back inside, setting the bouquet gently on the kitchen counter before slipping your finger under the lip of the note and unfolding it with care. 

i didn’t think one night could do this to me. but it did. maybe it was the way you said my name. maybe it was the way you didn’t treat me like i was just another collab—like i was someone worth seeing, worth touching slowly, worth remembering. i’ve watched the video more times than i should admit. not for the content, but because of the way i felt in it. with you. i want to know what’s behind the camera. i want to see you again—really see you. not to film. not to fuck. just to feel whatever this is, for real.

yours truly,

heeseung.

you read it again, slower this time, your chest tightening with every sentence, your hand flattening against the cool counter just to ground yourself, because it’s too much—too beautiful—and you don’t know what to do with it.

you stare at the flowers a moment longer, letting the scent and sentiment soak into your skin, before you’re pulled away by the buzz of your phone from the couch behind you. it vibrates once, sharp and sudden, and you move on autopilot, padding across the room with your heartbeat still fluttering against your ribs, unsure if you want it to be him again or if that would make it worse. but it’s not heeseung. it’s someone new—unexpected. your phone lights up with a new notification from a username that triggers something distant in your memory: 

@wonsodirty

 you stare at it for a second, blinking slowly as your thumb hovers over the alert, something curling in your stomach—not anxiety exactly, but something heavier, something curious.

 wonsodirty: “hey… i’ve been thinking about something. want to collab?” 

the words feel weightless and loaded all at once, the kind of casual that masks a storm underneath, and suddenly you're remembering the preview clip you watched when you first joined—him, soft-spoken but intense, his voice low and his eyes dark. you’d forgotten about him in the chaos of everything else, the whirlwind of heeseung, jay, jake, sunghoon and sunoo—but now here he is, quiet and unexpected, slipping into your inbox with a tension that coils low in your spine.

you don’t open the message right away. your fingers linger above your screen as you sink into the couch, the petals of heeseung’s bouquet still within view on the kitchen counter, their colors glowing softly under the golden hour light. it’s too much at once—too many emotions curling around each other, too many paths tugging at your sleeve. you press your phone to your chest for a moment, as if stilling the beat of it might still your thoughts too, but your heart only stutters harder beneath the weight of it. eventually, you unlock the screen and reread jungwon’s message, the simplicity of it making your breath falter in a way you didn’t expect. it’s not forward, not demanding—just thoughtful, tentative, like he’s trying to enter without disturbing something delicate. your thumbs hover over the keyboard as you try to decide how to respond, caught between the memory of his voice in that short preview and the softness you’d always sensed beneath it. finally, your fingers start to move, slow but certain: 

“sure… i’d love to. when were you thinking?” 

you hit send before you can second-guess it, the air still thick around you, and immediately, three dots bounce on your screen like they’ve been waiting there all along.

his reply comes almost instantly, and you can practically hear his tone in the way he types, every message carefully spaced like he’s trying not to overwhelm you. 

wonsodirty: “is tonight okay?” 

he asks, then quickly follows upwonsodirty: “if not that’s okay too, i just… want to talk to you. maybe plan something?”

it’s the second message that tugs at you—gentle, unsure, like he’s afraid of getting it wrong. and there’s something about it that makes your chest ache, because it doesn’t feel like someone reaching for content, it feels like someone reaching for connection. you tuck your legs underneath you, blinking at the flowers on the counter again before shifting your gaze back to your phone, your breath catching slightly when you read his next text. 

wonsodirty: “i know this is random. but you’ve kind of been stuck in my head lately.” 

it echoes too closely to the letter you just read, the one still folded neatly on your counter, and you close your eyes for a second, wondering what the hell the universe is trying to tell you. but when you open them again, you’re typing your address, fingers trembling slightly, a small smile pulling at your lips despite the confusion bubbling underneath. 

“come over” 

—-

the knock is gentle, barely louder than the hum of your thoughts, but it’s enough to pull you back to the present. your fingers twitch as you smooth the front of your shirt, brushing down fabric that doesn’t really need adjusting, and you let out a quiet breath that feels more like a sigh. your heart beats a little quicker—not out of fear, but something closer to nerves, anticipation folding into curiosity. you cross the room in slow steps, every footfall padded against the floor, and when your hand turns the lock and pulls the door open, everything halts. he’s standing there like he wasn’t prepared to see you, like your face caught him off guard in the most disarming way. his eyes catch the light, wide and almost sparkling, and his mouth parts slightly—no greeting, no hello, just a soft stunned silence that says more than words ever could. “come in,” you say gently, your voice soft with amusement, and his gaze doesn’t shift even as he moves forward, as if he’s still processing the fact that you’re real. the door clicks closed behind him, and you can’t help the quiet giggle that escapes you when he lingers there, stuck in place like he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to do.

he clears his throat awkwardly, the sound small in your cozy living room, and his eyes flick from the couch to the shelves to the soft throw blanket hanging off the side of the armchair. it’s like he’s memorizing everything, like the details of your space matter just as much as the way you looked when you answered the door. “it’s just me for now,” you offer, your voice filling the silence with a kind of casual comfort. “my roommate won’t be here tonight.” he nods, once, then again a little slower, as if your words need time to settle inside him. there’s a flush on his cheeks, barely there but unmistakable, and when his eyes finally return to yours, they hold something fragile. “i’m sorry for the way i’m acting,” he says quietly, almost like it’s embarrassing to admit. “you’re just so… pretty.” the words land soft but heavy, and for a second, neither of you moves—like the air between you has thickened with meaning, like this is the start of something that neither of you can take back.

you feel the compliment land somewhere low in your chest, warm and grounding, like the way sunlight lingers on your skin even after you’ve stepped into the shade. there’s a breathless kind of hush in the room now, not uncomfortable, but charged—like both of you are waiting for the other to move first. “thank you,” you say softly, the corners of your lips tugging upward, and when he offers you the smallest, most earnest smile in return, it makes your heart stutter. “do you wanna sit?” you ask, your hand motioning toward the couch, and he nods a little too quickly, like he’s afraid you might take the offer back. jungwon moves carefully, like he’s trying not to disturb anything, his shoulders stiff with the weight of being in unfamiliar territory—but when he finally settles beside you, he exhales like he can breathe again. there’s a moment of silence as your knee brushes his, just barely, and you see the way his jaw clenches before he dares to glance at you again. “i’m a little nervous,” he admits, voice low, almost apologetic, as he tugs at the hem of his sleeve like it’s a lifeline. “but i wanna do this... with you,” he adds, eyes searching yours, and something inside you softens at how genuine he looks—like there’s no performance, no script, just him wanting to be seen.

you turn to face him fully now, folding one leg beneath you, and rest your hand gently against his arm, grounding him with your touch. “you don’t have to be anything but yourself, jungwon,” you say, and you mean it—it’s in your voice, steady and sure, wrapping around his nerves like a balm. he breathes in deep, then lets it go slowly, his eyes fluttering closed for half a second before he opens them again, this time steadier. “i’ve never done this before,” he confesses, the tips of his ears flushing red, but there’s no shame in it—just honesty, unfiltered and laid bare for you to take or leave. “then we’ll go slow,” you assure him, your thumb brushing gently over his knuckles, and it’s that small touch that finally lets him lean into the moment instead of away from it. you lean in first, bridging the space between you without rushing it, and when your lips meet his, it’s tender and coaxing, like an invitation rather than a command. jungwon responds with the hesitancy of someone unused to being wanted like this, but his hands still find your waist, fingers pressing in as he starts to kiss you back, more sure of it this time.

you pull back just enough to see the soft flush blooming across jungwon’s cheeks, his eyes still heavy-lidded from the kiss, lips parted like he’s chasing the ghost of your mouth. “come with me,” you whisper, fingers curling around his hand as you rise to your feet, and he follows without question, the grip he has on you just tight enough to say he doesn’t want to let go. the hallway is quiet as you guide him toward your bedroom, each step thick with anticipation, the air between your bodies humming with the weight of everything left unsaid. once inside, you release him gently, letting him take in the space while you move toward the dresser and retrieve your small tripod, adjusting the angle to face the bed in soft lighting. he watches you silently, like every motion is a spell, and when you click the record button on, you glance over your shoulder to meet his gaze. “do you trust me?” you ask, voice soft but serious, and jungwon doesn’t hesitate—he nods, stepping closer, eyes steady as he says, “yes. i trust you.” the words settle deep in your chest, something grounding and intimate in the way he gives himself over to the moment without hesitation.

you walk to him slowly, closing the space between your bodies until your fingertips brush along the hem of his shirt, dragging upward with unhurried care as you ease the fabric over his head. his skin is warm beneath your touch, and when your palms glide up his chest, he shivers just slightly, breath hitching as your mouth finds his again—this time deeper, hungrier, filled with something that pulses between your ribs. jungwon kisses like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you, the rhythm, the taste—his hands resting at your hips, not pulling, just holding like he doesn’t want the moment to slip through his fingers. your fingers trail down his sides, nails skimming gently along his waist, and the way he exhales against your lips makes heat curl low in your stomach. you press forward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and he sits without protest, eyes locked on yours with something close to awe. “you’re doing so good,” you murmur, brushing his hair back from his face, and his lips part, pupils blown wide as he whispers your name like it’s the only thing anchoring him to earth. you climb onto his lap slowly, knees bracketing his thighs, your lips grazing his as you whisper, “let me take care of you.”

your lips barely leave his for more than a breath before you're pulling him in again, letting the kiss grow slower, deeper, more consuming with every tilt of your head. jungwon trembles under your touch, his hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, his breath hitching every time your tongue brushes against his. you can feel how hard he is through his sweats, the way he jerks faintly every time your body presses a little too close, and it only spurs you on—makes you kiss him harder, hungrier, your fingers threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. his hips twitch up into yours without meaning to, and when you moan softly into his mouth, he breaks—his fingers digging into your sides, a stuttered gasp leaving him as he whines your name against your lips. you feel the sudden warmth through the fabric, the way his body jerks again, overwhelmed, as he finishes just from the way you kiss him like he means something. his breath shakes as it catches in his throat, chest heaving as his eyes flutter open slowly, dazed and glassy and full of disbelief. “i’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking with embarrassment, his cheeks flushing a deep, gorgeous red that creeps down his neck. but you only smile, brushing your nose against his and kissing the corner of his mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“don’t be,” you murmur, voice soft and warm as your hands cradle his jaw, grounding him. “that just means i’m doing something right.” jungwon swallows hard, blinking up at you like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now, but he still doesn’t let go—his hands slide up to your waist again, gripping like he doesn’t want you to move.

his brows twitch like he wants to say something more, maybe apologize again, but you hush him with a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another along his jaw. your fingers slide down his chest, slow and careful, feeling the way he shivers under your touch as you trail lower, past his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. “can i?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, even though the room feels thick with tension already. he nods immediately, breath catching as he shifts his hips to give you room, his eyes glued to your hands like he can’t believe this is really happening. “i wanna make you feel good,” you murmur, and he swallows so hard it makes his whole throat jump, his body going still as your fingers dip beneath the waistband and tug gently.

he helps you out of your clothes as you help him out of his sweats slowly, letting them slide down his legs until he kicks them off the edge of the bed, his thighs trembling faintly with leftover tension. jungwon’s cock is already sensitive, the head flushed a deep pink and still glistening slightly from the mess he made earlier, and you lean down to kiss his inner thigh first, soft and slow. the sound he makes is quiet—just a shaky little exhale that leaves his lips parted, his head tilted back against the pillow as he watches you with wide eyes. your tongue traces a warm path up his thigh before you press another kiss just beside his length, and he twitches in response, his hand fisting into the sheets. “you don’t have to—” he starts, voice ragged, but you silence him with one look, your fingers wrapping gently around his cock. “i want to,” you say, firm and sure, and then you lower your mouth, letting your tongue flick over the head in one slow, teasing pass that has his hips jerking before he can stop them.

you hum softly as you take him deeper, your hand stroking what your lips can’t reach yet, and jungwon’s entire body tenses beneath you like he’s caught between pleasure and disbelief. “oh my god,” he whispers, his voice breaking on the edges of every syllable, his hand hesitating in the air before it finally lands on your shoulder, gripping softly. he’s trying not to move, trying not to buck into your mouth, but you can feel how hard it is for him to stay still—especially when your lips sink lower, your cheeks hollowing around him. his thighs tighten around your arms, his breath turning into these quiet, whimpering little gasps that make you want to push him even further. you bob your head slowly, keeping the rhythm steady, letting the suction drag heat up his spine with every pass. his fingers tighten against your shoulder, and his voice comes out broken when he breathes, “you feel—fuck, you feel so good.” and you glance up, eyes meeting his, just in time to see the way his lips part wider, completely undone.

jungwon’s hand trembles against your shoulder, fingers flexing like he’s trying to ground himself, to stop the overwhelming heat that’s rushing straight to his gut. you can feel it in the way his hips twitch beneath you, the way his thighs begin to shake as he whispers your name like a secret prayer, caught between panic and bliss. “w-wait,” he breathes, chest heaving as his voice cracks, “fuck, i’m gonna—” but the words never finish because your tongue swirls around the head just right and his whole body jolts like he’s been shocked. you ease up just enough to tease him again, letting your lips ghost over the tip with a hum, and his eyes roll back for a second before he clenches them shut. “i can’t… not like this again,” he stammers, his other hand fumbling to touch your wrist, to signal anything through the haze clouding his mind. “please… can i—can i be inside you?” he asks, the plea barely above a whisper but thick with yearning. you pause, blinking up at him as your hand strokes him gently, and the look on his face is one of pure need—desperate and soft and honest.

you release him with one last kiss just above his base, dragging your lips upward until they reach his stomach, pressing small kisses into his skin as you make your way back up to straddle his waist. jungwon’s hands rise automatically to hold your hips, his fingers splayed wide like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. you smile down at him, your hair falling over your shoulder as you lean in to kiss him, slower this time, letting him taste himself faintly on your tongue. he moans into your mouth, his grip tightening, and you feel the way his cock twitches again beneath you, brushing against your inner thigh like he’s barely holding it together. “you sure?” you ask gently, your voice brushing against his lips like silk, and he nods so fast it makes your heart squeeze. “i want it,” he whispers, breath shaky, “i want all of it—please.” your fingers trail down his chest, feeling the way it rises and falls beneath your palm, and you shift your hips forward, dragging your folds slowly along his length. jungwon gasps, his hands flying up to cup your face, and you swear he looks at you like you hung the moon.

his cock presses right where you’re wettest, gliding through the slick mess of your arousal like it was made to be there, and he whimpers when you start to grind against him. “god, you feel unreal,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe this is happening, like his mind hasn’t caught up with the fact that you’re not just a screen anymore. you reach down between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance, and his eyes widen when the head catches, parting you just barely. “breathe,” you whisper, watching him fall apart beneath you as you sink down, inch by inch, feeling him stretch you open slowly. jungwon lets out a broken moan, his nails digging into your waist, and his brows pinch together like the pleasure’s almost too much. “you’re so tight,” he groans, voice cracking again, “fuck, i don’t wanna cum yet, i wanna feel you.” you cup his cheek, grounding him, and start to rock your hips gently, letting your walls flutter around him with every movement. his lips part again, and his head tips back against the pillows, pure ecstasy painted across his features.

his hands tremble where they grip your hips, the pads of his thumbs stroking slow, reverent circles into your skin as if trying to memorize every inch. jungwon’s chest rises and falls with labored breaths, the softest little whines slipping from his lips each time your hips roll forward and back again. the heat between your bodies grows thick, humid, his hair clinging slightly to his forehead as his eyes flutter open and closed—completely dazed by how good you feel wrapped around him. “you’re… s-so tight,” he stammers, voice barely holding together, “it’s like—like you’re pulling me in more every time, fuck.” your hands press flat to his chest, feeling the wild pace of his heartbeat as you move slower on purpose, watching his brows furrow and mouth fall open in the prettiest kind of agony. his lips form your name again, this time dragged out between moans, and you can’t help but clench around him just to hear the way his breath catches. “god, i’m not gonna last,” he admits, biting down on his lip like it’ll help, even though his body’s already trembling beneath yours. “you feel too good… you’re too perfect, fuck—i’m never gonna forget this.”

you reach up to brush your fingers through his hair, smiling when he leans into your touch like he’s starved for it, his eyes dazed and glossy as they meet yours again. jungwon’s hands slide up to your waist, holding you tighter like he’s scared this will vanish if he doesn’t ground himself to your body. “i dreamed of this,” he whispers suddenly, so soft you almost miss it, “i’d close my eyes and try to imagine what being inside you would feel like… but nothing ever came close.” your heart stutters in your chest, but you keep your pace steady, dragging your hips forward so slowly it has his jaw dropping open with a choked whimper. “i love how you look like this,” he continues, his voice cracking at the edges, “on top of me… taking control… you’re unreal.” you can feel him twitch inside you, every movement of your body pulling another gasp or broken curse from his mouth as he tries so hard to hold on. your fingers curl around his wrists, encouraging him to just feel, to let go of the tension clinging to his limbs. “you’re so beautiful,” he moans, his grip tightening again, “fuck—i’m gonna say it a thousand times if you keep moving like that.”

his compliments pour from him like he’s lost his filter, everything he’s ever thought about you spilling into the space between your bodies with no shame. he keeps his gaze locked on your face as best he can, even when his eyes go heavy-lidded from pleasure, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of the way you ride him. “i’ve never felt anything like this,” he says again, breathless, “i didn’t know it could feel this good.” your hips slow just slightly, enough to grind down harder and deeper, and he gasps, his head tipping back as his thighs twitch beneath you. “please don’t stop,” he begs softly, the words trailing off into a whimper when your nails drag gently down his chest, “you’re driving me insane, but i want more.” you lean over him, lips grazing his jaw, and he turns his head to catch your mouth in a messy, desperate kiss, moaning into it when you roll your hips just right. his cock throbs inside you with every movement, thick and twitching and so achingly full, and you can feel how close he is already—like he’s trying so hard not to fall apart under you too soon.

you pull away from the kiss just enough to see his face, to watch the way his eyes search yours like he’s trying to hold on to reality. jungwon swallows hard, sweat glistening along his neck, his hands sliding up your sides to cup your waist again like he needs the contact to keep breathing. “you’re all i want,” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud, “just you… right here, like this.” the admission makes your chest tighten, warmth blooming in your core as you move a little faster, taking him deeper with each thrust of your hips. his moans grow louder, more broken, as his legs spread wider, his toes curling into the sheets like he’s unraveling with every pass of your body over his. “fuck—please,” he pants, his voice pitching higher as he presses his forehead to your shoulder, “please, i’m so close.” you slow again just slightly, dragging it out, and the sound that leaves his mouth is so needy it has your stomach clenching with heat. “you’re gonna be the death of me,” he says between gasps, “but i’d let you ruin me every day if it means i get to feel like this.”

his body jerks beneath you, so sensitive and desperate, his hands now sliding up and down your sides as if grounding himself to the moment will keep him from flying apart. you shift slightly, circling your hips slower, watching the way jungwon’s head tilts back against the pillows, his lips parted in a soft, high moan that sounds like it’s being pulled from the deepest part of him. “please,” he gasps again, his voice trembling, “i’m gonna cum—i can’t—fuck, i’m so close.” but you don’t speed up, not yet, dragging it out just a little longer, watching his pretty face twist with frustration and pleasure so tangled they’re indistinguishable. your fingers stroke down the center of his chest, feeling his heart race under your palm, and he whines—an actual whine—as you tighten around him. “you’re so mean,” he breathes, but there’s no bite to it, only awe and heat and something that sounds dangerously close to love, “but you feel so fucking good, i’d let you do anything to me.” your lips find his again, slow and open-mouthed, your tongue curling against his in a kiss that has his hips jerking helplessly up into yours. he moans into your mouth, his entire body tightening beneath you, and when you finally start to move faster, his hands clamp down on your waist like he’s bracing for impact.

your pace grows steady again, rolling your hips down until you’re grinding into him just right—drawing out every sharp inhale and whimper that escapes his lips as he completely loses himself in you. jungwon’s eyes squeeze shut as his nails dig into your hips, his chest rising and falling so fast you can feel the heat radiating off him in waves. “fuck, fuck—i’m gonna—” he gasps, his words breaking off into a strangled cry as he presses his forehead against your shoulder, hips twitching beneath you. and then it hits him—his body arches, his mouth opens wide in a silent moan, and you feel him pulse deep inside you, thick warmth spreading as he finishes hard, completely undone beneath your touch. “oh my god,” he breathes, voice wrecked and trembling, “you—fuck, you feel like heaven.” his whole body stays tense for a moment before he finally slumps beneath you, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp with sweat. you brush his hair off his forehead gently, smiling when he blinks up at you like he’s still trying to process what just happened. “you ruined me,” he says softly, almost laughing as he says it, but there’s no regret in his voice—only wonder.

he blinks again, chest still rising and falling with shallow breaths, and you watch the way his lashes flutter like he’s on the edge of sleep already. “you didn’t even have to do anything crazy,” he whispers, his voice husky and slow, “just… kissed me. and i was gone.” you giggle under your breath, kissing his cheek before sliding your hand down his chest again, feeling the steady beat of his heart start to slow beneath your fingertips. he gazes up at you like you hung the stars, no trace of embarrassment—just awe, like he still can’t believe you’re real. “you’re amazing,” he says again, and this time it’s quieter, like it’s just for you. “i wanna do everything with you.” you can’t help but lean down again, your mouth brushing his as he sighs softly against your lips, completely soft now but still clinging to you like he never wants this moment to end.

his body is still warm against yours, his cheek resting on your chest as you both lie tangled together beneath the sheets, the room dim and silent except for the slow rhythm of your breaths. jungwon’s lashes flutter every now and then, like he’s drifting but fighting to stay awake, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest settle into something peaceful. your fingers thread lazily through his hair, combing back the soft strands that cling to his forehead, and he hums low in his throat—soothed, comforted, held. “i don’t want this to end,” he whispers suddenly, his voice thick with sleep but laced with something fragile, something real, as his arm curls tighter around your waist. you freeze just a little at the weight of the words, heart squeezing as your hand slows in his hair, your lips parting to respond but no words come out. he doesn't seem to notice your silence, only nuzzles closer, his nose brushing the space just beneath your collarbone before he lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. “you make everything feel calm,” he murmurs, quieter now, like he’s speaking into a dream, “like it’s okay to be soft here.” you press a kiss to the crown of his head, still unable to speak, because there’s something about the way he clings to you—not just with his hands, but with his whole body—that makes you want to hold him even tighter.

his thumb rubs slow circles into your side as his breathing evens out, and you stare up at the ceiling, your own thoughts unraveling like thread with every second that passes. you weren’t supposed to feel this much, not with any of them, and yet here you are—with your heart lodged somewhere between your throat and his sleepy voice echoing in your chest. you shift slightly, enough to tuck the blanket higher over his back, and he stirs only to let out a soft sigh, like your care wraps around him as much as the warmth of the bed. “you’re too good,” he says, almost inaudible now, and your eyes sting at the tenderness in his tone—because you know he means it, every word, every breath. your hand slides down to his back, fingers drawing idle shapes along his spine, and the comfort of it is mutual, grounding, like neither of you want to move or break the spell of this moment. but something inside you aches, because as perfect as this feels, you know it’s not simple—it’s messy and fragile and dangerous, and the more you try to pretend it’s not, the harder it hits. your throat tightens as the weight of it presses into your chest, tears prickling behind your eyes, and you don’t even know who you’re crying for—him, them, or yourself. so you close your eyes and hold him tighter, trying to memorize the feeling of this moment, even if you don’t know how long it will last.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ dare i say jungwon might be my fav >.<

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[promiscuousg1rl]

rich girl ― Rafe Cameron

pairing: rafe cameron x kook!reader

warnings: reader is rich and bitchy, rafe is an undercover thirstbucket.

You'd been in the outer banks for all of five seconds and you were already bored. Your father's reasoning for dragging you and your mother along to meet his new business partner was completely lost on you but there you were.

The minute you met Ward Cameron you knew he was nothing but a suck up. Doting over your father as if he were his biggest fan, a groupie. "Your Forbes Magazine interview was one of the most excellent pieces I've read in years." "Your eye for architectural design is truly admirable." You knew his type. You hated his type.

And his son? Even worse.

Stereotypical country club trust fund loser with a god-awful superiority complex. It showed in the way he smirked as he introduced himself, offering to buy you a drink as his weirdo friends watched from the other side of the room. It made it all the more satisfying when you declined. You'd never seen someone's face fall so quickly.

You truly thought he'd take the hint and leave you alone. Maybe go report back to the goon squad with a lie in order to avoid embarrassment and a bigger hit to his ego. Wishful thinking.

"So," the southern drawl was like nails on a chalkboard. "How are you liking it here so far?"

Pulling your lips away from your martini glass, face stuck in the same blank expression it's been in since your arrival. "It's boring and the entire town smells like salty swamp water."

Rafe frowns.

"I....I guess I can see why you'd think that."

You hum, continuing to observe the party-goers around you. For it to be an event for the creme-de la-creme of Kildare, the attendees don't seem to look the part. It's not as surprising as it is disappointing.

"Your, uh, your dad tells me you're gonna be spending your summer in town. Maybe I can show you around, take you to all our hot spots."

The warning your mother always gives you about rolling your eyes so hard they'll get stuck falls on deaf ears as you do exactly that.

"Those hotspots being this country club and the gator ridden marshes you guys love to get wasted at? No thanks."

His frown gets deeper as he pauses, staring you down with narrowed eyes. "You know, I see what you're doing."

"Excuse me?"

It almost gives you whiplash with a headache to match as that insufferable smirk comes back.

"This whole uninterested shtick you got goin' on." He huffs. "It's a total facade you rich city girls like to pull to play hard to get. You almost had me fooled."

With a sigh you sit your glass down on the bar and turn to face him. "First of all, there is no facade. And second, I am not trying to fool you. I don't even like you. Just because your small town country club groupies find you and that crumb of coke under your nose attractive, doesn't mean I do."

"Aw keep goin' baby, you're only getting me more and more hard."

You scoff. "And now I'll add pervert to your long list of flaws."

"Flaws?"

"Yes," you nod with a mocking look of concern. "You have about a million, your dad actually warned us about them."

The mentioning of his father causes him to completely falter. "Wait, seriously?"

No.

"Yes and if I were you, I'd focus more on the fact that if you don't help him close this deal with my father tonight, he'll be tossing your ass for what he says will be the fiftieth time."

Just as he opens his mouth to probably curse you out in the worse way possible, Ward's voice finds its way over to the two of you.

"Rafe," he and his wife Rose stand side by side with your parents, champagne glasses in hand. "Why don't you come here for a sec, Mr. l/n has a couple of questions for ya."

Suddenly you're the one who's smirking. "You'd better go, daddy's boy. Let's see if you still have a home to go to by the end of the night."

[holdinsteddie]

prompt: lollipop

(originally posted on my bluesky here)

au where Steve and Robin had their bathroom floor conversation/platonic soulmate initiation ceremony way back in 1983, like two weeks after Jonathan rocked Steve’s shit and by the time everyone gets back from winter break they’ve become SteveandRobin.

Steve knows all about Robin’s crush on Tammy Thompson and Robin knows all about the fact that Steve thinks one Eddie Munson is really pretty, actually, when he’s not being a grubby little gremlin.

In this au, Steve and Nancy mutually broke it off after the whole monster-fighting thing and so for the next few months after break, SteveandRobin try to wingman each other but also the ‘you rule/you suck’ board makes an appearance, this time in an unused corner of the band room.

So far Steve hasn’t gotten a single tally in the ‘you rule’ column. He is deeply offended by this and is trying to figure out why he seems to have lost his mojo. He needs to prove to Robin that he is very suave, actually, and no, his reputation is not a fluke. Jesus.

Which leads us to a Thursday evening in late May where band practice is getting out at the same time as Hellfire club. Steve suddenly finds himself being possessed by the ghost of Casanova himself or something because the next thing he knows, he’s abandoning Robin with a quick “be right back” and swaggering up to Eddie, who eyes Steve warily before leaning up against the side of the school building with a smirk paired with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve starts, keeping it causal.

Eddie pulls the lollipop he’d been sucking on out of his mouth with a wet pop and Steve fervently doesn’t have any feelings about that whatsoever.

“Steve Harrington,” he purrs. “What can this lowly peasant do for such esteemed royalty as yourself, hmm?”

Steve raises a single eyebrow. “Well, first of all, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly Hawkins High royalty anymore. Apparently jocks and band geeks can’t be friends,” Steve adds with a roll of his eyes.

“Second of all…” Steve glances left and right, making sure there’s no one in earshot before giving Eddie a once-over and taking a deliberate step forward so the toes of their shoes are almost touching. “I think we both know you’re too pretty and too smart to be stuck as a peasant.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide for a moment before narrowing, his dimpled grin somehow managing to be sharp as a knife. “Careful, big boy. You don’t wanna play this game.”

“Who says this is a game?”

Eddie scoffs, putting his lollipop back in his mouth and straightening like he’s going to move past Steve, but Steve stops him with a hand to the wall behind Eddie’s head.

He makes sure to leave enough room for Eddie to be able to walk away if he really wants to, doesn’t want him to feel trapped or pressured in any way. But he also wants Eddie to know he’s being serious.

“Look, you can tell me to fuck off if you really want, and I will, swear to god.”

Eddie stares at him with wide eyes and slowly nods his head.

“But I really hope you don’t,” Steve continues, leaning forward until their noses are just inches from touching, “because it turns out I really have a thing for curly-headed nerds.”

Steve relishes in the way Eddie’s jaw drops open and a blush works its way over his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. It’s really fucking cute.

“I know I can’t exactly wine-and-dine you like if you were a girl, but maybe I could get us some pizza and beers and you could come over to my place one of these days?”

Steve raises his eyebrows, trying to only let a little bit of his excitement at the idea through — he doesn’t want to scare Eddie off.

Eddie stares for a moment, two. Eventually, he blurts, “Is— Is this— Are you being serious right now?” He hadn’t bothered to take out the lollipop before speaking, seems like he’s completely frozen, actually, making the question slightly garbled.

“As a heart attack.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“So?” Steve asks, biting his lower lip. He watches Eddie track the movement and gives himself a mental high-five.

“I’m— fuck, okay.” Eddie looks at Steve’s lips again before looking into his eyes incredulously. “I’m pretty sure this is a dream, but whatever, fuck it, I’ll go on a date with Steve goddamn Harrington, I guess.”

“Not dreaming,” Steve grins, finally leaning back a little bit. “And I’m gonna hold you to that,” he promises. On a whim, he reaches out and plucks Eddie’s lollipop from between his lips before placing it in his own mouth, making sure to maintain eye contact the entire time. Eddie’s eyes are as wide as saucers as he visibly swallows.

“Uh.”

“I’ll find you at lunch tomorrow, figure out what day works,” Steve says casually, leaning back and starting to walk backwards towards the parking lot. He points the lollipop at Eddie and commands, “Better not stand me up, Munson,” before putting it back in his mouth, shoving his hands in his pockets, and turning to walk back to where Robin is waiting by his car.

He doesn’t look back, even though he really really wants to, because he still wants to make sure he looks cool and aloof.

“Steven Marie,” Robin whisper yells once he’s close enough to hear her. “What the fuck was that? What did you do to Munson?”

Steve ignores her questions. “What’s he doing, Bobbie?”

Robin, bless her, answers him. “He’s just… standing there. And now he’s pulling his hair over his face and squatting. Did you break him?”

Steve grins, pleased. “Not yet.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Wait, where did you get the lollipop? You didn’t have one a few minutes ago.”

“I might’ve stolen it from Munson, right after I got him to agree to go on a date with me.”

Robin freezes, staring at him like she’s buffering as her entire worldview gets rearranged. “Steve, Stevie, I need you to know I’m so happy for you and proud of you. But also I am going to actually strangle you to death in your sleep what the actual fuck.”

“Love you too, Robs.”

+ Bonus:

Steve, 5 min later after he’s started driving to drop Robin off at home: ohmygod. Robin.

Robin: What.

Steve: Eddie and I basically kissed.

Robin: What?????

Steve: His spit is in my mouth as we speak.

Robin: wHAT??!!!?!!!

Steve: Robin stop screaming I’m having a crisis

{send me a 📝 and a one-word prompt and i will try and write a lil steddie microfic for you! (it will almost certainly be much shorter than this one but who knows, i might get Inspired™️)}

[asiatic-apple]

hallo!

Smut # 14 - Caleb - Fem! Reader cus college AU caleb lives rent free in my college self

Thank you for the request! This is my first time writing with non-MC!reader in mind bc she’s implied to be studying the same thing as caleb and is presumably in the same class as him. I hope that’s alright with you!

Private lessons

Caleb x female reader (non-MC)

Words: 1.5k

Prompt: library sex for those dark academia vibes

Content: y’all are trespassing loll but it’s not serious, public sex but no one is around to see it, possessiveness, blink-and-you-miss-it competency kink for caleb, use of “baby” as a pet name, also “my smart girl” and “good girl”, creampie

You’re not even supposed to be here. Technically, the campus library closed over an hour ago. But Caleb knows how to disable the magnetic lock on the side entrance with a flick of his wrist and a muttered ‘they really need better security’.

You’d only meant to study for the upcoming exam. Instead, you’re straddling him in the farthest corner of the engineering section, surrounded by old textbooks and barely lit by a dim red hue from the emergency exit signs.

“You were the one who said no distractions tonight,” you whisper, breath catching as he shifts beneath you. “What happened to focus?”

He smirks against your neck. “I am focused.”

His hands roam up under your shirt, callused fingertips trailing over the curve of your spine like he’s tracing the aircraft schematics from your textbooks. You shiver, more from anticipation than the chill as he hikes your shirt farther up your torso.

“It’s your fault,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “You kept leaning over the table like that. Kept looking at me like you wanted to be taught a different lesson.”

You gasp as he ruts up against you, his erection thick and insistent beneath his pants. Your body jolts, accidentally bumping into the desk behind you and spilling the stack of thermodynamics printouts he’d tossed aside earlier. It’s a reminder of what you came here for in the first place.

“We’re supposed to be reviewing launch vectors,” you whine, even as you rock against him. Your mind screams that you should continue studying, lest you fail this stupid exam and have to take this class all over again. But your body could give less of a shit about the exam.

“I’m calculating a new trajectory,” Caleb replies, almost smug.

You breathe a soft laugh that turns to a moan as he cups your pussy through your shorts. His thumb rubs over the growing wet patch you leave behind, and you choke on a gasp. The sound makes him infinitely more impatient. He wastes no time shoving his hand beneath your pants and panties, running two thick fingers through your slick.

His touch is purposeful, the way he is with everything: steady, assured, thorough. Caleb is the kind of student professors love. All innocent smiles and endless charm while he uses his intelligence to impress them. But he’s also the kind of man who knows exactly how to pull a whimper from your throat without even trying—and carefully cataloging every time you shudder beneath him.

“You’re soaked,” he groans, more awestruck than teasing.

“And you’re still fully dressed,” you bite back.

That seems to spur him into action.

Caleb’s other arm tightens around your body, lifting you with him as he stands abruptly. His chair scrapes loudly against the floor before he plops you down on the messy table. There are so many books, papers, pens, and notebooks scattered around you.

But in one fluid, determined motion, he reaches behind you—with the hand not still buried in your pants—to sweep his arm across the table. Everything crashes to the floor in a messy avalanche, and the abruptness of it makes your pussy ache with even more arousal.

You barely have time to gasp before his fingers dip inside you, wanting a quick feel of how you clench around him so eagerly.

“Caleb–” you start to say, glancing at the mess of all your textbooks and notetaking supplies.

“I’ll clean it up later,” he mutters, not even sparing a glance at the chaos on the floor. His eyes are only on you.

Everything happens so quickly. His fingers slip out of your greedy cunt all too fast, but he immediately tugs your pants down your legs in the promise of filling you with something much better. Once you’re finally bared to him, he looms closer, slotting his wide body between your thighs.

His chest heaves, like he’s torn between savoring this and devouring you like you’ll disappear if he hesitates for even a second.

It seems he decides on the latter for tonight.

Caleb hurriedly unzips his pants, only pulling the waistband down enough to free his cock, and you salivate at the familiar sight of him. You want to touch, want to taste…But he shakes his head when you reach out for him. He taps your thighs, wordlessly asking you to spread them wider so he can nudge the head of his cock against your dripping entrance.

And when you tilt your hips and whimper for him, he doesn’t make you wait any longer. He pushes into you with one slow drag, stretching you open until your hands are scrabbling behind you for something—anything—to hold on to.

You’ll never get used to this feeling. The way he fills you perfectly, like your body was created to be wrapped snugly around his.

“Shit,” he groans, hands bracing the table on either side of your thighs. “That’s it, baby…take me deeper. Fuck—you can do it. Such a good study buddy for me, yeah?” His lips twitch with a smile, but through his teasing, he still manages to press a gentle kiss to your tensed jaw.

You clutch at the edge of the table for balance as he starts to thrust, his pace initially slow and controlled despite how frenzied he seemed before. Your whole body is shaking from the effort of staying quiet. Every time he slides in just right, you sob his name a bit louder. And it just spurs him on, makes him fuck you harder, determined to pull more moans from your lips.

The thrill of the risk, the setting, the way you’re surrounded by knowledge while your brain turns to mush—it all makes it even harder not to cry out. It feels wrong to be so loud in a library that’s usually only filled with hushed whispers. But no one is here to witness your debauchery. Only Caleb hears the downright pornographic sounds you’re making. And he seems to be enjoying every second.

That smug glint in his eyes makes something within you bubble to the surface—something annoyed and frustrated that he can work you up this easily. “You better hope I don’t fail the exam tomorrow,” you growl as you claw at his shirt and run your fingers up his abs. 

“You won’t,” he says a bit too confidently. “I’ve studied with you the whole semester. I’ve taught you everything you need to know.”

His words are both possessive and full of awe in your abilities. And his thumb rubs gentle circles along your clit as he says the last part—as if he’s implying he taught you more than just the drag and thrust involved in aerodynamics.

He’s your proud mentor. And you’ll never need a different tutor while he’s around, he’s made sure of that.

“You’ll ace the test,” he coos, “because you’re my smart girl, aren’t you?”

Your cheeks burn, and you hide your face in Caleb’s neck as he pounds you even harder now. You're so achingly close to coming with the way he touches your clit, but he stops for a second to pull your face back and grip your chin just tight enough to keep your dazed eyes on him.

“Say it, baby,” he demands breathlessly, words hitching with each deep thrust of his hips. “Say you're gonna ace the test.”

You barely know what you're promising as it spills out, fueled entirely by your need to come. “Yes, I'll ace it—ah—I promise!”

You clench around him, and he shudders, forehead dropping to your shoulder and pressing lazy kisses between thrusts. “Good girl,” he pants. You can feel his stupidly sexy smile against your neck, and it only turns you on more. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”

Barely a breath later and you’re unraveling beneath him, your whole body convulsing with the force of your climax. Caleb bites back a curse, grinding into you as you clench around him and milk his cock for every drop of cum spilling inside in slow, pulsing waves.

When he eventually pulls out, you gasp at the mess it makes on the table beneath you. You know you should be embarrassed by what the two of you did here, but you’re still too blissed out to care too much.

For a long moment, the only sound in the empty library is the echo of your combined heavy breathing and the distant hum of the building’s power systems.

You’re still catching your breath when Caleb litters soft kisses along your cheeks and the corner of your grinning lips. “So…still want to quiz me on launch vectors?”

You snort, slapping his chest in playful annoyance. “Only if you plan on using it to get us out of trouble when campus security finds us.”

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dividers by me (please do not repost)

[lambiconic]

a coffee shop confrontation

in case you haven't.. you should read the first four!: simon , gaz , johnny , price , the aftermath

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

The sun is low, casting warm golden light through the front windows as the café finally begins to slow down. Just a handful of customers,thirty minutes left until closing, and you behind the counter, wiping down surfaces and counting the minutes.

You haven’t seen any of your usuals today. No familiar grins, no cheeky orders or even Simon’s hard stare and silence. It’s been...quiet. Oddly so. Almost…suspiciously so.

You tried to shake off the feeling as you continued to clean behind the register. Your back to the door as you hear the bell above it chime. Once. Twice. Then a third time. And finally a fourth.

“Welcome! Give me just a second!” You call out to the customers, forcing a smile on your face. At least four people 10 minutes til closing? What ASSHOLES, do people even think to check when stores close before coming?

You stand up straight, wiping your hands on your pants as you lift your gaze and freeze.

Johnny, Gaz, Simon, and Price. All four at the same time, honestly it would feel like Christmas if they weren’t staring at you like this was an intervention. 

You blink, offering a cautious smile as you look between the men. “Uh… hi? The..usual..s?”

Johnny was the first to step forward, another bouquet of fresh flowers in hand. Despite the other three men reminding him what this trip was for he insisted he couldn’t arrive empty handed! (Definitely not so that if you feel you have to make a decision you’d pick him.)

“Hey, bonnie,” he starts, voice unusually tight. “Got a minute?”

You could feel knots in your stomach as you offered a small nod. Clearly, you’re in trouble. “...Sure?”

The men exchange looks before approaching the counter together, like they’d rehearsed this in the parking lot. Gaz clears his throat.  “Okay, so just going to get straight to it. We’ve got a bit of a situation.”

“A situation,” you repeat, crossing your arms.

“A situation.” The men parrot. 

Price folded his arms behind him, watching like this was some kind of disciplinary hearing. “It’s  come to our attention,” he said carefully, “that you’ve been... spreading the charm around.”

“Spreading..the charm.” You say carefully, fighting the urge to grin. 

Johnny leaned forward on the counter, eyes narrowed in playful accusation. “Ye been flirting, lass. With all of us.”

Simon raises an eyebrow, arms folded. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You’ve got us wrapped around your little apron string.”

They keep at it. Questions, teasing accusations, pointed smirks that blur the line between confrontation and flirtation. Simon’s practically hanging off the counter, demanding to know which wink meant something. Gaz is staring into the cup of tea you offered him, grinning because you remembered what he likes. Johnny won’t stop holding those flowers in your line of sight. And somehow, Price has taken it upon himself to help you stack chairs like he’s the assistant manager now.

And as you flip the “CLOSED” sign and start dimming the lights, one thought keeps circling in your head:

What exactly did you do wrong?

Because the reality of the situation is: you didn’t chase any of them. They came to you. One after the other. Different days. Different energy. You flirted, sure, but you flirt with half the customers that walk in!! It's called good service. You didn’t give them keys to your apartment. You didn’t propose via a note on a cup!!!

Your brows furrow as you wipe down the last table, side-eyeing them still hovering. 

Four separate men. All of them DEATHLY attractive in entirely different, annoyingly effective ways. None of them bothered to mention they were friends, coworkers, whatever the hell they are!!! In fact, it seems to you that they didn't even know they were all regulars here! And now you’re the one being interrogated like a war criminal?

You pause mid-wipe.

“I didn’t even do anything wrong,” you say aloud, mostly to yourself.

Gaz glances up from where he’s fiddling with a sugar packet. “Sorry, what was that?”

You place the rag down and turn to them, arms crossing. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Y'all are coming at me like I led a coordinated mission to seduce you all.”

Gaz opens his mouth. Closes it. Then says, “I mean... you did kind of—”

“I flirted.” You quickly interrupt, “Like a normal person! With guys who displayed interest in me FIRST.”

Johnny holds up a finger. “But ye flirted with us. Like, all of us.”

“And how was I supposed to know you were a.. group? Unit? A gaggle?” you snap, gesturing at them. “What are you, some kind of... handsome avengers?”

Simon lets out the quietest snort you've ever heard, quickly turning around to fake a cough.

Price clears his throat. “141, actually.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that your fantasy football team or a boy band?”

“Its an elite ta—” Price quickly cuts Johnny off with a glare and an elbow. “We’re...we work together. Military.”

That information does absolutely nothing to help your case. But it does make a few things click. Obviously, you can do no wrong! But, if you and your co workers were all interested in the same guy you’d feel similarly.

Maybe not gang up on him at his job similarly but details details!

You purse your lips, pausing as you think. “So what now? You gonna make me pick?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Gaz, leaning against the counter like this is his moment, smirks. “Only fair.”

Johnny raises the flowers slightly. “I did bring gifts.”

Price just lifts an eyebrow, as if daring you to make him wait longer. Simon stays silent…but that stare? It speaks volumes.

You shake your head, grabbing your keys and moving towards the lockers. “Oh, I’m not playing this game.”

Gaz calls after you, laughing, “You started this game!”

You shout back, “I just make coffee!”

The men stood in a loose formation near the counter, all eyes fixed on the door you disappeared behind. From the back, your muffled voice could be heard muttering curses…something about you’re just a girl and men should worship the ground you walk on?

They were silent for a long beat.

Then Gaz broke it. “We could share.”

“Come again?” “Sorry, what now?” “Mate, did you hit your head?”

Gaz shrugged, completely serious. “I mean…we could share. Or at least give her a chance to decide. Dates, time, whatever she needs.”

Johnny looked down at the bouquet, fingers tightening around the stems. “Not like this is the first time we've had... overlap.”

“And I don’t think any of us are exactly eager to back off,” Gaz added.

Simon said nothing, but the way his jaw flexed said plenty. Price met Simon’s eyes. Silent, knowing. A familiar, unspoken agreement passed between them. “We share.”

Gaz grinned. “Glad we’re all being reasonable.”

Johnny shook his head, muttering, “This is gonna get complicated.”

SImon finally spoke. “She’s worth it.”

Silence settled again as they listened to something crash in the back room. Probably a stack of coffee filters.. Were you always this much of a firecracker?

Johnny exhaled. “Gonna have to explain this real carefully.”

“Yeah,” Gaz said, nodding. “But not tonight..”

[naffeclipse]

Ecdysis

Reader x Naga!Sun & Naga!Moon

Commission Info

I'm so excited to present @crazedauthor's naga boys from their fic Coiled Around the Fine Line Between Love and Fear! They requested some TLC with Sun needing to shed, and a nervous but willing Y/N to help with the process! Enjoy!

———

The jungle heat has driven you into the cool depths of the cave Sun and Moon have made into their home, and you are content to steal a few moments without the nagas overtaking the space with the muscular coils of their bodies. It’s not often that you find yourself alone. Moon especially would have taken to the back of the cave to hunker in the dark to find some rest, but he is not here, blearily peering a red eye at you. Neither is Sun. He is quick to attend to your needs and fuss over you, but not at this moment.

Strange. You rub your arms and sit anxiously in the solitude. You’ve grown used to their presence, even if you have not settled comfortably into their nature. Snakes have never been your favorite—which is an understatement. 

It is not long that splashing fills the air, and you tilt your head towards its source. There’s a watering hole, a small, clear pond not too far from the cave. Though the splashing does not echo with violence, it continues in struggling, lapping sounds against your ears. 

Curiosity pricks you. Despite your better judgement, you carefully poke your head from the cave and the stirring of water grows. It wouldn’t involve your nagas, would it? Who else could it be? An answer that both terrifies and propels you, inch by inch, out of the cavern mouth and into the boiling humidity that takes the jungle by its throat. 

Insects buzzes and speed past your head. You slap a hand against your neck to squish a tiny flying creature. Lush green vines hang and drape, almost catching the corner of your shoulder as you tiptoe towards the water source. A dozen possibile worse case scenarios fill your head at what is battering and swashing the water. 

You come to a natural, leafy barrier between the pond and yourself, and when you dare to pull the thick frondy curtains back, you breathe out softly. 

Inside of the pond, hanging at the edge of dry land, is Sun. The naga’s golden scales sparkle in their wet sheen and almost burn a molten gold in the sunlight. His tail dips deeper into the pond, and he squirms in an odd manner, his arms reaching around his body as if to scratch an itch he can’t quite reach with the wicked curve of his claws. His expression, much like his name, warms when his flower-blue eyes catch you peering at his bathing.

“Friend!” Sun’s hissing joy startles you, and you almost turn on your heels and bolt back to the cave for some sense of safety and a refuge from the heat now soaking against your body, but you blush too fiercely to think of escape. Is he bathing? Moon doesn’t seem to mind water but Sun hasn’t dipped into it as much, or at least, from what you’ve seen. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, stepping into the open to brush away your embarrassment at being caught like a peeping tom. You aren’t sure if this is intrusive, but Sun rests his arms on the lush grass on the edge of the pond and looks up to you with a wide smile, even if there is a tight, uncomfortable pinch around his eyes.

“Oh, yes, I’ve never been better,” he chirps like one of the bright and dancing birds that so often search for mates among the boughs of the jungle trees. It does not keep, however, as he begins twisting his hands. His shoulders tense and squirm up and down, as if trying to wiggle out of a rather tight shirt that’s been pinching and rubbing. “Well, I could use some help, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Your stomach clenches but a niggling curiosity takes hold. 

“What is it?” You take a step forward, nearing the watery edge. A slight waft of coolness from the pond entices you closer still.

Sun’s petal like adornments about his face seem to flutter slightly, his expression enticing but careful as he asks, “I’m shedding, and it is very difficult removing the old skin from my back. I could wait, but that would take some time, and it’s not very comfortable. Would you be so kind as to lend a hand?”

Shedding. Your skin crawls with the idea of removing a layer of yourself, but theirs is not human flesh, is it? Not to mention how… intimate it appears. The experience would only be one of nagas, and you’re not certain how much of that you can entertain.

You peer closer to Sun and study how soft and lighter his face and shoulders appear. Peeking just behind his back is a sheath of scales, translucent and pale yellow, now clinging to the top of his back like a caplet. He’s in the midst of removing an old, too small layer.

You gulp slightly. You wring your hands.

“I’m not sure…” 

You shudder with the presence of other eyes upon you. With the awareness of a small prey animal, you snap your head to a cluster of trees overhanging a side of the pond not a few steps from where you and Sun converse. Tucked into the emerald grass, coiled tight and laying upon his folded arms, is Moon. 

His red eyes glint lazily over you. A yawn stretches forth, exposing fangs before the naga settles back into his cozy position, further enshrouded by his hood-like covering. His blue scales shimmer like starlight in the shadows of the tree. It’s not often you see him outside of the cave during daylight.

He was watching you the whole time, and you almost missed him. You ignore another shudder down your spine.

“Why not have Moon help you?” It would be better that a naga help another naga, right? You wouldn’t know where to begin, even if it is… intriguing to consider such a process.

“Moon can never get Sun up in the dead of night to help with his shedding,” Moon hisses with an oily snark.

You screw up your expression at his use of third-person, but Sun lashes his tail. The water ripples violently against the edges. 

“I have done no such thing, Moon,” he shrilly declares.

The blue naga’s mouth curls up at the corners in a wicked smile, so teasing and terrible, as he aims it directly at you. You’re forced to look away, fighting a creeping blush.

Taking a deep breath, you study Sun as he turns back to you. His upper body moves stiffly, caught in a vice that must be constricting. You find the line upon his chest where he started working down, the fresh, shiny new scales shimming like gold plates in the sunlight, but the old layer clings to him like dust, like decay. 

You draw hands over your own arms, imagining how terrible it would be, and pluck courage from somewhere deep within you to dare venture to the water’s edge. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” you say softly.

“Excellent.” Sun’s sissing joy leaps nearly out of the pond, but he moves slowly, so unlike his energetic self to present his back to you. The brilliant orange and yellow hues to his scaly spine are dulled by old scales ready to be lifted away. 

Slowly, ignoring the muddy heat and the slight dampness as you sit at the pond’s lapping edge, you feel Sun’s careful gaze upon you from the corner of his eyes. His big blue gaze peers carefully, hopefully, as he gently glides himself into your reach. The back of his hips nearly bump against your knees that you must hold tight to keep from bouncing at the anxiety-inducing closeness which you now have with a shedding naga. Another stare holds heavy upon you from the darkness underneath the cluster of trees, which is more difficult to ignore.

But the first peelings of the old skin clearly hang about the middle of Sun’s shoulder blades. There, they seem to agitate and remain unpurged from his scales. The strangeness is that you can see the pattern of his overlapping scales in the old skin. The impression of the design of life. Fresh, gleaming scales wait underneath with a soft, almost polished quality to them, waiting to emerge and harden into what they are meant to be.

“What do I do?” you half-whisper. 

“Carefully pull the shed down and away from my body,” he instructs, “Don’t yank, simply ease it back.”

You nod and carefully take hold of the smooth yet cold, lifeless skin. In order to not gross yourself out with too detailed an understanding of exactly what you’re doing, you begin to tug the layer down Sun’s spine.

The flesh gently gives way. You hear the slight sound of the skin separating, and you stop once in horror that you might have hurt Sun. He gives no indication save for a slight fluttering of his petal-like rays upon his head. He seems to hold his breath.

“Keep going,” he says slightly strained, “You’re doing great.”

“Are you sure?” You do not feel the same. “Does it hurt?”

“Oh no,” he says but it comes a bit rough from his throat, as if he’s dying to unsheath himself from this old form. “It feels rather wonderful, actually. Please, continue.”

At that, you realize that he is in dire need of relief, and you peel down the shed further, moving past his shoulder blades and almost midway down his back before Sun gives a deeper, rumbling sigh than you have ever heard from the naga. You nearly startle and stop. A great length of shed is now dangling from his back, and you marvel at the intrinsic back muscles lining the naga’s body. He’s lithe and shining and golden. Beautiful.

“Distracted, are we?” Moon hisses from the shadows.

You almost tear Sun’s shed in your hands from the quip, and though you burn in the face from the comment, you regain your composure enough to follow Sun’s urging to continue.

“Go a little slower,” Sun says, rising up to meet the demand of you pulling lower and lower, “Careful now. It’s best to not tear the shed. Take hold of it with both hands—yes, like that. Hold close to where the scales are separated from my body. There. That’s it… Oh, that’s wonderful.”

Sun hums a hissing, delightful sound. A great shiver overtakes the naga, and you carefully watch the shed grow in length. The once glorious layer that decorated Sun falls away, and a new, glinting  and soft set emerges. 

You never thought nagas could be so beautiful.

It must feel nice the further and further you go down his tail. Sun moves with you, allowing you to stay seated while gingerly peeling off the shedded scales. He works in time, going down the front of his person as you work his back, ridding himself of old and tight scales. He must feel brand new. Like he took a dazzling shower and scrubbed all of the flakes from his person. 

“Why do you shed?” you ask quietly, not realizing that you now stand in the cool water up to your knees, bending over the shining middle of Sun’s long, serpentine tail. 

“We do so for growth,” Sun hums, very pleased and relieved as you take several more inches of old scales from his body. “Our bodies need more room constantly, both in our environment and our scales.”

He sighs deeply, and you find yourself smiling.

“You look brand new. Like a gold bar.”

He perks up, now leaning against the pond’s edge, resting his arms against the bank while you pull the old scales from his form.

“Thank you.”

You don’t know if he knows what a gold bar is, but he seems content. There are more scales to peel and his tail is long and sleek in the pond water. Sun is good to keep still save for when he pushes his tail closer into your hands while you gently pull down and away, and move to the next section, forming a ring down the muscular thickness of his tail. 

The very tip of his body wiggles slightly as you near the end, as if he can’t endure the anticipation of being entirely free from the old, worn, and tight scales. 

It’s a bit hypnotizing. Perhaps you don’t have to fear so much when you have work to do with your hands. Or perhaps it might be another ability of the nagas. You don’t dare ask. 

Sun didn’t ask you to go this far, but by the time you remember such a detail, you have reached the very end of his tail. 

A breath leaves Sun, the naga sighing happily before he straightens. Gathering the shedded scales that now float along the surface of the pond, he gently picks the last of the old scales. You watch as his tail is born anew in the coolness of the pond. The translucent scales are gathered neatly in Sun’s hands. A whole mass that seems so much bigger until Sun disposes of the shedding on the grass. The wet layer deflated, and what once fit around the entire naga is now thin and lifeless. 

Beautiful and strange. You are finding that most things are.

“Thank you,” Sun breathes.

“I’m glad I could help.” You smile shyly before waddling back to your spot on the edge of the pond. With legs blissfully cool, you sit in the sunshine and listen to the chitters of insects, and admire Sun. A serpent so unlike any being you have ever experienced. 

“Brand new,” he echoes as he returns to you. His smile is wide, showing the tips of his fangs, but your heart only somersaults a little in your chest. “I do feel wonderful. I don’t suppose you humans experience anything like that?”

“Shedding? No,” you shake your head quickly, then chuckle softly. “We do regrow our skin cells, but not all at once. It happens in little flakes so small that we don’t notice most of the time.”

Sun hopes as he nears you. Holding carefully still, you watch his hand take your arm, and gently draw his tapered fingertips against your skin. Softly, he watches as white, ashy lines appear, and he muses before rubbing away the particles with his thumb.

“Fascinating.” He lifts his gaze. “It is only a shame I can’t return the favor.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” you quickly promise. “Really, you seem comfortable and happy. That’s all that matters.”

Sun’s eyes tighten slightly, but his smile doesn’t waver. Inching closer, Sun laps his arms upon your lap and rests his head. You stop breathing as the naga drapes off of your knees and into the water. There, he remains, and you cannot help but touch one of the petals upon his head with wonder. 

When you lift your eyes, you find Moon’s sleepy gaze watching you. For once, he seems content to rest. Perhaps you did a well enough job of helping his brother to not earn another tease from the blue naga.

[janiehellion]

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Daryl Dixon doesn't say much—but when you almost die, he finally tells you everything. Turns out, the man who you thought hated you the most was the one who loved you the hardest.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Submissive Daryl Dixon ⋮ Angst ⋮ Hurt/Comfort ⋮ Smut ⋮ Violence ⋮ Fluff ⋮ Dry Humping ⋮ Trauma ⋮ Cock Teasing ⋮ Handjob ⋮ Orgasm Control ⋮ Body Worship ⋮ Size Kink ⋮ Condom Use/Play ⋮ Praise Kink ⋮ Cock Riding ⋮ Dissociation ⋮ Aftercare ⋮ Daryl Dixon's Biceps

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 26.062 ⋮ 𝑺𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: S02E04 ⋮ 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 ⋮ 𝑨𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑶𝒇 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑶𝒘𝒏

The Georgia sun was already feeling way too hot by mid-morning, shining down on the farm like it had a personal problem against you as soon as you and the rest of the group had arrived on the Greene's property. After the funeral of a man named Otis, you stood near a truck with your arms crossed, listening to the voices around it. Maggie had put a map onto the hood for Rick and the rest of you to continue the search after Sophia.

"How long has this girl been lost?" Hershel asked, looking at Rick's pale face. You didn't blame him—Carl was still inside the house, recovering and quiet in bed, and everyone else was still somewhat in shock since Otis didn't come back, especially Shane. Or so it seemed.

"This'll be day three," Rick answered, and the sound of exhaustion in his voice was very noticeable.

Finally moving closer after some time, you stood right next to Hershel Greene. Not because you wanted to, but because it was the only space left around the hood of the truck.

"County survey map. Shows terrain and elevations," Maggie had said, making Rick nod, looking at everyone around him.

"This is perfect. We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area... start searching in teams."

But Hershel immediately cut him off. "Not you. Not today. You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out," he said, then looking over at Shane. "And your ankle... Push it now, and you'll be laid up a month, no good to anybody."

This nearly made you open your mouth, about to offer something—you hadn't given any blood, your ankle was fine, and you wanted to help, just like everyone else—but Daryl beat you to it, jerking his chin toward the map and pointing at a spot with one finger.

"Guess 's just me," he threw in. "'M gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."

Of course.

"I can still be useful," Shane added quickly, adjusting the police cap on his now-shaven head. "I'll drive up to the interstate. See if Sophia wandered back."

Rick looked down but then nodded. "All right, tomorrow then. We'll start doing this right."

"That means we can't have our people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we've been promising them." Shane leaned forward, looking past you and toward Rick.

But Hershel didn't back down from what he apparently had told both Rick and Shane already. "I'd prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We've managed so far without turning this into an armed camp."

"All due respect," Shane fired back in an instant, shaking his head, "you get a crowd of those things wandering in here—"

"Look, we're guests here," Rick started and silenced him, then looked at Hershel again. "This is your property, and we will respect that." Before he even continued, he pulled his Colt Python revolver from the holster and placed it on the hood of the truck.

Shane hesitated, then did the same with his pistol.

"First things first," Rick then said. "Set camp. Find Sophia."

Finally, you cleared your throat. "We'll find her," you said. "We're not giving up."

Shane shot you a quick look but nodded. "Right... But I hate to be the one to ask," he said further, "but somebody's got to. What happens if we find her and she's bitten? I think we should all be clear on how we handle that."

"You do what has to be done." Rick's answer came with no hesitation.

Maggie looked up, her gaze switching from him to Shane. "And her mother? What do you tell her?"

"The truth," Andrea suddenly answered flatly, but that was about it.

Shane took a step back from the truck. "I'll gather and secure all the weapons. Make sure no one's carrying till we're at a practice range off-site. I do request one rifleman on the lookout. Dale's got experience."

"Our people would feel safer, less inclined to carry a gun," Rick told Hershel again, who finally gave him a thoughtful nod in return.

"That stuff you brought… Got more antibiotics, bandages, anything like that?"

But as the conversation turned toward medical supplies, Daryl grunted and moved away from the group. Just like that. You didn't hesitate—your feet were already moving after him as he walked in the direction of his tent like he'd never been part of the conversation at all.

"Hey!" You called out, running a little. "Wait up."

He didn't turn, but he didn't speed up either. That was about as much of an invitation as you were ever going to get from Daryl Dixon.

You caught up to him just as he was about to kneel down, grabbing some more bolts for his crossbow and a knife. "The hell ya followin' me for?" He asked, not even looking up.

"I want to go with you," you answered. "I can help."

But Daryl snorted. Actually snorted. Like you'd just offered to fix his engine with a wrench and no knowledge at all when it comes to motorcycles.

"Go back to playin' nurse for the kid," he answered. "Ain't draggin' yer ass out there just so ya can trip over yer own damn self and die."

You blinked. "Okay, Daryl. How about you try to not act like a dick?"

"Ain't got no time for that."

You moved closer, squinting against the sun as you stared him down. "Listen, I'm not stupid. I can handle myself. If something happens, then you're there to help. And I would help you in return."

That finally made him look back at you with narrowed eyes… all blue and pissed. "Ya got a death wish, that it? Go wanderin' out there like a dumbass; gonna end up just like that lil' girl."

"That little girl is the whole reason we're out here in the first place!" You snapped at him, gesturing around. "You think you're the only one who cares? The only one who can search for Sophia?"

Daryl stood back up. But in the same way as when he was trying not to punch something. "Ain't 'bout what ya can do. 'S what ya shouldn't be doin'."

You were breathing hard, just as he turned away. "Don't follow me," he added, before turning and stomping off across the field and toward the tree line.

Without thinking, you walked after him again.

"Daryl, wait!" You called, grabbing for his shoulder as he reached the edge of the field.

He turned around like he'd been attacked, shrugging you off. His elbow hit you hard enough to surprise you and enough to hurt, making you stumble back a step.

"Don't ya touch me!"

You stared at him with wide eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Daryl looked you up and down like you were a problem he didn't have the time to fix. "Nothin' wrong with me. I ain't the one out here goin' after people who told 'em no."

"That's just because you're being such a stubborn asshole, Daryl!"

He laughed, mean and without amusement. "Oh, ain't that rich, comin' from a bitch wearin' her goddamn perfume and pink nail polish—hair all shiny, clothes all clean! Ya ain't shit."

That answer felt like a slap in the face for you. "You don't know anything about me, Daryl. Don't talk about me like that." Blinking hard with a slightly trembling lip, you realized too late that he noticed it.

"I only want to help!" You quickly continued to shout. "You think I'm useless? I'm trying! I care. Isn't that what matters? God, you're such a bastard! Do you really think I'm some helpless little—"

"Yeah, I do," he growled at you, his voice dropping lower and sounding meaner. "Ya don't belong out there. Hell, ya don't even belong out here! Yer like some damn doll that—"

"Why do you even care then?" You shouted back into his face. "If I'm so pathetic, why not let me get eaten?"

Daryl stopped talking in an instant until his voice sounded normal again… unbothered. "Don't care. Just don't wanna have to be the one cleanin' up what's left when the walkers're done with ya."

The silence that followed? All you could listen to was your pulse, which was pounding in your ears.

Daryl turned his back to you again—like he couldn't even stand to look at you—and finally walked off without another word, his crossbow hanging over one shoulder, going far from everyone, like he wanted it. Like he wanted to be.

You stayed where you were, jaw clenched, breathing fast. You weren't crying. Not really. But you wanted to. Just then someone stopped beside you, and you looked up to find Glenn.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I… just talked with Daryl," you answered, brushing your palms off on your clothes, trying to get the little shaking to stop.

Glenn let out a sigh and gave you a look. One of those typical looks—worried, a little amused, and very much not buying your bullshit.

"He always that much of an asshole to you?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Pretty much. Guess I bring out the worst in him."

"I've noticed it already, believe me," Glenn responded. "As if... you walk near him and the guy forgets how to be a human being."

"He literally shoved me," you grumbled, more to yourself than to him. "Like, right now. And hard. Then told me I was useless and that I don't belong out here."

"Jesus…" Glenn blinked, shaking his head.

"Right? I ask to help, and he treats me like I'm the goddamn problem."

"Yeah, that tracks," Glenn answered dryly with a smirk. "That's what he does. Gets annoyed and acts like a dick to scare everyone away. Very much emotionally mature."

You snorted as if to laugh about it. But in reality? It hurt a little bit.

"He doesn't scare me," you answered. "He simply pisses me off."

"I think that's the same thing for him. Look, just give him some space. That man's got more walls than Fort Knox. But if you ever want to talk about it, I've got some time."

"Well, thanks for that. I mean it," you smiled weakly as Glenn started walking beside you, back toward the farmhouse. You glanced over your shoulder toward the trees where Daryl had disappeared. No sign of him. Was he already gone and looking for Sophia? You didn't know. And right now, you couldn't care less about Daryl Dixon.

But once you focused on what was in front of you, you saw her just before you reached your tent—Carol, standing off to the side, arms wrapped around herself like if she let go, she would cry. Her eyes were on the tree line, searching a forest for explanations that never answered any questions. She was waiting.

Waiting for a daughter who might already be dead.

You froze and felt it all at once—shame, guilt, helplessness. You'd been arguing around instead of helping, just because Daryl thought you were useless. But what were you actually doing to help?

What were any of you doing, really?

By the time you reached your tent, your mind was already made up. You waited until everyone had calmed down, until everyone was busy with any task they were able to keep themselves occupied with, and until Rick disappeared inside the farmhouse to look after Carl.

No one was watching. Not now, at last.

Grabbing the knife that Shane had sharpened for you a few days ago, you slipped it into your belt. It wasn't much. But it'd have to do. Not leaving a note behind, you just disappeared into the woods before you could talk yourself out of it.

Keeping to the trail you found at first, the knife gripped tight in your hand, your eyes were looking toward every rustle of leaves and creak of branches.

It wasn't brave. It was stupid. You knew that. But you didn't care. You had to do something to help. Anything.

Time passed as you walked, maybe an hour, maybe more. You weren't sure. The muscles in your legs ached, and sweat slid down your back, sticky and wet beneath your shirt. But you kept going. Eventually, you saw it. A clearing. An old house made out of wood and forgotten, with windows that looked long broken. It was something. Maybe it was a place a scared little girl might hide in.

You approached carefully, your heart immediately starting to beat faster. Each step seemed louder than it should've been. The door creaked when you pushed it open, and you winced, raising your knife. Nothing moved.

Good.

Inside, the place smelled like mold and animal piss. You gagged but forced yourself to step in, eyes scanning everything. There was a broken-down couch, a couple of empty cans on the floor—sardines, maybe?—and a hallway leading deeper into the house.

You moved slowly, your breathing as quiet as it could be. The floor creaked beneath you, and every move sounded way too loud in the silence. A few steps further into the nearest room, you saw it—something that looked like a tiny, makeshift bed in a closet.

Could've been Sophia.

Could've been… But after searching through the whole place, you came to the realization that it was indeed empty.

Stepping outside again, you blinked against the sun, squinting at the ground. That's when you saw them—white flowers, growing wild near the tree line. Cherokee roses.

You remembered these roses. The history lessons in school about the Trail of Tears, how the Cherokee people were forced out of their native land, and how the mothers of the Cherokee were grieving and crying so much that they were unable to help their children survive the journey. You couldn't help but crouch down to take a closer look.

But that was your mistake.

Something snapped beneath your foot. Not loud. But you fell forward fast, your ankle twisting itself hard to the side as your foot caught a rock buried in the grass. Your knee slammed down on another, and pain tore through your leg, making you forget that your head hit the ground as well. Crying out, you tried to catch yourself, but your arm hit something jagged. Wood? Rusted metal? You didn't know and didn't have time to find out.

Either way, it cut deep. A long, deep cut inside your forearm, bleeding quickly and not stopping.

You swore, grabbing it, gasping as the pain started to be felt. Your ankle wasn't broken, but it throbbed as you tried to stand back up, only to fail. The second your weight shifted, your knees buckled and you hit the ground again.

"Shit," you hissed out as quietly as possible. "Shit, shit, shit!"

You looked around—trees, grass, endless nothing. No one was coming. No one even knew you were gone.

The blood wasn't gushing, but it didn't stop either, making your heart race faster than it should've, and the heat of the sun made everything spin.

This was bad.

It felt bad. Not walker-bite bad, not definitely dead bad, but you'd hit your head a little too hard when you fell, and the pain behind your eyes was pulsing now, pounding even. A concussion? Maybe.

But worst of all—you were alone. Out here. No backup. No plan.

You hadn't found Sophia.

You hadn't found anything.

All you had found were the Cherokee roses that blurred by now in front of your eyes like your brain couldn't quite hold the shape. You blinked, but the flower didn't sharpen. Everything was spinning. The trees swayed too hard. Your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, and your ankle had gone numb, like your body gave up trying to feel it anymore.

The grass was warm under your back. That should've comforted you, right?

And then the memories started coming back out of nowhere. They came slowly, like a fever dream.

The firelight. The sound of crickets. The quarry just outside Atlanta, back when everything still felt new, when walkers were the worst of your problems, and Daryl Dixon was just some loudmouth redneck with a brother twice as bad.

You'd never forget the first real day around them. It had been a good day. At least at first. You'd just bathed down there, using some lotion afterward you'd scavenged from a motel, along with a broken brush that barely held together as you came back with damp hair and a pink towel around your body.

The shampoo you'd used? It was strawberry-scented, the cheap kind, but it made your hair all soft and shiny. You'd taken an extra five minutes to wash it out in the water, humming to yourself, just trying to feel clean for five seconds. You even wanted to wear one of the sundresses you'd taken with you, thinking, stupidly, maybe you'd feel safe again and that this whole pandemic would be over soon.

What a joke.

Then you remembered walking up to the fire, smiling, towel around your shoulders. The way Jim gave you a nod. How Dale smiled like he was just happy someone still knew what lotion was.

You remembered Merle's laugh next. Harsh. Mean. "Well lookit that," he'd snorted, loud enough for the whole camp to hear. "Miss Georgia's right here in the end times. Whatcha doin', girl? Waitin' on Prince fuckin' Charming, or you plannin' to start a fuckin' show out here for me, sugartits? Do you think some walker's gonna fuck your pretty lil' ass? Shit, don't even need them damn dresses you always wearin', I can give ya a damn good time without 'em."

You'd tried to ignore him. Dried your hair by the fire, doing your best not to just run away when he got closer.

And Daryl? He hadn't stopped Merle. He'd just joined in like he hated what he was looking at. "Ya really bringin' that kinda shit out here? She really tryin' to get a walker to fuck her ‘fore it eats her."

You'd looked up. Said nothing.

And then Daryl had spat. Not near you. On you. A glob of spit that hit your leg.

"Dumb bitch. Still ain't got nothin' worth keepin' alive."

He hadn't even looked at you when he said it. Like you weren't even worth the eye contact. After that, you didn't eat with the others for days. But you tried to stay useful. Stayed quiet.

Even now, lying here in the grass, while some of the blood dried on your arm, your head pounding, the memory hurt.

Not just because it had been painful. Not because it was mean. Because part of you had believed them.

You knew that you weren't a fighter. You were just… you. Still using cosmetics and having a heartbeat too slow to keep up with a world that was dying around you so fast.

And Daryl? He'd known it. He'd seen it. He still saw it.

And that look in his eyes when he shoved you away—like just being near you made him weak? That wasn't anything new.

You didn't cry. Not back then. You just got up and left to go into your tent, telling yourself over and over that you wouldn't let it show.

And now you were bleeding out next to a flower instead of finding Sophia for Carol—Carol, who was grieving and strong in all the right ways—and you were still that girl with the strawberry shampoo, trying to prove you mattered before the end of the world would kill you anyway.

Maybe Merle and Daryl were right all along. Maybe you weren't worth saving.

Even now. No. Especially now. Half-conscious, with blood running down your arm and your stomach wanting you to throw up from the pain, the realization hit you hard.

You weren't one of them. You were just decoration. A joke. Useless. Always useless.

The last thing you saw before your eyelids felt too heavy was that stupid white flower, moving just slightly in the warm wind of the Georgia sun, like it was just here, waiting and watching you die in silence.

Back at the farm, Daryl yanked his crossbow into place, holding the strap over his shoulder a bit tighter when he prepared to go into the woods to continue his search for Sophia. He had been gone, yes, but he hadn't continued his search for the little girl and was only now about to leave.

Just before Rick's voice stopped him.

"Daryl. You okay on your own?" He asked.

"'M better on my own."

Rick nodded like he already knew the answer. "We got a base now. We can get this search properly organized."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "Ya got a point, or we just chattin'?"

"My point is it lets you off the hook. You don't owe us anything."

"My other plans fell through." And then Daryl turned without waiting for a reply.

Soon enough, the farm disappeared out of view behind him. Out there, it was quieter. No bullshit. No looks. No whispers. Just nature, animals, and the walkers.

Daryl followed a trail he had seen earlier, retracing old steps, ducking under branches, and stepping over logs. He kept his eyes low, scanning. Looking for tracks. A footprint. Any kind of hint he could find.

It was nearly an hour later when the house came into view.

That old abandoned building, half-eaten by time. He approached it slowly before he entered a place that felt like it still remembered the people who'd lived here once. Crossbow raised, he stepped in and moved from room to room. The first one? Empty. Except for an old can of sardines on the counter, peeled open. Recent.

Someone had been here.

He kept going. Into the hallway, past a bathroom, and into another room with a closet door half-ajar. Inside was a makeshift bed. Small. Like someone had curled up and hoped to disappear.

"Sophia!" Daryl called out, not loud, but clear. No answer. No hope, either… Giving up after he made sure the house was completely empty, he stepped outside again, squinting his eyes in the sunlight. That's when he saw it. The flowers.

Cherokee roses.

Moving slowly toward them to take a closer look, his gaze dropped just before he wanted to kneel down—and that's when his eyes widened.

You were lying there.

Blood all over one of your arms and your side. One foot was at an angle that wasn't looking quite right. Eyes closed. Lips pale.

Daryl didn't move at first and only stared. Like maybe it wasn't real. Maybe if he blinked, you would disappear and he could go back to pretending you didn't matter. But you didn't go away.

"God fuckin' dammit…"

His knees hit the ground as he dropped beside you before he grabbed your wrist first—rushed and too tight—but he needed to feel a pulse. It was there. Weak, but there. You were breathing, but shallowly.

"Shit," he hissed as soon as he saw the deep and long cut along your arm next, yanking a half-clean rug from his pocket and pressing it to your skin where the blood was coming out. "Stupid. Stupid goddamn—what the hell were ya thinkin'!"

Unable to answer, your head lolled to the side. Daryl pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.

"This what ya wanted?" He continued to yell at you, even though you couldn't hear him. He looked down at your face—smudged with dirt and sweat—and for half a second, he felt something like guilt. But it was gone before he could name it.

"Stupid girl," he grumbled again, but it sounded different now. Quieter.

Grabbing your other arm and pulling it across his shoulders, he lifted your body with a grunt. You were dead weight—not conscious, not responsive—but he got you up, holding you awkwardly against his side like you weighed nothing.

"I swear t'God, if ya don't die, 'm gonna kill ya, bring ya back, n' kill ya m'self again! Fuck!"

And then Daryl started walking. Back through the woods, back toward the farm, his jaw clenched, his face looking pissed, cursing the whole way like that would keep the anger away from him. Every step moved your body a bit, and every little noise you made had him tightening his grip.

You didn't remember much of the trip back. Just the Georgia heat and some motion above your head, all the while every breath was a fight. But Daryl remembered every step of the way.

His arms were on fire, his muscles burning by the time the farm came into view. Some of your blood had soaked through his clothes, clinging to his shirt and skin. The rug tied around your arm was doing a piss-poor job at stopping the bleeding, and you weren't doing much at all—not even mumbling like he had hoped you would do after some time.

Rick was now on the porch of the farmhouse, talking to Hershel about something—medicine, rations, or safety probably—when he caught sight of Daryl coming out of the tree line with you in his arms.

His eyes went wide. "What the hell… Daryl!"

"She's hurt," Daryl snapped, stomping past him. "Went out on her own. Found her like this, bleedin' near some old-ass house."

"What happened?" Andrea gasped, running up to him, while Lori covered her mouth with both hands as she got out of the house to see what was going on.

"Get outta my damn way!" Daryl barked, heading up the porch.

"There's no room," Hershel immediately answered, stopping Daryl from walking into his home. "Carl's still inside."

"Then where the hell do I put her?"

"The RV," T-Dog cut in, looking at Dale for his approval.

Dale didn't argue and rushed to open the RV door while Daryl climbed the steps. He moved quickly, lowering you gently onto the couch, and Hershel was following with some of his medical equipment the second Daryl took a step back.

"Let me see. She's lost quite some blood. Probably a mild concussion. I need some time."

Daryl backed off only because he had to, watching with his arms crossed and lips tight while Hershel cut the rag from your arm and cleaned the cut. It wasn't fatal. Deep, long, painful, yes, but you were lucky. Soon, Hershel said something about shock and rest and stitches. But Daryl still just stared at your face. Pale. Eyelids still closed. Lips dry. And all he could do was stand there and watch.

That night, the camp outside the farmhouse was rather quiet. Everyone from the group went to their tents as the time passed by. Glenn sat on the steps of the RV for a while like he was guarding you, but eventually even he wandered off. Daryl had waited. He was now behind the RV, chain-smoking cigarettes like it would give him a better excuse for the nervousness he was feeling.

He hated this. He hated you. No, that wasn't right. He hated how you made him feel like this. Like he gave a shit. Like he'd never forgive himself if you died. It was past midnight when he stepped back in. The RV door creaked a little as it opened, and for once, he flinched at the sound. You were still there on the couch, with a bandaged arm, and still as death.

Kneeling beside you and staring at the bandage, he imagined how many stitches on your arm there might be before he started talking.

"Y'know, I was gonna leave ya out there," he smirked. "Saw yer dumb fuckin' ass lyin' in the grass and thought, ‘Good. Serves that bitch right.'"

He suddenly sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. "But I ain't done that."

Looking up at you—your sleeping face—his eyes went to look down to your lips. Just a breath away. Daryl leaned in slowly, like even gravity didn't want to push him too fast. But when his nose nearly touched yours, he stopped and pulled back with shaking hands and a dry mouth.

"Bet ya'd punch me if ya knew." His own words made him smile.

"'N I bet ya still got some fight left. Ya always been fightin' my damn brother away. Ya remember back at the quarry?" He continued. "Me 'n Merle… we used to—fuck, we were assholes. Used to think ya were the dumbest damn slut—girl—I ever met."

Daryl laughed again, shaking his head. "Painted nails. Lil' pink bag full o' crap. Lip stuff. Glitter lotion or some shit. Whatever the fuck that was. Dunno. Shit… who the hell wears glitter durin' the damn end of the world?"

His voice cracked, but he ignored it. "Ya were always tryin' to make things pretty. That damn girly shit. Ya got a whole damn bag of soaps and creams and fuckin'... ribbons. And what did I do? I spit more 'n once on ya and yer shit, remember that? Said it was useless. Said ya were useless."

He looked away, huffing, only to look down. "Fuck… Ya always kept all o' yer things clean. Yer tent. Yer hair. Yer hands. Made the rest o' us look like fuckin' trash. Not good 'nough for ya."

Daryl paused, inhaling deeply and breathing out slowly, making sure no one was coming to look at how you were doing. "That deer I brought in? When Rick joined? Got it for ya. Was fuckin' mad at ya that day, ‘cause ya smiled at Shane or Glenn or—fuck, I dunno why it bothered me, it just… did."

He then pulled something from his pocket—a dirty little bottle of rose-scented hand cream. "Ya had one of these once, 'fore the CDC blew up," he grumbled, setting it down on the little table beside you. "Said it reminded ya of home. Heard ya talkin' 'bout it with Lori. I told ya it was useless bullshit. Made fun of ya for it while I was wasted."

He swallowed hard but then continued to talk to you while you were sleeping. "I went back to that damn pharmacy for it 'fore I went lookin' for Sophia. Saw it on the damn map 'fore ya asked me to come along. Wanted to slip it in yer stuff when ya ain't lookin'. Did that more than once. Soap, too. That fancy coconut or vanilla shit."

He dragged a hand over his face. "'S my fault that ya almost… Yeah, mine. Shouldn't have gone to that damn pharmacy. Could've kept yer damn ass safe."

His throat felt tight. Everything ached. All his muscles were tense by now, burning with shame and guilt. "Dunno what this bullshit is. I ain't never had nothin' good. But if ya died out there…" He stopped, swallowing hard, as hard as it was even possible. "I think I'd lose my goddamn mind..."

The second the words left Daryl's mouth, he flinched again. Saying such things out loud hurt worse than any injury ever could. "Ya always tried to make me feel like I ain't just shit. Like I ain't just Merle's dumbass brother and a fuckin' problem. Like maybe I'm... I dunno. Somethin'."

His forehead dropped to the edge of the couch, hiding his face. Half a sob, half a curse, Daryl shuddered like a storm was rushing through him, one that refused to stop letting him drown.

And then you moved. A groan. Maybe a whisper. But he heard it, and his head shot up. You weren't awake. Not fully. Still out cold, or so it seemed. But your mouth had moved, you had talked; Daryl was sure of it.

Another groan from you—uncertain, half-conscious.

"Fuck this," he suddenly snapped, taking the bottle and grabbing for the door handle of the RV. "Fuckin' idiot! 'M such a fuckin' idiot…"

But he didn't go far, especially since he made sure no one was nearby who might notice him. No, Daryl just sat in the dirt by one of the RV wheels, with his head leaning back against it, his teeth biting into the palm of his hand to keep himself from crying.

Soon enough, the days passed, not many—but enough for the bleeding to stop and for the bruises on your skin to start turning all sorts of ugly. Your arm was stitched up, the muscle still pulling every time you moved. It stung like a bitch. And you weren't allowed to use it much, which meant you spent most of your days lying and sitting around in Dale's RV.

Rick had stopped by more than once to see how you were doing. Lori brought soup that tasted like water and, well, just water, really. And Maggie came around sometimes with Glenn, but that was about it. It got a little easier to move your arm, eventually. Easier to breathe, too, without feeling your head spin. The farm was quiet most of the time—birds, sounds from the horses here and there, and the distant sound of shots, since Rick and Shane had started to teach how to shoot.

You started making short walks around the farm. Then to the field. Then the house.

Still, you hadn't seen him again. Daryl was nowhere to be found anymore. But T-Dog found you instead when you were leaning on the fence one afternoon, holding your arm like it might fall off if you didn't. You weren't crying, but damn if it didn't feel like you could if someone even breathed too loud.

"Doing okay?" He asked, jogging over, but you just shrugged in return.

"I guess."

"Don't push it too fast. That kinda cut, it's no joke," he nodded toward your arm and held out his own. "Guess we're some kinda twins now, huh? Same side as yours."

You managed to give him a small smile in return. "You're not still hurting?"

"Oh, I'm hurting, alright. Just not bleeding on people anymore and leaving a trail of blood for the walkers to follow."

You glanced at him, almost laughing. "Yeah. I remember your accident, too. On the highway. I've never seen so many walkers at once."

"Shit, yeah. I sliced my arm open trying to get outta the way of one of them. Thought I was done for."

Your eyes narrowed as you thought back. Back to the walkers. Back to the ways every single one of you had tried to hide from the danger. "You know… I never asked, but how'd you even get out?"

T-Dog looked at you, a little sideways, like maybe he wasn't sure if you were serious. "You don't know?"

You shook your head slowly. "No. How should I know? I was up in the RV with Andrea. It was bad enough with that one damn walker in there and next to her in such a small place. But thanks to Dale, we're still alive... So? How did you make it?"

He laughed, but it sounded more like a huff. "Daryl. He's the one who saved my ass. White boy came up to me outta nowhere and covered me and him under walkers. We lay there under those dead bodies. Didn't even move."

"Wait, wait—Daryl Dixon?"

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "Wasn't what I expected either. I mean, remember Merle? That guy was a full-blown asshole. And I figured Daryl was just like him, you know? All that racist, hillbilly shit? But he didn't even hesitate. Saved my life."

"But… I also thought he was like Merle. In fact, I'm pretty much sure he is just like Merle."

"So did I," T-Dog admitted again. "Still not sure sometimes. But I guess he's loyal. Just doesn't know how to act loyal without being a real dick about it at the same time."

"Yeah… Sounds about right."

Watching how you turned a bit away from him, T-Dog took a step back, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. "You don't think he gives a damn about you, do you?"

"Why would he?" You asked dryly, shrugging your shoulders. "He's hated me since they'd arrived at the quarry. Said I was useless. Spit at me. Mocked me for every… well, every 'girly' thing I still owned. Stuff I still own."

"But he carried you back," T-Dog answered quietly. "Didn't stop to ask, didn't wait for help. He found you and moved. That's Daryl."

You looked down at your hand, flexing your fingers slowly. The wound on your arm still ached. But this time, it didn't feel like what hurt the most. You didn't say anything else in response at first. Just looked back out toward the tree line, where the wind had started blowing just slightly.

"But I'm so sure that he hates me. You just don't treat someone you don't hate the way he treats me."

T-Dog looked at you for another moment, then shrugged as well. "Could be. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to act loyal. Loyalty doesn't always come with manners."

You huffed at that. "He didn't even stop by. Not once. And I've been stuck in that RV for days. That man does not give a damn, believe me, T."

"'Cause he doesn't do ‘checking in.' Dude's probably sitting alone somewhere, thinking too hard and pretending not to give a shit."

"Think I should go and thank him?" You asked, biting the inside of your cheek and laughing quietly.

T-Dog snorted in response. "If you can find him. It doesn't hurt to say thank you, especially if you don't care about how a man like Dixon might react."

His words made you think. Daryl had saved T-Dog. Daryl had saved you. And yeah, maybe he was a dick about it. Maybe he said mean things and looked at you like you were pathetic. But you also remembered this tiny, stupid stuff you found in your bag that you thought was from Jacqui or Amy before they'd died—cute little comforts that you couldn't even imagine may have been from someone like him.

Soap. Lip balm. A tiny comb. A little pink lighter that still worked…

Thinking back to these many things that had magically appeared in your belongings, the sun was starting to go down when you finally worked up the nerve to find Daryl. You'd been pacing near the RV restlessly for half an hour, or longer, chewing your lip, thinking of a hundred different ways to start a conversation, and hating every single one of your ideas.

Why'd you carry me back?

You chose the most neutral thing you could come up with: Ask him why. Casually. Like it means nothing.

You spotted Daryl's tent now much further from the rest of the group, like he couldn't stand the sound of humans for longer than ten minutes. He was sitting outside, sharpening the blade of a knife with that same pissed-off expression he always had when someone approached him.

You stood there for a second, watching Daryl from a few feet away, just long enough for him to notice you. But he didn't look up.

"Lost?" He then asked, still dragging the knife along whatever he used for sharpening it.

"No," you answered, stepping closer. "I was looking for you."

"Well, ya found me. Congratulations."

"I just wanted to ask you something," you swallowed hard. This was a mistake, for sure. But it was too late now.

Daryl didn't answer you, waiting for you to speak, and just kept sharpening. So you pressed further and finally asked the question. "Why'd you bring me back?"

He stopped moving, but then he scoffed. "Was out lookin' for the lil' girl. Found a body bleedin' in the grass. Figured I'd put it over my shoulder and be done with it."

"You're saying you didn't even know it was me at first?"

He looked up now, finally, and his eyes were cold. "'M sayin' it wouldn't have mattered shit. Just don't need 'nother walker out there. Woulda put a bolt in yer head if—"

You flinched, and he saw it. Of course, he did. "Hell, shoulda just left ya there. Woulda saved me a helluva walk, too."

You blinked hard. From anger, not from tears. Not this time. "Why are you like this, Daryl?"

"Like what?" He smirked at first, scoffing quietly.

"This… cruel."

Daryl's smirk was gone fast, and, putting his knife aside, he finally stood up. "I ain't cruel, woman. 'M honest. World's gone to shit, and ya still walk 'round like yer a fuckin' princess. Maybe if ya stopped worryin' 'bout bubble baths and started learnin' how to not get yerself sliced open, ya wouldn't need any damn carryin'."

Staring at him for another moment, not saying anything, not giving him the satisfaction, you just turned and walked off. You didn't run. You didn't cry. You didn't say another word. Just walked. Wanting to leave him to rot with whatever broken part of a soul made him push kindness away if it disgusted him this much.

Again, the hours passed quietly, like the world was trying to pretend it was peaceful. In the meantime, you had cleaned up as best you could. Maggie had brought you food. Glenn had made a dumb joke that almost made you smile. Almost. You went to your tent later, rubbing near the itchy spots on your arm where the stitches were pulling a little too tight. Dropping to your knees, you unzipped the flap, reached for your bag… and froze.

There, on top of your stuff, was lip gloss. Not the lip balm you always used, but the exact kind of lip gloss you'd run out of weeks ago. Next to it? A tiny bottle of rose-scented hand cream, a little dirty, but still sealed. And a small bar of soap, wrapped in light purple wax paper with floral patterns on it. Lavender. And so much more... And next to it all?

A white Cherokee rose. No note. No explanation. Just there.

No one else would've thought to bring you that kind of stuff. You were sure of it by now as you sat back. Hell, most of the group didn't even know when some of your things were empty to begin with. Nor did any of them know that you were bleeding out right next to a Cherokee rose bush. Except one. The same man who'd told you to your face that he should've left you to die.

Touching the edge of the rose gently, you laughed. A bitter, breathless, and choked laugh. "Asshole..."

You sat there on your knees in silence, with your heart beating harder than it had during the walker horde on the highway. But what you felt at that moment? It was fury. And it was the kind of fury you hadn't let yourself feel in a while. Maybe ever.

You gathered the things carefully but not tenderly. All of them, even the flower, with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Then you stood up, walking back out of your tent. Daryl was still where you left him. He was leaning over a small fire now, poking it. His crossbow leaned next to a log, untouched, and he didn't look up when you approached. Typical.

But he didn't have to. He felt you coming.

"You think I'm fucking stupid?"

Daryl flinched at your words, but his eyes stayed fixed on the flames.

"You think I wouldn't notice? The things you put into my shit? The gloss, the balm, the shampoo, the soaps, the stupid-ass lighter with the pink rhinestones? Oh! There's so much more!"

Now he looked up with narrowed eyes. "I told ya, I—"

"No! No," you cut him off, stepping forward. "Don't do that! You got me these things. You went out of your way. Hell, you got me the exact same hand cream I told Lori about, didn't you? Smells like roses!"

You kept going like your voice just had to be heard for once. "I'm not stupid. I'm not blind. But you want to treat me like I'm some idiotic little girl who can't survive without her glitter and her goddamn bubblegum lip gloss, right? Like I'm just some waste of fucking space!"

Daryl scowled. "Ain't never said—"

"You didn't have to," you snapped back. "You made sure I knew!Every single day! You spit on my things, Daryl. On me! You called me useless! You mocked everything I had left before the world ended. Everything that reminded me I was still a fucking human being!"

"I ain't done that—"

"You did! And now you brought me back? But you won't look me in the eye? You won't talk to me? You don't even admit it, you damn coward!"

"Ain't got no time to explain, woman."

"Bull-fucking-shit, Daryl Dixon," you hissed. "You owe me an explanation! Not for carrying me. For this."

You stared down at all the things in your hands. Then, slowly, you raised one of them. "You wanna know what this is?" You asked quietly, while Daryl didn't answer. So you threw it at his chest.

"It smells like lavender… and feels like shame on my skin."

You threw the next one—the lip gloss. "This one's pity, right?"

Another bottle, this time aimed at his shoulder. He flinched when the hand balm hit him. "This one's your hate… and my guilt. Smells good, doesn't it?"

You threw the last—a tiny little mirror—and it cracked when it hit the ground near his feet. "And this one, Daryl? This one's not even from you, but it's my reminder that when I look in the mirror now, I hate what I see. Because every time I see my face, I hear your voice calling me useless."

He flinched again, breathing faster now. "I never meant—"

"You never meant to?" You cut him off, shouting at him. "Stop! You meant every word you ever said to me; you just didn't expect me to remember them all!"

His hands curled into fists, and he stopped poking the fire. "Ain't done it for ya."

"Really?" You asked back. "Then who was it for? Your fucking idiot brother, Merle? Amy? Andrea? Jacqui? Lori? Carol? Yeah, right! Fuck that!"

He got up and stepped forward suddenly, with an angry expression on his face. "Don't talk 'bout shit ya don't understand."

"Oh, I understand plenty," you shot back, not moving an inch. "I understand that you only know how to hurt people who give a damn. I understand that you are scared as fuck of someone giving a shit about your sorry ass!"

Daryl pointed at you, stepping closer. "Ya don't know anythin' 'bout me."

"Oh, I know enough! I know that you'd rather make a girl cry than admit you were scared when you saw her bleeding out."

"Shut up," he growled, his voice cracking.

But you didn't. You leaned in, close, your nose almost touching his. "You don't hate me... You hate that I make such a pathetic being like you feel like a person. Human."

Daryl pushed you roughly away from him. Not enough to knock you down. But enough to get your attention. "Ya don't know shit! I carried ya back ‘cause I didn't want 'nother fuckin' dead body walkin' 'round here! 'S it!"

"Liar!" You spat, throwing the last thing he got you without even looking at what it was, almost hitting his head. "You carried me back because if I died out there, you would've had to admit you cared!"

"Ya don't get to say that! Ya don't get to decide why I do shit, 'n ya don't know what I—"

"You liked watching me bleed out, didn't you?" You then continued, your face turning red in anger. "Made you feel strong, didn't it? Because a girl like me needing a man like you meant you weren't nothing for once in your pitiful life!"

Dead quiet, Daryl stepped back. And the expression on his face? It was pain, rage, and shame, all at once. "Don't fuckin' say that," he whispered.

But it was too late.

"What, does it hurt?" You scoffed, your eyes still cold. "Good! Do you know what else hurts? Lying in the woods bleeding out, thinking the man you thought was cute at first, but who actually hates your ass to death, is the last person you'll ever listen to! Wishing you'd actually died instead of having to face him ever again! And you know what? I fucking liked you, Daryl. God help me, I fucking liked you. And you made me feel like shit for it."

Daryl didn't look up… as if he couldn't.

"Stupid fucking redneck. Giving me this shit like it means anything."

"'CAUSE I AIN'T NOTHIN'!" He suddenly shouted, with his fists gripping at his hair like he could rip his thoughts out. "'S ME WHO AIN'T SHIT!"

Daryl sank down on his knees, both hands still on his head, gasping wildly, rocking back and forth, back and forth. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

His voice broke off, and he started hitting his head with the side of his fists. Once. Twice. More and more. He did not stop until he felt dizzy. You blinked in shock, your heart pounding in your ears. That wasn't the Daryl you knew. This wasn't even the Daryl you hated. And it made time seem as if it stopped.

"W-why do you hate me?" You whispered carefully. "What did I ever do to you?"

"I didn't know how else to do it!" He shouted, his voice cracking hard. "Ya want words? I ain't got the damn words! I don't—" He broke off, breathing fast, dragging his hands down his face.

You didn't respond.

"I got ya that bullshit ‘cause ya fuckin' liked it! ‘Cause it made yer stupid ass smile! And I—I dunno—I thought maybe if ya smiled at me for one goddamn time 'stead of—!"

He sniffed loudly. Like he wanted to cry or just say something nasty, but nothing came out. Only a tiny, broken inhale. All you could do was stare, but this time? It was still shock and confusion. "God, I'm such a dumb bitch… Shit…"

You started to turn, just a little bit, ready to go somewhere and scream at yourself for what you've done—but movement stopped you. Daryl reached out. Clumsy, almost afraid to touch all of it, he picked up the lip balm first. Cracked now, dirt stuck to the side. Then the mirror. The bar of soap. The hand cream. One by one, he gathered all of it together.

You paused, arms crossed, trying not to care. Trying. Then you saw it. A single, tiny tear landed on the hand cream as he held it in his palm, the tremble in his hands impossible not to notice. He stared at it for a long moment, sobbing as quietly to himself as possible. Then he looked up. Not at you. Toward you. And he stretched out both arms, holding the little pile of things in his big, strong hands. No words. Just his eyes that were all wet and looking hopeless, like he was offering up what little was left of himself.

"Take it back…" Daryl sobbed. "I… I didn't mean to… I dunno why—"

His voice cracked again. He looked like he wanted to die. And with a deep breath, you stepped back in his direction, shaking your head. He kept staring at the stuff in his hands, his voice dropping even lower, like he hated every word coming out of his mouth.

"I don't hate ya! Just… didn't wanna care," he sobbed, and you swallowed hard. "But… ya just kept bein' all… you."

You blinked several times in a row.

"I thought… if ya hated me, then it wouldn't matter if ya left one day—if ya died... And ya weren't s'posed to be prettyand smell like fuckin' strawberries or whatever and look at me like I was anythin' other than white trash! Ya weren't s'posed to matter!"

By now, you were crouched down right in front of him. "But you were mean," you then whispered. "You hurt me, Daryl…"

He nodded slowly. "I know."

"And I almost died thinking you hated me…"

Daryl finally looked up. His eyes were red as he looked into yours. "I didn't—I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I-I know," you cut in, your voice now trembling slightly too. And then, finally, your hands reached out. You touched Daryl's cheek first, your thumb sliding along his jaw before you cupped his face, making him shudder.

"I ain't good," he whispered. "Don't talk right. Say shit I don't mean. I fuck everythin' up. And I—" His breath hitched. "I jus' wanted ya to… not die."

You saw it again. The pain. The way his mouth opened like he had something—everything—to say and didn't know how. And that was when you put a soft kiss on his forehead as you pulled him close.

Daryl made a tiny broken sound before his brain caught up, and he immediately panicked. "Don't," he gasped. "Don't do that. Don't… don't pretend!"

He looked scared when you didn't answer. But you just wrapped your arms around him and held him tight. Like you were trying to hold the broken parts of him back together with just your touch. Daryl's face pressed to your neck, his hands suddenly gripping your back like you might be gone if he opened his eyes again. You felt it—the trembling, hearing the sobs, feeling the way he pressed into you.

"M'sorry," he whispered into your shoulder. "M'sorry. I didn't mean it. I-I swear, I just…"

You didn't need an explanation. You just held him tighter. Let him feel you. Let him know you weren't going anywhere, even if his whole body desperately tried its best to relax against you. His breath hitched differently now. The sobs turned a little quieter. Less panic. More need. Not pulling away, you saw it now. All of it.

The little boy who never got love. The man who thought hatred would keep him safe.

How much time passed by wasn't on your mind as you knelt there with Daryl for a while, letting him fall apart into your arms, until the shaking slowed and the wet sobs against your skin turned completely quiet. When Daryl finally let go of you, there was this dazed look in his eyes. Like he'd forgotten where he was or who he even was.

"Come on," you then said gently, just loud enough for him to hear. But Daryl didn't move. So you pulled gently at his hand and helped him up, patiently, and as fast as he wanted to move again. He followed you without a word, stumbling a little, his head low as you helped him back into his tent before he sat down without any words on his sleeping bag.

In the meantime, you reached for the stuff he'd gotten you—picking it all back up off the ground, since he'd let it fall into the grass once you'd put your arms around him, and brought it with you. Daryl didn't even look up when you left all of a sudden; he still sat there.

Once back in your own tent, you moved as fast as possible. Wipes. Lotion. Some clean water in a bottle. A small towel. The flannel shirt you always wore on warmer nights that was way too big for you. You carried it all back in your arms.

Stepping inside Daryl's tent and kneeling down in front of him, he glanced up, confused and wide-eyed.

"I ain't…" He started, his voice shaking. "I don't want—"

"Quiet," you answered gently, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't have to want anything right now. But you need. Listen, just sit there, alright? Let me."

You took the wipes first, pulling one from the pack and warming it a little bit between your hands. Then, slowly and carefully, you wiped the dirt and tears from Daryl's face. His mouth trembled when you touched him, his lips twitching like he might say something—but he didn't. He just let you clean him. Quiet and shaking ever so slightly.

"I ain't clean," he then said, almost ashamed. "M'dirty…"

"No," you whispered with a small smile. "You're not."

Soon enough, you worked your way down his arms, wiping off dirt and sweat and the faint bits of blood that were still left on his skin. Then his hands—his big, rough hands, all calloused, but still trembling. You took your time there. Between each finger. The back of his palms. His wrists.

Daryl watched you in silence, but when you started pulling at the hem of his shirt, he finally flinched, and his eyes were going wide again. "What're ya doin'?"

"Just going to clean you up proper," you answered softly. "It's just a shirt. Relax."

He looked like he wanted to say no. Like he wanted to grab it and yank it back down. But something in him broke a little more, and he let you pull it over his head, only to turn away from you as if in shame. And that's when you saw them. The scars. Not all of them, since he wasn't fully turned away from you, but what you saw was enough to notice how deep and all over the place they were. Scars that shouldn't have been there across his back.

Daryl panicked the second he realized what you were seeing and tried to back away. "Don't—don't fuckin' look at that, a'ight? Ain't nothin'! Nothin' ya gotta—fuck, just—just leave!"

But you didn't pull away as you reached for the small towel and the water bottle you brought with you, opening it to clean him a little more. "Who did this to you, Daryl?"

"Don't matter," he grumbled, arms now crossed tight across his chest. "Ain't yer damn problem."

You leaned forward, arms wrapping around him from the side, your chest pressed to his biceps. "It is my problem," you whispered. "You are."

Placing the towel over his shoulders after you were done drying him off, you grabbed the lotion next. You rubbed it slowly over his arms, his shoulders, and his hands, all the while he sat frozen and looking confused, like it was the first time someone had touched him without hurting him.

"You smell like me now," you smiled, but he just sat there, swallowing hard, breathing shakily.

You reached out and touched his shoulder gently. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna ask."

"Yeah, 'cause ya don't even—"

"I'm not gonna ask," you said again. "You don't have to tell me anything, Daryl. But I'm not going to pretend I didn't see it. And I'm also not going to pretend it changes anything."

He turned fast. Wild-eyed. "Ya don't needa pretend nothin'. Yer—yer tryin' to be nice or some shit. Ya don't—"

Not finishing what he wanted to say, Daryl stared at you once more, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth was open like he wanted to scream or cry but didn't know which one would save him.

Using the moment, you reached for the flannel now. "Arms up..."

He blinked in confusion, maybe wondering why you were still here, which made you smirk. "Come on now, Daryl. I'm not leaving you sitting around shirtless."

He let out a weak, stunned huff but lifted his arms, watching as you slipped the flannel over his head and let it fall around his body, the sleeves way too short for him.

Then, slowly, you reached for his face. "Look at me."

He did as you held his chin, caressing it. "You don't have to be an asshole around me, Daryl. You don't have to yell. Or lie."

All he responded with was a nod in return.

"You want me to stay?"

Another nod.

And you didn't try to pull back. You just stayed there, kneeling in front of him, one hand still on his face, the other soon resting over his chest where his heart felt like it was trying to beat out through his ribs. He looked at you like he didn't get it. Like he was still waiting for the trap.

"You wanna lie down?" You asked eventually, voice soft, but he hesitated until he gave the tiniest nod again.

So you laid down first, letting your side press down on the sleeping bag before you patted the spot in front of you. "Come here."

Daryl snorted, but it came out cracked, sounding more ashamed than mean. "Shit. Ain't never—"

"Now's a good time to start."

He grumbled under his breath but crawled toward you anyway, arms stiff, not really knowing how to be held. Like it was something that needed instructions.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pulled him in close, and let your body press to his. His back pushed against your chest, all tensed up and full of confusion, still waiting for some kind of rejection that wasn't even coming. His hands stayed awkwardly near his chest, and his shoulders trembled now and then like he still hadn't run out of tears but just didn't have the strength to let them fall anymore.

"You're shaking," you whispered, holding him a little tighter.

"M'fine..."

"Nope. You're not."

Daryl didn't continue arguing. You pulled the sides of the sleeping bag up over both of you and put your face into the crook of his neck, letting your breath warm his skin there.

He was quiet for a while, and you didn't rush him, since after some time, he finally spoke up again. "Why ya always been like that?"

"Like what?"

He hesitated again. "Weird, I guess? N'... y'know. Just girly. With all them lil' bottles n' fuckin'... soaps n' shit. Creams or whatever all that stuff is ya usin'."

You snorted against the back of his shoulder and kissed the skin there, which made him squirm. "Is that such a big problem for you?"

"Nah, I just... I don't get it. Ain't never made sense. Ya know... world's gone to fuckin' hell, n' ya still put on lotion as if it matters."

"Well, it matters to me," you laughed in response.

"Why?"

You held him a little tighter. "Because it's who I am. I've always been that way. Even before the world ended, I guess. It's what makes me feel human. Like I'm still me. Not just some scared girl trying to survive."

Daryl was quiet again until he whispered. "'N why the hell would a girl like—" He started but cut himself off. "Don't need someone smilin' at me."

"Daryl."

He didn't answer, so you let your hand glide over his side. "You're the first person that ever made me feel safe back at the quarry. Shane always seemed so… impulsive. The others? Well, no one really fought like you did. I'm not saying the rest of the group can't keep us safe, but when that walker got that deer you were hunting down? Made me realize you knew more about survival than everyone else. You were the first one to point out that we need to destroy their brains. You were the first one, the only one, really, who knew how to hunt. It seemed so… natural. Not because you're big or strong or scary—though, let's be real, you kinda are—but because you see people. You look after them. Even when you act like an asshole."

He huffed out a grunt, his shoulders relaxing a little more.

"You gave me those things," you continued softly. "Little things. Stupid things. A flower. A bar of soap. So many things… So you cared. Even if I didn't know at first."

He didn't answer you, but his hand found yours, holding it tight against his chest.

"And yeah, you're… you. Sometimes a bit rude. But now I think that—" You didn't talk about it further, just pressed another kiss to the back of his neck, softer this time. "You don't have to understand it. Not all at once. But I really do likeyou. I liked you right from the start. I just didn't smile at you because… well, you know how you were acting around me."

His grip on your hand loosened, and you felt him slowly, finally, letting out a deep breath. Like he'd been holding that breath since Atlanta. And you stayed like that. Daryl didn't say anything else, but his breathing slowed after a while, sounding calmer, until he fell asleep like that, in your arms.

Like a broken, little boy who'd never been held in someone's arms for the sake of it.

And when you were sure Daryl was out, you slowly, so slowly, moved yourself away from him, pressing one last kiss to the side of his face and putting the sleeping bag tighter around him. He grumbled something in his sleep. A quiet sound where you couldn't make out what he was saying. But it didn't matter what exactly he said when you gathered your stuff back together and stepped out of his tent again. At least you knew he was feeling safe for now.

The next day when you were back on your feet, you weren't thinking too hard about the night before. Making yourself as useful as possible, you tried to help the rest of the group as best as you could in the morning.

Lori handed you a knife while Carl ran around the farm, finally able to move after he'd been out for days after the incident, and already having more energy than he should've had after being shot. But hey, Hershel worked miracles. The kid was back to running around as if nothing ever happened.

"Don't let him wear you out," Lori said with a wide smile, wiping her hands on a towel. "He'll run circles around you until you get dizzy."

You snorted. "That's what I'm afraid of. And I think he's already making my head spin. But, you know, he's feeling like a kid again for once; that matters the most, especially with everything going on…"

Carl then ran up beside you, holding out a deflated ball to play with. "Wanna play catch real quick?"

"Only if you go easy on me," you answered, pointing to your arm. "Doctor's orders."

"Deal!" He grinned and ran back a few feet, while Lori chopped onions beside the fire. For a moment, it all felt so… normal. Almost like something from the before-times—morning air still chilling and not too hot, smells of wood and watery coffee in the air, people waking up, stretching, and starting their day.

And soon enough, you noticed him from the corner of your eye before you heard him—always the quiet one.

Daryl.

He was walking in from the tree line, his crossbow as always with him. Same sweat-drenched skin while walking around in the sun, the same scowl that was more habit than emotion. But he didn't look your way, and you didn't call out, since Carl had already started playing with you. Still, you couldn't help but watch him walk toward the RV before returning your attention to the kid.

Meanwhile, Daryl pushed open the RV door. He'd been avoiding Carol for a while now—not because he didn't give a shit, but because he didn't know how to. What was he supposed to say? "Sorry yer kid's missin'? 'M still searchin'?" That didn't help anyone.

But he had remembered the roses that bloomed in the woods. Right there, where you had been bleeding near the house, like they were waiting for him again. He'd stared at them for a full minute before pulling one out of the dirt and shoving it into an old beer bottle he found.

He felt stupid carrying it back. Felt even more stupid walking up the steps of the RV, holding it. But he did it anyway.

Inside the RV, Carol was cleaning everything, trying to distract herself from the emptiness that was eating her up from the inside out. "I cleaned up," she said without looking at him. "Wanted it to be nice for her."

Daryl glanced around. "For a second I thought I was in the wrong place." He set the beer bottle with the rose down on the little table.

She finally turned. Her eyes looked at it, then back at him. "A flower?"

"'S a Cherokee rose." He sighed. "The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure, disease, and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared."

Carol froze but continued to listen to Daryl. "So the elders, they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, and give 'em strength and hope. The next day this rose started to grow right where the mothers' tears fell. I ain't fool 'nough to think there's any flowers bloomin' for my brother. But I believe this one bloomed for yer little girl."

Her eyes filled up with tears, but she shrugged it off with a laugh.

"She's gonna really like it in here," he added, nodding once. Then he turned away and stepped back outside.

But Daryl didn't head straight back to his tent. Not right away. Instead, he stopped near one of the fences, where he could see you, even though he'd made up his mind to head out again soon.

You were laughing, tossing a ball, even if your movements were stiff, and Carl almost fell when he caught it. Lori said something, probably about food or ordering Carl to be more careful. But you, you looked...alive.

Still pretty. Still you. Still 'girly n' shit,' with your beautiful hair and your clean clothes and that voice that didn't sound like anyone else's.

Daryl could still feel your hands on his skin; that damn flannel shirt still smelled like you, which he carefully left in his tent.

Raising a hand without thinking, he waved a little. Awkwardly. But you looked up and smiled at him. Really smiled. And that's when Daryl's face turned red and he damn near panicked. He dropped his hand, spun around, and stormed off toward his tent like he hadn't just spent a few hours walking through the woods while secretly hoping to see you at the end of it.

Meanwhile, Lori leaned over, grinning a little confused. "What was that about?"

"Long story," you answered, shaking your head.

Lori raised her eyebrows but didn't push any further when you turned your attention back to Carl.

"Alright," you challenged him. "Last round. The loser has to eat a whole onion raw!"

But every now and then, your eyes looked toward the tree line again, right where Daryl had disappeared again. You'd be checking on him later. And as time passed, it was safe to say that you barely saw him all day. He was nowhere to be found. Not that you were watching or anything—okay, maybe you did want to look after him. Still, you weren't about to start jogging all over the Greene's property, but damn if your eyes didn't automatically look to every movement of the trees, every corner of the farm, every second someone from the group came walking out of the woods or was near you.

Still, Daryl was just... gone.

And it wasn't like you to worry—not in the clingy, 'where's my man?' kind of way, but after last night, after everything he let you see, the way he sobbed in your arms like a hurt little boy, the way he clung to you like he'd drown otherwise? It didn't sit right with you that he could disappear so easily, like none of it ever happened.

By the time it was afternoon, you finally gave in and went looking.

Finding Glenn near the stable while Maggie stood at one of the stalls and stroked one of the horses, you heard them talking, laughing about something.

"Hey," you called as you approached. "Have either of you seen Daryl? I saw that he left again, but he's still not back."

Glenn tilted his head. "Yeah, earlier, when we came back. He asked me about the town where the pharmacy is. The one Maggie and I hit."

You nodded slowly, a little confused. "But doesn't he already know where it is? Did he say why?"

Glenn shrugged. "Said he was going scavenging again. But probably still looking for Sophia too. Guess that takes some time."

You tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. Of course, he went alone. Again.

Meanwhile, Glenn narrowed his eyes a little. "Why, are you still trying to go thank him for saving your life or for ruining it a bit more?"

"Wow. What a joke, Glenn. Maybe I just miss his charming personality," you snorted, rolling your eyes.

Maggie laughed, and Glenn wanted to answer, but your mind was already somewhere else, and your feet followed those thoughts soon after—back down the way to Dale's RV.

You stepped up into the RV with the intention of grabbing a weapon. Not a big one. Just something small enough to carry, big enough to keep you from getting attacked by a walker if you crossed paths with one. A pistol. A knife. Both.

But the second you turned and went back outside…

"Where do you think you're goin'?"

You froze. Shane was leaning up against the RV, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed just enough to let you know he'd been waiting and watching.

"Just walking around, looking, watching," you lied flatly.

He stared at you with a smirk, shaking his head. "Don't look like walkin'. Looks like you were grabbin' a gun."

"Maybe I wanted to do both," you grumbled. "Feels safer."

"What's goin' on?" Rick's voice stopped you from behind Shane, who still didn't move.

"My bet? She was about to head out on her own."

Rick frowned, stepping closer, looking at you like he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "Is that true?"

"I just wanted to check out that town Glenn and Maggie went to. That's all."

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're still not fully healed. You know how dangerous it is out there. Especially alone."

Shane was shaking his head. "What he said. Not happenin'. Not alone."

"It wasn't up for debate," you argued back. "And it still isn't up for debate. I can handle myself just fine."

"Well, now it is," Shane answered. "You're not goin'. Period."

And just like that, they were walking off, leaving you alone. But Lori showed up not even a minute later, carrying a basket and looking somewhat amused.

"Okay," she started. "What's going on this time?"

You let out a deep breath, staring at the spot where Rick and Shane just stood. "I wanted to go look for Daryl, but no, of course, the only two cops that are still alive around Atlanta stopped me from doing so."

She stopped mid-step, but without answering you, so you glanced at her. "What?"

But Lori just smiled. Not in a mean way—just a knowing one. "I'm sure he's fine," she said gently. "Come help me with the eggs, okay?"

"The chicken coop? Eggs? Really?"

"Yeah. Besides, you've got to keep your hands busy before you go out and annoy both Rick and Shane at once. Believe me, you don't want that."

You followed her, grumbling, "Not a bad idea, actually..."

"Oh, by the way," Lori added casually as you reached the coop. "Daryl actually called me Olive Oyl."

You turned your head in confusion as you crouched down. "Wait, what?"

She smirked, crouching down by one of the nests as well. "I called him selfish. He called me Olive Oyl. You figure out what that means…"

You stared at her, half confused, half in thought, and she just tossed you a couple of eggs like she wasn't just out here admitting something to you, but you weren't really sure what she meant.

Hours passed again.

Chickens were settled, dinner was halfway done, and, as always, everyone kept themselves as busy as possible.

You were wiping your hands on a towel near the porch of Hershel's farmhouse when Lori nudged you with her elbow. "Look," she said softly, nodding her head toward the tree line.

You turned. And there he was. Daryl. Finally.

He came walking out of the woods, a bag slung over one shoulder. No blood. No obvious injuries. No anger in his walk. Just calm and relaxed, like he hadn't just ghosted you the entire day. And without even looking over to the farmhouse or at the group, he walked straight to his tent and disappeared as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew that it would soon be late enough where no one would pay attention. No one would notice if you moved away during the night. And if Rick or Shane would notice? You somehow counted on Lori to have your back.

You caught sight of Daryl before you made it to him—sitting outside his tent with his back turned, searching through that bag he probably found in that small town nearby like he was checking it for something. And you could see how stiff his shoulders were, even from a distance.

Hesitating for a second, you then decided to walk over to him as quietly as you could manage in hopes of not scaring him off, your hands curled into fists like the pressure might help with the sudden nervousness you felt out of nowhere.

Being close enough after a while, you could see the fumbling of his fingers and the new bits of dirt beneath his nails. You reached out, one hand raised and your fingers stretched, just about to tap his shoulder—and the second your hand made contact?

Daryl moved fast. Too fast.

Before you could even yelp, he had you pushed on your back in the grass, one foot pressing down by your hip, the other leg straddling your thighs. His forearm came down hard near your neck, not on it, but close enough that you knew—if he'd wanted to hurt you, really hurt you, or even worse—he could've.

His other fist was in the air, ready to punch. And then he saw you. Stunned. Taken aback. Breathing hard and trying to cough beneath him.

Daryl's mouth fell open the second he realized it was you. Shock and horror were written all over his face, his eyes quickly looking around, as if unsure what part of your face they should focus on, and his fist dropped instantly.

"Shit! Shit! Fuck," he stammered, pulling back but not quite getting off you. "I ain't—fuck—I didn't know! I thought—hell, I ain't mean—shit! Shit!"

You reached up before he would freak out completely, both hands finding his face. Your thumbs slid along his cheekbones, and he flinched like you'd hit him. But you didn't say a word. You simply lifted yourself as best as possible and kissed his forehead like you'd done before—slow, soft, waiting for him to calm down. You felt the panic slip out of him in shaky breaths, his body relaxing against yours, until you pulled back and wrapped your arms around him.

Daryl didn't say anything. For quite a while, he simply let you hug him, his forehead dropping against your shoulder like he wasn't sure he deserved it.

Eventually, he crawled off you completely and helped you up, grumbling a bunch of apologies—and curses—as he did. You could barely make them out. He was red in the face, not just from embarrassment but from shame.

Brushing your palms off, you followed his eyes to the open bag beside his tent. Whatever was in there had fallen out in the heat of the moment—some canned food, a bottle of water, some medicine he'd found, a few hygiene things that looked suspiciously like they'd been taken from a women's section—and then, carefully folded underneath it all, was a dress.

Pink. With ribbons. Not over-the-top, but definitely... you. Your size. Your style.

"Well," you said with a smirk, stepping closer and crouching beside the bag. "What's this?"

Daryl went stiff. "I—ain't—look, I didn't mean nothin' by it," he answered fast, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he wanted to disappear into the ground. "Was just... y'know, ya still like all that stuff, an' I saw it hangin' there all clean-like, figured it'd maybe... I dunno... ya still like that kinda shit, right? Thought maybe ya'd... wear it. Or somethin'. Ain't mean nothin' by it, just saw it, figured it was dumb, but it made me think'a ya, and—fuck…"

"It's not stupid," you said, cutting him off gently, but he looked at you like he couldn't quite believe you meant it.

You picked up the dress carefully with your hands, held it against your chest, and spun a little around as if you were modeling for him. "You got the size right. And it's got some ribbons as well... You really have been paying attention, huh? To everything."

His head was so red by now you thought it might explode on the spot.

"I like it," you continued, more quietly this time, not wanting to push him too much. "A lot."

Daryl swallowed so hard it was almost audible, his eyes looking at the dress, then to your face, then immediately away again. "Y'do?"

You nodded.

"Yer so fuckin' weird," he responded, but it sounded like a joke. No anger behind it.

"Guess I am," you answered with a smirk. "And I guess you like weird girls who wear pink dresses and make you sleep like a baby when they hold you."

Daryl opened his mouth to argue for a second, then shut it again. Stepping toward him and sliding a hand into his hair, brushing through it gently, you watched how his eyes shut close at the contact. He was so touch-starved it somehow hurt to see.

"Ya, uh... ya gonna go back to yer tent now?"

You tilted your head in confusion at his sudden question. "Why? Do you want me to leave?"

Daryl shrugged a little, rubbing the back of his neck once more. "Just... Y'know. 'S gettin' cold and all."

"Daryl? It's warm. I won't freeze to death." Shaking your head, you held back a smile. "Are you asking me to stay?"

He huffed a breath and gave a helpless little nod of his head, not looking at you. "Yeah, yeah, right… But… Ain't askin'. Just… Would be okay if ya did, s'all."

Quickly taking a step back, you leaned down to put all the things that had fallen out of his bag back into it, picking it up and holding it out to him until he took it. Finding his other hand, you then put it into yours.

"I'll stay."

Daryl followed behind in silence as you slipped inside his tent without any hesitation, with him throwing the bag into one corner of the tent as fast as he could. Inside, it was dark, but not pitch black—the moon gave you just enough light to see everything—the sleeping bag, his gear, and the flannel shirt you'd given him that smelled like you, lying right next to where some improvised pillow was lying on the ground.

You turned toward him, still holding his big, calloused hand in yours. His fingers twitched like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to let go or tighten his grip.

"So," you said softly, smiling at him. "We sleeping or what?"

Daryl shrugged, his eyes switching from you to the sleeping bag like the situation was somehow too complicated for his brain to process. "Yeah," he grumbled, "guess so."

He sat down awkwardly first, then lay back, giving the sleeping bag a few rough pats like that was going to magically make it more comfortable. You crawled right beside Daryl and turned your back to him instinctively, expecting him to just sort of… get it.

But Daryl didn't move an inch.

Peeking over your shoulder, he just grunted at you, clearly ashamed and confused, but finally slid closer next to you. He lay on his side behind you, arms straight at his sides like he was getting ready for a casket instead of cuddles.

You waited. And waited…

Finally, you sighed and reached behind you, grabbing his wrist and putting his hand over your waist.

Daryl went rigid. Completely tensed up and unsure. So you laughed to yourself and wiggled back into him until his chest was pressed against your back and his big, strong arm rested across your stomach.

"Do you still not know how spooning works, Dixon?"

Still awkward. Still stiff.

"What, this?" He scoffed. "Ain't nothin' to it."

But his voice cracked just a little, and you could feel the hesitation in the way he touched you. Careful. Nervous, even. But you didn't push him. You just covered his hand with yours and rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

Daryl's breathing slowed eventually. You felt his nose against the back of your head, his fingers twitching now and then against your side, and soon, your body relaxed too, feeling his chest rising and falling behind your back.

You felt safe, stupidly so, when you dozed off like that. And it might've been an hour later when you felt it.

A little movement. Barely there, at first. Just the press of his hips rougher against you, and then again.

And again.

You blinked awake slowly, still a little bit sleepy. And then it hit you.

He was hard. Really hard. And he was—shit, he was humping you in his sleep.

Not fully. Not aggressively. But enough that you could feel the drag of his cock against your ass, big and hard, right through his pants, softly grinding, lazy and slow, as if he didn't even know he was doing it.

You smirked to yourself, eyes still half closed, not daring to move just yet.

Holy shit, that man was packing.

With your thighs clenching a little without even wanting them to do so, you didn't even need to see it to know. You could feel it. How thick he was. How the head of his cock pressed against you when he moved like he was grinding in a daze, with no idea you were wide awake by now.

You bit your lip at the realization of it all—Daryl Dixon, quietly, accidentally dry-humping you in his sleep as if he was desperate and didn't know how to ask for what he wanted.

Holding your breath, you tried not to giggle—because laughing would wake him up, and waking him up might ruin the moment. Or worse, embarrass the hell out of him. But shit, the way his hips rolled was so slow and lazy… His body was dreaming of something he'd never admit to wanting.

Another sigh left his lips. This one was more like a whimper. And that's when your thighs clenched for real. You pressed your lips together, closing your eyes. You couldn't help it. Couldn't stop your hand from drifting down to rest on his again. The one he still had on your waist.

Daryl's fingers twitched. He reacted. Shit, was he waking up?

"Mhm..." He mumbled. Not a word. Just a sound. And he moved again, a little more this time, his cock pressing harder against your ass, making your breath hitch.

The longer it went on, the hotter it got—him so unknowingly needy, and you, getting wet from the feel of it, every roll of his hips pressing that thick, aching cock against you like it just needed somewhere to go.

Daryl let out another soft sound behind you. Not a groan. Just a broken sigh that made you swallow hard and your pussy throb.

You could wake him up. You could turn around. You could grab his jaw, kiss him just like that, and show him what to do next. Or you could wait a few more seconds and see just how far that sleepy little grind of his was going to go.

And Daryl kept it going, his hips rocking ever so gently, pressing himself against your ass like he was in a different world entirely—a fantasy, a dream—where he got to have this. You. Where it was okay to want.

And oh, how he wanted you. You could also hear it by now, the way his breath hitched just a little more each time he moved. Louder. Another soft whimper barely made it past his lips. You wondered if he even knew he was making those little sounds and if he'd hate himself for them in the morning.

Shifting slowly, you let your thighs part just a little. Not enough to be obvious—just enough to feel him better. You let his hand go, moving back with your own until your fingertips brushed over the side of his thigh. He jerked, only a twitch, like his body felt the touch even if he wasn't awake yet.

Then, quietly, carefully, you rolled over to face him, feeling how his strong arm slipped off your waist. His brow was furrowed just a little, his lips parted, almost looking innocent. And maybe he really was.

Reaching up, you couldn't help but let your thumb touch his bottom lip softly, parting his mouth a little more.

And then, you kissed him. Only one deep kiss.

Poor Daryl had no idea. Or maybe he did and just couldn't help himself. But then you slid your tongue along his lips. That was the moment he stopped moving entirely, and you didn't have to look to know he was wide awake now.

Still, you froze for a second. So did Daryl.

Then he pulled back in an instant, realizing what kind of situation he was in. "Shit! I… fuck! What—?"

"I noticed," you whispered and gave him a loving smile in response. "And I simply kissed you in return."

He opened his mouth, like maybe he had something to say, maybe an apology, maybe an excuse, but you beat him to it. Crawling toward him, you quickly pushed him back down to keep him from escaping you, straddling him.

Daryl's face turned a shade of red you didn't think possible for a man who spent all day out in the sun. "I—I didn't know I was—fuck, I didn't mean nothin' by it! I wasn't…"

You caught one of his hands and wrapped your fingers around his. "It's okay," you said, your thumb stroking his knuckles gently. "Was kinda cute, actually."

He made a strangled noise like he couldn't decide whether to groan or storm out of his tent as fast as possible. "Cute?" He asked, clearly offended by the word.

"Yeah… You heard me," you answered, sliding your hand down between your bodies until your palm pressed against the hard outline of his cock.

Daryl didn't know what to say anymore, but he didn't stop you either.

So you kissed him again, with just enough pressure to make him gasp. You felt the way his mouth opened for you, the way he stopped breathing, so you let your hand continue to move against his cock ever so slowly, and when it moved over the thick tip of it, he choked out a sound that damn near made you moan in return.

"Jesus," he groaned, letting his head fall back with his eyes squeezed shut.

Taking the opportunity, you leaned forward and kissed his jaw and his neck, nipping gently at his skin.

He was already so fucking hard…

"Shit," he hissed through clenched teeth like the word had been ripped out of him.

"What?" You smiled against him. "You literally hump me in your sleep and then act like you don't want it when you're awake?"

He made another strangled sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan this time, his face turning deep red. "I wasn't—I didn't!"

Daryl's eyes looked into yours, wild and wide, and then lower, down your body.

"Yeah, you did," you smirked, pulling back a little, not wanting to overwhelm him. "You just didn't know I'd let you. Now..."

Making yourself comfortable to straddle him tighter, you pulled your shirt up and over your head, slow enough to make your point clear. His eyes never left your skin—staring at every inch like it was something new, something forbidden. Your bra came off next.

And Daryl looked like he forgot how to breathe. His jaw dropped, his tongue wetting his lips so fast he didn't even realize he was doing it, his eyes fixed on your tits like he was terrified to blink, and his hands twitched at his sides.

You tilted your head and grinned. "Are you going to touch or do you want to stare all night?"

Swallowing hard and not wanting to refuse, one hand came up trembling, like he was expecting you to slap it away, but then he stopped halfway.

"Daryl... I'm letting you. Just try and touch me."

That certainly helped. His fingers moved up your waist first, cautiously, like he needed to warm up to the idea. Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he brought his hand up to your chest.

And fuck, the look on his face… As if he'd never seen a naked woman in his life and wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or about to die from it.

Daryl's palm cupped one of your tits with doubt, but also hunger, like he wanted to devour them but was too scared he'd hurt you if he squeezed too hard.

He didn't even squeeze. He held.

But when you gasped—when your back arched a little more and your mouth dropped open in a silent moan—then he started to touch, kneading gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, where he didn't even realize what he was doing until you shivered from it.

His eyes looked up to yours, panic on his face, thinking maybe that noise meant he did it wrong.

Reassuring him, you shook your head, smiling gently. "That was good, baby. Don't stop."

Daryl didn't. He kept touching. You could see the way his jaw clenched, see the tense muscles in his neck, and feel the way his cock twitched hard beneath you in an attempt to hold himself back from thrusting up against you.

Leaning down, you let your tits rub across his chest up to his face, just enough to tease, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Daryl whimpered. He whimpered, the poor thing…

You could feel the tremble in his thighs now, his hand still clinging to your tit with a look that said he was afraid you'd change your mind. But his fingers tightened further, wanting to make himself believe that your sounds weren't even pity, but want. Real want.

"Do you want to come for me, Daryl?"

His hips bucked up without permission, and his breath hitched again at your words, all the while you kept your hand on him—pressing and sliding your palm over the bulge in his pants, feeling how hard he was, but still trying to hold himself together, which was getting harder with every second that passed.

"I, uh," he stuttered, almost too quiet to hear. His eyes went shut when your fingers squeezed just the tip of his cock through his pants out of nowhere. "F-fuck—don't… don't... PLEASE."

You bit back a grin. There it was.

His hips bucked up once again, just a little, trying to get you to touch him some more. It was obvious that his body didn't care that he had no real idea what he was doing—it wanted more of you.

Leaning in close, you let your tongue lick over his parted lips. "You sound like you're begging for it, you know..."

Daryl's eyes snapped open at your words.

Wide. Confused. Embarrassed.

You watched the realization hit him—watched him remember what sounds came out of his throat. His mouth was still open, attempting to take it back, maybe deny it—but nothing came out. Only another moan. By now, he was all whimpers and stutters and fuck-me eyes.

You laughed softly, rolling your hips against his thigh. "Didn't even realize, huh? You're just so damn worked up you don't know what you're saying anymore."

Tilting your head, you pressed another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before dragging your lips along his jaw. "You never had someone make you feel like this before, Daryl?"

"N-no…"

"Mhm," you smiled against his skin. "I didn't think so."

Daryl whimpered again, and you felt his cock twitch under your palm.

You leaned closer, letting your breath tickle his ear, whispering. "Does your dick get hard like this for just anybody, sweetheart?"

His head turned to the side with the expression of someone who was more than just ashamed.

"I'm gonna touch you for real, Daryl," you whispered, not moving your hand further for now. "And you're going to be good and let me. You're going to say ‘thank you,' too… like a sweet little boy who listens."

"I…"

"You what?"

"I… thanks," he stammered, hardly able to say it out loud.

"Good boy. All the while you're begging for it without even meaning to."

His hips jerked up again—uselessly on instinct—and he made the softest sound you'd ever listened to in your life. Was it a sob? You weren't sure with his fingers still on your tits and him looking too stunned to do anything.

"Oh, baby…" You smirked, pretending to be all sweet and kind while grinding down against his thigh. "You want it that bad?"

Daryl nodded. Just a tiny, helpless nod—but he meant it.

You sat back some more, sliding your hand from his cock up to the button of his pants, but didn't open it. Not now. Reaching up, you started to open the buttons of his own flannel shirt instead, one by one, only to kiss your way to the middle of his chest. One kiss. Then another. Then lower, sliding your lips and tongue down to his stomach.

He was panting now, his chest rising and falling wildly, his other hand twitching like he didn't know where to put it. "Please," he whispered. It slipped out quietly. But you heard it. Hell, you felt it.

"Please?" You asked, not stopping your trail of kisses down to the skin just above the waistband of his pants. "Please, what? Tell me."

"Dunno," he whimpered, almost desperate. "Just, just—don't leave."

You couldn't help but giggle at his words, kissing his skin just above his belly button. "Don't worry, Daryl. I won't leave, and believe me, I'll tell you what to do."

He blinked down at you, looking like he'd agree to anything if you just kept touching him like this.

As soon as you got off, kneeling down beside him, you grabbed his jaw. "Lay back onto the sleeping bag."

He obeyed immediately, lying down flat on his back and breathing like he'd run for miles, his eyes looking from your face to your tits and back again.

You straddled him again, slowly, getting comfortable like you had all the time in the world. "Wanna suck on my tits now?"

His mouth dropped open at your question. No sound came out. Just an overwhelmed, shaky cough. Suddenly cupping your own tit in your hand, you gave it a light squeeze, then brushed your thumb over your nipple, watching how Daryl's eyes followed the movement of your finger.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm letting you, Daryl," you whispered. "Come on. You can do that. Be a good boy for me and do as I say."

Daryl nodded slowly, pushing himself up on his elbows and thinking he might still be dreaming of a fantasy. A fantasy he's had since the first time he saw you at the quarry outside of Atlanta. But he already knew it back then… how you'd become his undoing.

You guided him gently, making yourself comfortable next to him now, and arched a little closer so he didn't have to reach far. He stared for one more second—just one—and then leaned in. Awkwardly so. His mouth was unsure at first, with quivering lips brushing over your nipple that didn't quite know what was allowed and what was not.

So you sighed and put your fingers into his hair, caressing the back of his head. "Open that pretty mouth, sweetheart."

Daryl obeyed. You brought your nipple to his mouth and watched him. Watched him take it in, his lips wrapping around it as if he was scared. "That's it," you whispered. "Suck."

He did. Carefully at first—then with more confidence when your hand returned to his hair, guiding him. His tongue flicked over your nipple, his lips sucking gently, then harder when he heard you moan. You felt the way his cock throbbed beneath your thigh, how he was still so hard it probably hurt—but he didn't ask for anything. Didn't even grind up to feel more. He just sucked. Sweet. Quietly. Needy.

"You're doing so good right now," you whispered, letting him take the other nipple into his mouth next, his tongue moving with more urgency now. "Look how well you listen."

Daryl whined again but never stopped. By the time you looked down at him again, his lips were shiny, and his cock was leaking so much precum that his pants were dark and soaked through a little.

But you let him continue to explore your tits as long as he wanted to—slow little licks, then sucking gently, then sucking harder when he was sure you liked it as much as he did. One of his hands came back up too, holding your tit, trying to memorize the feel of it while he kept going, switching sides when your hand in his hair pulled it a little.

And all the while, he kept making those noises. Not words. Just quiet, breathy sounds. Whimpers. Moans. Every now and then, a broken little 'fuck' or 'shit,' wanting to try and hide that he couldn't really handle it. Pulling back after a while, only enough to see his face, you smiled down at him.

Daryl only blinked at you, so you kissed his temple. "Do you realize how sweet you are? I bet I could make you come like this. Just from sucking on my tits."

That made his hips buck again. And the noise that came out of him? Practically a whine. You knew it now—knew Daryl. How desperate he was. How careful. And you could tell that he was already close. Only from this. The thought alone turned you on.

You couldn't help but press your knee between his legs to tease him a little and to feel it—that cock throbbing against you, for you, and still aching. Poor boy was losing it, and you hadn't even taken his pants off yet.

Reaching down slowly, you let your fingers tease the skin near the waistband, making him shiver. Daryl froze for a moment like he was trying not to run away. But he didn't stop you, even though he was still fighting with himself. You worked his button open, then, patiently, pulled the zipper down just enough to slip your hand into it. His breath hitched when you brushed over the front of his boxers. So warm. So hard. Fuck, he felt like steel, and he throbbed so wildly under your hand when you barely even touched him.

"You're so cute," you whispered, letting your lips kiss his jaw as your hand started moving over his cock. "So sweet…"

Daryl moaned—not even loud enough, really, making it sound like a broken whimper. He looked down between you with disbelief in his eyes. It was clear no one had ever touched him that way before. And he wasn't even able to concentrate on touching you as well when you teased him for a while through his boxers.

Long strokes. Nothing fast. And enough to keep him on edge.

Watching him being this close so easily felt almost unfair.

"Don't," he whined all of a sudden. "I—I can't!"

"You can, believe me," you hushed him softly, watching him hide his face out of embarrassment, but you could still hear every broken little noise that left him. Then you slid your hand down, right inside his boxers.

Trembling and barely able to hold himself together, he gave you a shocked gasp when your fingers wrapped around his cock. His body betrayed him, wanting more before his mind could even catch up.

"You poor thing." You said, kissing his neck. "I hope that didn't hurt?"

Daryl didn't answer. He couldn't. His hand had grabbed part of the sleeping bag, eyes shut tight when you started to move your hand—once. Just a pump. Twice. Again. Watching the way he reacted to every single one. He couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop gasping.

"Already this wet and leaking," you smirked, feeling the precum dripping down along his shaft. "It's quite impressive how much you're trying to be good."

"Please…" He then sobbed, and you looked up at him. That red face. Those quivering lips. His pleading eyes.

Oh, shit.

Your brain just kind of stopped working when your fingers wrapped harder around his cock at that sight. He felt so warm. So thick. And Daryl groaned—deep, broken, as if in actual pain—and his hips bucked up just barely. Lord... He really was desperate.

Slowly pumping his shaft with your hand moving up and down, you kept the pressure torturously gentle, making his abs clench every time you reached the base of his cock, his breath shuddering.

He was losing it, and his hand found your wrist suddenly, gripping—not to stop you, but to beg you without words.

You leaned down, lips brushing over his jaw. "What is it, baby? You wanna come for me?"

A strangled groan left him. He was too scared to say yes.

"You think I'll stop if you come too fast?"

Daryl didn't know if he should nod or shake his head at your words, and it turned into a mix of both. It looked almost pathetically wholesome how this strong man let himself go in a way you could've never even imagined. Especially not a few days ago.

"Good thing I want to see you come." And then, without warning, you changed your rhythm, pumping his cock harder now, faster.

"F-FUCK—m'sorry—I can't!" He moaned, louder this time. His back arched up off the sleeping bag, unable to control his body anymore, even though he wanted to.

Your other hand went to his hair again, stroking it gently. "Look at you. So cute. And I haven't even started riding you."

"I—I'll do anythin'! Just wanna come for ya… fuck! I'll be good!"

"Oh, I know you'll be good," you giggled. "But good boys wait. Good boys hold it back."

"Please," Daryl whimpered in response. "Please, please, please…"

You hushed him, cupping his cheek as he shook, letting it overwhelm him. Every twitch. Every breath. Every bit of feelings he didn't know how to handle.

"That's it, baby," you encouraged him. "Good boys come when they're told... Do it."

His whole body jerked and tensed up. A quiet, choked groan, a full-body tremble, and then a broken moan that ripped itself from his throat as he came—hard—right in your hand.

You felt Daryl's cum shoot into his boxers, his cock pulsing against your palm while he gasped for breath, hoping that maybe you wouldn't see how ashamed he was.

"N-no," he whimpered to himself. "I—I didn't wanna! Fuck!"

"You didn't want to?" You teased softly, licking your lips. "Seemed like your dick had other plans."

Daryl groaned again as he let himself fall back down onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face, totally embarrassed. He didn't even realize your hand was still inside his pants, but you felt him shiver beneath you, his cock still throbbing in your grip.

He was quiet. Not because he didn't have anything to say—but because he didn't know how to handle this situation. Even when his sticky cum in his pants had to be starting to feel awkward, he just lay there, soon with his hands over his face.

But eventually, you moved just a little and smiled, "Let me clean you up."

Daryl stiffened immediately. "Ya don't gotta—"

"No arguing. Be quiet. Give me something to clean you with. I want to. Now."

He flinched at that as if it hurt more than helped, but he obeyed, reaching for a cloth near him. You sat up gently and took it from him, just when he tried to push you back down—his hand on your body feeling so unsure, like he didn't even know how to ask you not to leave. But you just kissed his forehead.

"Just a few seconds, sweet boy. Then you can go back to hugging me."

It made Daryl grumble, but he let go. You pulled his pants and boxers down slowly, cleaning him up with care. Like taking care of him was just what you did. And Daryl watched in silence. Red in the face, lips parted, still breathing a little too fast.

He didn't say thank you. But his hand found your thigh, poking it to make you notice him. It was a nervous apology for coming too soon, for shaking too hard, and for needing too much.

Once you were done, you smiled and kissed his forehead again. Then you crawled back into his arms, and this time, you were facing each other. Daryl's hand trembled where it rested on your back. Not from exhaustion—though you knew he was exhausted—but from a little bit of fear. So you hugged him. Let him breathe. Let him come down for a while. And when he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

"Yer not… just doin' this 'cause—I dunno," He started. "Told ya… ya don't gotta pretend."

You tilted his face up, kissing the tip of his nose. "Daryl. Stop. Stop it right there."

Without saying anything, he put his head beneath your chin, one arm trying to pull you closer. You were still shirtless, and you felt the way his breath stuttered against your skin when his cheek pressed to your tits once more, but he didn't try to pull away this time. Didn't want you to cover up, either.

He just grumbled something into your skin, probably some curses, and you couldn't help but giggle. Another grumble. And his arm only held you tighter.

"You know… I know that you know that Maggie and Glenn went to the town not far from here, right? The pharmacy's still got a stash… I bet," you smirked, kissing his hair.

That made him lift his head just a little more. "What kinda stash?" He asked, confused.

"Oh, I dunno. Things a girl might need. Like... lip balm. Some body lotion. Maybe even condoms."

You ran your fingers through his hair again, and Daryl stared at you. Clearly shocked. His mouth opened, but he couldn't say anything, just like before.

"And if there are still some left," you added in a thoughtful voice, "maybe I'd put on that pink dress… Let you lay back. Let me climb on and ride you until I come."

Daryl whined. Honest-to-God whined and dropped his face back against your tits so fast it made you laugh. "Oh, you like that idea," you teased, stroking the back of his neck.

Without answering that question, he nuzzled deeper against your tits, praying that if he hid there long enough, the shame would go away. You stayed like this a little longer, just feeling the way his body stayed tense against yours, but Daryl feared that maybe if he moved again, he'd come a second time just from breathing the air you were breathing as well.

"Hey," you soon whispered into his hair.

A muffled grunt answered you.

"I've been thinking…"

Another grunt. Thinking was clearly dangerous right now.

"About that pink dress you got me," you smiled against his head, sliding your fingers up the back of his neck gently. He didn't say anything. But you could feel the answer.

Leaning back just enough to search for his gaze, you looked down at him. His eyes, still a little glassy, still wide and panicked, blinked up at you.

"Daryl," you continued, "do you want me to wear it for you?"

His mouth dropped open. Then shut it again. "I—I dunno…"

"You don't know?" You asked sweetly. "Or do you not want to say it out loud?"

He looked away fast, so you just giggled and cupped his cheek. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. But maybe…" You let your thumb slide slowly across his skin, making him shiver. "Maybe I should try it on right now."

His whole body tensed up immediately when you pulled away, trying to reach for the bag where the dress was still inside, along with the other things he'd scavenged.

"What? No... No, don't!" Daryl reached for your wrist, panicking, but his pants were still half-down his thighs, and he couldn't move worth shit. "Just wait! I didn't... I just—fuck!"

But you were already crawling to the other side of his tent as you reached for the bag to get your hands on that dress again.

"Don't," he still begged, sitting up halfway but unable to stop you. "Ain't—just… Just wear it t'morrow!"

You turned to look at him, though you were a little confused by his weird reaction. "I could wear it tomorrow, or I could just wear it right now. Where is the difference? Why are you freaking out about a dress?"

"I ain't freakin' out!" He snapped back, his voice rising, and yanked his boxers and pants completely down to get them off and to finally move. "Just don't—ain't no need for ya to wear it now!"

"Daryl, stop… I'm sorry, but," you laughed, grabbing the bag anyway, "now I have to wear it. Whether you like it or not. And I think you will like it. Calm down."

Daryl groaned and dropped back flat onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face. "Jesus...shit…"

You pulled the first couple of items out that you've seen before: the canned food, the bottle of water, the medicine, and other hygiene things that he probably got for you. But once you reached for the dress, your hand touched something else at the bottom of the bag.

Pulling it out slowly and turning it over in your hands, you had to blink several times in disbelief.

"...Daryl." He didn't answer, and you stared at the condoms in your hand. "Are these… what I think they are?"

He groaned once more and turned his head away from you, feeling how the shame was about to kill him. "I ain't—I wasn't—I just found ‘em!"

"Found them?" You responded, grinning by now. "And you just happened to put them safely into the bottom of your bag? For what, for emergencies?"

He grumbled something you couldn't make out, so you turned back and got closer to him, waving the condoms in front of his face on purpose. "Daryl Dixon," you whispered playfully, "you got these because of me."

"Nah. I didn't."

"You little liar," you smirked. "You didn't think I'd find out? Or were you just hopingyou'd need them in the future?"

"I didn't even think ya'd—" He sat up finally, his face red all over, and ran a hand through his hair. "I ain't even know if they're good; I just…"

Leaning in close, you reached down between you both, putting your hand on his thigh and feeling him shiver. "You've been dreaming about fucking me, haven't you, Daryl?"

His breath hitched.

"Don't worry, baby. I won't do anything… yet. But…" You leaned in to whisper right into his ear. "I love knowing that you thought about it."

Moving slowly, you gently pushed him back down by the chest until he lay flat again, with his eyes shut tight and parted lips.

"I should reward you," you continued, crawling onto him. "For being brave enough to even think about it."

Daryl's hands twitched at his sides as you straddled him, not right against his cock, but close enough.

"Undo my pants," you smiled, and he froze. "You heard me."

"I—I don't…" His voice cracked. "I never—"

"Doesn't matter," you promised, nuzzling his neck now. "All you gotta do is use your hands."

With shaky fingers, he actually reached for your waistband, but still, he looked at you once, pleading in confusion, and you gave him a nod. "Go on, baby. You can do that."

The button popped open under his fingers.

"Good boy," you praised softly. "Now the zipper."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. But he did it. Slowly. Carefully.

You moved your hips to help him, watching as he opened your pants, and when your panties peeked out beneath them, Daryl let out another shaky breath.

"Want me to take them off for you?" You asked, all gentle and sweet.

He nodded fast. Desperate. Unsure if he should've said no and shaken his head instead, especially since he didn't know what you'd say next.

"No… You do it."

"W-what?" He asked in shock, staring at you.

"You're the one who wants to see," you teased. "So go on, sweetheart. Take them off as well. Not just my pants."

He was breathing harder again now, his chest rising and falling fast, his hands shaking like he didn't dare to touch.

"Don't be scared. You won't hurt me. I promise."

Slowly, shakily, his hands slid to your waistband. With a quiet grunt and a whole lot of effort, he tugged them down your hips.

"I—" His voice cut off into another broken groan. He was getting hard again. You could feel it. Your position over his thighs was perfect, and that little bit of pressure was definitely waking up his cock.

"Shit… Please…" He begged, though he probably didn't even know what he was asking for.

But it didn't matter. You were going to give it to him anyway. Let him take off your panties. Let him see everything.

Out of nowhere, you stood up and got off of him slowly. He was still laid out on the sleeping bag, not wanting to move unless told to. Picking the pink dress back up from where you left it, you watched the way Daryl's eyes stayed on you while you played around with it.

"You want me to put this on for you, baby?" You asked, your voice sounding as sweet as sugar. "Me wearing this while I ride your dick like I promised?"

Daryl let out another groan and tried to hide his face behind his forearm.

"Oh no. Don't be shy now," you grinned, getting him to peek at you from under his arm in return, trying not to smile in embarrassment.

You held the dress up and slowly put it on, not pulling it all the way down just yet—only down to your hips, holding it there. You knew what you were doing, and so did he.

"You're thinking about it right now, aren't you? Me in this little thing… climbing on top of you, telling you how to fuck me? Or maybe I'd ride you with it bunched up around my waist, my tits out of the top for you to suck on like before…"

Daryl whimpered again with a visibly harder cock that wanted more, even if he wasn't sure he should.

Stepping further away from him, you pointed down at the end of his sleeping bag in front of you. "Crawl to me."

Daryl wasn't sure he'd heard you right and tilted his head.

"You heard me. Crawl. To. Me."

He opened his mouth to protest, but you looking at him like that stopped him before a word came out. Shame-faced and trembling, he started to move. And it wasn't exactly graceful. Daryl was awkward as hell trying to crawl with his cock hardening against his thigh, but he did it—hands on the ground, knees following as he moved closer, his face burning red the entire way.

Reaching down, you grabbed his jaw to make him look at you. "Good boy," you praised him with a smile. "Do you really want me to wear this dress when I ride you? Tell me."

"Y-yeah," he nodded shakily.

You smirked, letting out a relaxed sigh. "You really wanna be inside me while I'm wearing it, huh?" Another whimper. A twitch from his cock below. "But you know what you have to do first, don't you?"

Daryl swallowed, looking away from you. "N-no?"

You grinned a little and slid your other hand into the waistband of your panties but didn't pull them down. "You still need to take these off for me. But not with your hands."

He stared at you again, lips parted, a confused expression on his face. "Huh?"

"With your mouth, Daryl," you answered dryly, biting your tongue after those words left you.

His eyes widened. "With… with my—my…"

"Use your teeth," you continued sweetly, letting go of his jaw. "I'm not using my hands. And neither are you. Go on."

Daryl stared at what was in front of him, right at your panties, swallowing hard. And you? You just stepped a little closer. Close enough that your thighs were almost touching his face. "Do it, Dixon."

He stopped, but then you felt his breath on your skin as he leaned in, trembling. With his mouth open, he slowly caught the edge of the waistband between his lips, his nose pressing against your lower stomach. You gasped softly as the warmth of his breath hit your skin, his teeth barely biting into the fabric as he pulled at it. It took everything in you not to moan at how careful he was.

Working your panties down awkwardly slow, Daryl was clearly unsure if he was doing it right. But you just sighed calmly and stroked his hair, praising him further. "That's it. You're doing so good. Keep going, sweetheart."

He grunted, pulling them further down inch by inch, kissing your skin accidentally between his pulls, his stubble brushing your inner thigh—and by the time they slipped past your hips, his nose was buried close enough to your pussy that you felt his shaky breath there.

"That's good, baby. Now pull them all the way down."

Daryl obeyed. His teeth pulled them lower until your panties dropped to your ankles, and you stepped out of them, one foot at a time. You bent to pick them up, but not before giving him a full view of your pussy. Though you didn't have to ask—his eyes were already staring, wide and stunned.

"Gonna let me ride your dick with nothing but this pretty little dress on?" You asked once more to get his attention back, running your fingers over your thigh.

No answer.

You looked down at his cock; by now it was already leaking.

"Now, look at that," you smirked. "I think you liked that more than you want to admit."

Daryl simply nodded, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch you, to taste, but was too scared to do so.

"Can you wait for me?" You asked, wanting to calm him down softly. "Can you stay good a little longer?"

He nodded when you leaned down, giving him another kiss on the mouth, slow and soft, before you took a few steps toward the bag, grabbing one of the condoms. Daryl was still kneeling, his eyes looking from your fingers to your face, trying to commit the whole moment to memory in case it was just a fever dream in the end, even after everything that has happened so far.

"Lie back down."

Crouching down after you said those words and helping Daryl with pushing him onto his back again, you suddenly moved to press a kiss to the tip of his cock—just a quick one—and he almost sobbed. You then crawled up into his lap, straddling him, your pussy just above it, not touching it yet.

"Arms over your head," you said next, watching as he obeyed without any words.

Stretching them and holding one wrist with one of his hands made his biceps flex instantly, while he himself was looking all helpless beneath you.

That was the moment you were the one almost losing your mind—just because of him.

You hadn't expected how immensely strong he looked laid out like that. The second his arms flexed, you stopped breathing. No, you hadn't expected it at all. You'd known he was strong, sure—years of hunting, tracking, and surviving life—but seeing it? Your mouth went dry.

"Goddamn…" You stammered before you could stop yourself, blushing slightly.

Meanwhile, Daryl looked at you kind of confused, not understanding what was wrong. "What?"

"N-nothing," you answered quickly, hoping he wasn't able to notice the effect he had on you. "Just… stay still. Eyes on me."

He obeyed again. Good boy. Too good. So good that you had to let out a deep, long breath. And he saw it. But you caught yourself quickly, pressing your thighs a little together to hold back the trembling building between them, your knees pushing against either side of his hips.

"Don't move," you whispered. "Not a muscle."

Leaning back ever so slightly and spreading your legs wide enough to show off everything, you then slid your hand down the dress. "You will stay quiet and watch me," you explained to him. "That's all you're allowed to do for now."

You slid your fingers down over your belly, past the edge of the dress, and let your touch slip between your thighs, making your breath hitch, and his too. Daryl's hips twitched slightly, but he still didn't move his arms. He just bit his lower lip, which was trembling a bit now. But you kept your movements slow. One finger was sliding between your pussy folds, parting them. Then two fingers, spreading them wider and teasing yourself, rubbing them softly over your clit while you moaned—just for him.

Daryl groaned in return, and you pushed your fingers deeper, pressing inside enough to feel how wet you were before pulling them out and bringing them back to your mouth. You sucked one finger clean—still watching him—and his body shivered, his fists clenching where they lay above his head.

"Poor baby," you teased him on purpose. "You're trying so hard, aren't you?"

Daryl nodded desperately. No words, just him nodding, wanting you to save him from himself. Then, he did something again that made you stop.

Only one thing.

One tiny, unplanned, accidental thing.

Something he'd done since you'd woken him from grinding and humping against your ass in his sleep. It was him looking at you. But not at your tits, not at your pussy, but at your face. Daryl looked up at you with those goddamn blue eyes, as if he was already in love with you and wanting you to notice that this wasn't only about lust—it was all about you, you, you.

"God… f-fuck… Daryl," you whispered with a shaky voice.

Immediately grabbing for the condom next to you, you quickly bit at the edge of it, fast, tearing the package open with your teeth. Daryl's eyes went wide in confusion as you held the torn wrapper between your teeth, letting him see it there while you stared him down, lips parted around the piece you bit off, before spitting it away to the side.

Taking out the condom and throwing the rest of the package away, you moved lower over his body until your face was right above his cock. You watched Daryl flinch, his legs tensing as you reached out, gently wrapping your fingers around his shaft. He hissed through his teeth, whimpering at the feeling of your touch.

"Hush now," you whispered and began pumping him slowly, with just your fingertips at first. He throbbed in your hand, his head dropping back against the sleeping bag as you worked him up.

Still keeping your eyes looking at his, you leaned down toward his cock and pressed your lips to the tip, making it leak even harder, but you did manage to hold him still.

Smirking at him next, you brought the condom to your face instead, putting the ring of it carefully between your lips, and used only your mouth to roll it down over his shaft, inch by inch, holding his shaft steady with one hand. It took effort. But you managed it. When the condom finally slid all the way down, you pulled back, leaning over him again and letting your tits press against his chest.

Daryl moaned quietly, so you just kissed him again—really kissed him.

Not like before. This time, you kissed him roughly, letting your tongue slide into his mouth. He gasped and shivered under you, his tongue all clumsy but wanting more, his body shaking all over.

"Look at you," you whispered against his jaw when you pulled back. "Lying there and just waiting for me to fuck you."

Daryl swallowed hard at your words. Then you moved, sitting upright on his thighs and moving forward until your pussy pressed to the length of his cock, still not letting him inside, just grinding yourself down along the shaft.

The warmth of his cock, the shape… Shit, it felt good.

"F-fuck," Daryl breathed out when you rocked forward again, sliding up slowly, notching the tip ever so slightly against your clit before grinding back down.

"Shit—please—fuck."

You laughed as a response, short and sweet, and reached up to grab one of the straps of the dress, letting it slip slowly off your shoulder. It slid down, giving him another chance to look at your tits again.

"Wanna suck?" You asked him, and he nodded helplessly, staring up at you with an overwhelmed expression.

Leaning back down, you offered it to him. His mouth found your tit instantly, his lips sucking on your nipple while you kept grinding down along his cock. You could feel how close he was again, his cock throbbing with every little movement.

"God," you moaned. "You make me feel so good, Daryl..."

He whimpered against your skin, sucking harder at your nipple, until you straightened up, letting it slip from his mouth, only to reach down and grip his cock, guiding the tip right where you wanted it to be next.

That first moment—simply letting the tip of his cock push against your soaked pussy—was almost too much. Even through the condom, you felt everything. The thickness. The throbbing of it. The sheer size of him.

Jesus Christ. He really was big.

Then, slowly, so goddamn slowly, you sank down onto him. The tip of his cock pushed into you with such a deep, thick stretch, it made you both moan—louder and longer, but not too loud. And you took your time. Letting inch after inch of his cock fill you up until he was completely inside, your ass pressing down onto his lap.

"Holy… holy shit," you breathed out, half-laughing, half-groaning, your hands now on his chest to steady yourself as you rocked your hips forward, letting yourself feel him pulsing inside. "Daryl, you're—fuck…"

Looking down at him, Daryl choked on another moan, but still, he didn't look. That wouldn't do.

"Look at me, baby."

He shook his head, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Don't wanna fuck it up," he sobbed in return. Your heart damn near broke at that, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you reached out to caress his cheek.

"You're not doing anything wrong. You're doing good. Now open those eyes and look at me."

His eyes opened slowly, almost afraid, but when he looked up at you, they seemed to relax.

And shit, there was that same look on his face again, giving away that he'd never seen anything so unreal in his life. You, in that pink dress, breathing hard, your tits bouncing just slightly as you ground your pussy on his cock, your eyes looking into his like you owned him. Like this moment, this man—was yours.

"There we go," you whispered. "Keep your eyes on me."

And then you lifted yourself just a bit, leaving only the tip of his cock inside of you before you sank back down.

Your mouth dropped open as he slid in again, inch by aching inch, and all you could do was to start riding him faster—and you meant it—your hips rolling, your ass slapping against his thighs. And the more you moved, the harder it was to stay calm. Especially when you looked at his reactions.

"Keep looking," you reminded him with a breathless voice.

Daryl tried; he really did. But his eyes looked down, then back to your face with another loud groan. His hips pushed up once, involuntarily, and you whimpered at the sudden, deep, rough thrust.

"Oh, fuck! Y-you like watching it go in, don't you?"

Daryl bit his lip and nodded, but then looked back at your face as if it was the most important part of you.

Smiling, you began to move faster again, your rhythm picking up, riding him harder now, which had both of you gasping, cursing, and trembling. Your soaked pussy was taking him again and again, his cock filling you so perfectly, stretching you with every movement, so deep you could barely concentrate.

And you loved it. Loved how shy he looked while his cock was buried inside you, loved how he watched you so insecurely, not wanting to hurt you.

Your hands moved to your tits, pulling out the other one, squeezing them right in front of him, and pinching your nipples as you bounced on his cock. That got you a grunt—and a broken, whispered, "Goddamn..."

Now he was really watching.

"Yeah… just like that," you breathed. "That's it, baby. Watch me."

He moaned again, his mouth open now, totally lost.

And you were getting close. You could feel it—the way your clit ground down against him just right, the muscles of your thighs aching from the effort of riding him. But you didn't stop. You could feel him fighting it, staying still beneath you, letting you use him just like you'd promised. But then he bucked again. Out of nowhere, his hips thrust up once more.

"Oh God—fuck!" You nearly screamed, your whole body tensing up as the thick tip of his cock slammed as deep into you as it possibly could.

Your hands searched for his shoulders as you struggled to hold on, and Daryl instantly panicked. "Shit—I—I didn't mean to!"

Not wanting to answer him, one of your hands grabbed for his wrists, holding them down roughly.

"Don't move," you hissed, but your voice cracked, sounding more like begging than an actual command he'd have to follow.

Daryl's biceps flexed, though he didn't resist as you leaned down, kissing him at first, only to bite him next, right on the muscles of one arm. Your lips left a bruise, your teeth a mark, and still you didn't stop moving, your pussy continuing to clench around his cock.

You couldn't even talk anymore. All the words were gone. All you had left were the noises you made. Breathy, broken moans. Shaky, little whimpers every time his cock filled you up completely. Soft, short gasps that escaped between kisses to his arms, his neck, his shoulder—anywhere you could reach his body with your mouth, but without ever letting go of his wrists.

"Fuck, fuck…" Daryl was groaning beneath you, ragged and fast, his muscles twitching under your grip.

He was trying his hardest to hold back, knowing it would be beyond any kind of hope if he let his body continue to respond to your every little touch.

You felt drunk on it. Wild. Overstimulated and insatiable all at once. Then it hit you, that deep feeling inside that told you that your orgasm was coming fast, and you barely managed to choke out the warning.

"S-shit! I'm about to—"

You had to slow down. With shaking hands, you let go of his wrists, putting your palms on his thighs instead, and leaned back—arching your body and trying to keep calm. It was right there… right there.

"Hold me," you then gasped. "Now. Please."

Daryl obeyed. His hands quickly moved to your hips, trembling and sweaty, but still as strong as always. And as soon as he gripped you, it slowed down everything. You didn't exactly know if time had stopped, but it sure felt like it. Just long enough to see him.

"Look at me," you whispered. He already was, and you knew that, but you felt the need to convince yourself that he wouldn't look away.

"I don't want to come without you… I want to come with you. With."

You weren't sure if you were begging or controlling anymore—maybe it was both. Maybe that's what desperation looked like on you: shaking, wet, aching, and stretched full with him, your voice almost nothing but that one plea.

With.

Daryl's fingers tightened just a little on your hips, but he didn't answer. His mouth opened in hopes to answer, to say anything, and to give you everything in return, but nothing came out except a long, needy moan that turned into a needy, broken sound as you rolled your hips slower, with Daryl feeling himself twitch inside you.

"Please," you said again, but this time it was quieter. You were so close it almost hurt—it was just too much—but you waited. You held it back with every bit of strength you had left. Simply to make sure.

Daryl looked done, even scared to let it happen. "'M tryin'…"

His voice broke off, and you nearly screamed. Everything inside you tensed up. "Come with me, Daryl, come on… Touch me."

His hands finally grabbed your ass hard, pushing you down onto his cock, and his hips bucked up into you, uncontrolled now, losing himself. Then it hit you both at once.

You cried out but didn't care. Couldn't hold back the sob as you came hard on his cock, taking your breath away, your everything. Daryl came the same second. You felt it. The way he shook. The way he groaned with his lips trembling and eyes squeezed shut as his cock pulsed hard inside you.

As soon as it was over, you leaned forward, your forehead touching his, kissing him softly several times in a row. And for a while, neither of you moved. Nothing but the sound of panting. Of hearts trying to calm down. And Daryl… poor Daryl looked like he wasn't sure he'd survived it.

"Still with me, sweetheart?"

He didn't answer at first but nodded. His voice, when it came, was sounding kind of hoarse and unsure.

"Y-yeah… I… goddamn..." He trailed off, burying his face in your neck, without being able to stop himself from remembering something. Something he'd already been trying to push away, probably the moment it happened.

"Ya bit me," he then whispered, his voice quiet like he was trying not to draw attention to it. "‘S'pose that was on purpose?"

Looking back at him, you raised an eyebrow, smiling knowingly. Not teasing in a way that might confuse him. Just amused. And maybe still a little… hungry.

"What, you didn't like it?"

Daryl looked away instantly. "N-no, I, uh, I didn't say that. I just—" He swallowed loudly. "Was kinda… surprised, I guess."

"Surprised?" You repeated, moving your hand across his chest and further until it stopped above the spot on his biceps that you'd bitten. Biting your bottom lip, you then grinned at Daryl as if you were about to devour him all over again. "I simply told you to keep still."

"But I did…"

Your smile turned into a tiny smirk. "Then maybe I was simply proud of you."

Daryl didn't know what to do with that answer. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked like a man who'd never been praised for anything except maybe not dying. "Flex your arms for me..."

"What?"

You pulled back just far enough to look right into his eyes again, your hand not leaving one of his strong arms. "I told you to flex for me. Be a good boy and flex your arms again. Come on, show me."

Daryl closed his eyes and still hesitated. Really hesitated. His brows were furrowed in thought, checking if you were messing with him. Knowing that his first instinct was to run away from being seen again, you continued to wait patiently until he breathed out slowly through his nose and obeyed. The muscles under your touch tensed, feeling ever so strong and still trembling a little from everything you'd done to him before.

Hell, he had no idea what that did to you.

You immediately leaned down and dragged your mouth along his bicep, soft at first, just a teasing little kiss. Then your tongue came out, licking along it until he shuddered, before your lips were pressed to the mark you'd left earlier, sucking a little harder this time.

"Shit," Daryl whispered. "What're ya doin'…"

But he didn't stop you.

"I'm making sure you know," you said quietly, pulling back again, "that you didn't imagine this."

He didn't answer, but his eyes looked at his arm to where your lips had just been, then back up to your face, unable to believe it. As if all of this—your mouth, your voice, your gentleness—was too much to understand. And that was when you could feel how something changed. It wasn't even noticeable at first. The way his hands twitched and then went still. The way he stopped looking at you, even though your face was still so close to his.

"Hey, hey," you whispered softly. "Daryl, are you okay?"

His jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened further beneath you, making him uncomfortable. "…Yeah."

"Did I hurt you?" You sat up a little, carefully, and that's when he hissed again.

"N-no," he answered with a strained voice, not really convincing you.

"Okay, okay, wait," you whispered, slowly lifting yourself off him, trying to be gentle, but he winced again, his eyes squeezing shut as his cock slipped out. He turned his face to the side, biting down on his tongue, wishing it would help, since he didn't want you to hear him make another pitiful sound.

Once you slipped off him, you instinctively reached down to take care of the condom. Kneeling between his legs, your fingers cautiously slipped it off, tying it together and tossing it aside without saying anything, trying to keep things quiet.

But Daryl was trembling again by now. He was lying there with his face turned away, seemingly chewing on the inside of his cheek with his teeth. His hands were curled into fists on either side of him, his arms all stiff, not knowing what to do with them anymore.

Daryl only then realized that you'd pulled off him. Not because you weren't on him anymore, riding him. No, you weren't with him anymore. That was when his thoughts started screaming. That this was over. That you got what you wanted, and now you'd realize what an asshole he was underneath it all. He hated how much he wanted to pull you back down. Onto his lap. Onto his cock. Onto him. Just to feel safe again. Just to feel needed. But he didn't say a word. Didn't even breathe right.

Reaching out to caress his chest, you were caught off guard the second your fingertips touched him, his arm shooting out, grabbing your wrist.

You gasped, and Daryl realized what he was doing too late. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly let go. You pulled back a little from the shock of it, holding your wrist, and the expression on his face?

He looked like someone had just hit him. "Fuck, 'm sorry! This ain't—"

"Hey, it's okay," you cut him off fast, holding up your hands, even though your heart was still racing a little bit. "It's okay, Daryl. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm okay."

But you weren't sure he heard you when he sat up. His face was turning pale now, his hands shaking as he slid them through his hair, back and forth, over and over again. He was grumbling something—probably to himself—but you couldn't make it out.

"Stupid… stupid fuckin'—goddamn—shouldn't've…"

"Daryl," you said softly, still kneeling in front of him, but he didn't look at you. His eyes were somewhere else, far away.

"I fuckin' touched ya like that," he finally whispered. "Grabbed ya."

"Yeah, and then you let go," you said gently, but your voice was shaking now too, but not because of any pain he thought he'd caused. "Daryl, you didn't hurt me."

Then you realized he wasn't breathing right. Short, shallow gasps, like he was trying not to cry or scream or vomit. Or maybe all three.

"I ain't like that," he whispered. "I ain't—I ain't him!"

You didn't know who 'him' was, but your heart sank at the sound of it. Some memory, or so it seemed. Some long-buried monster, maybe.

Daryl looked at you once again. But there was no man in front of you. He looked like before—just a boy. A boy who never got held after someone hurt him. A boy who was taught that love was dangerous and wanting love made you weak. A boy who'd never been looked at like he was wanted, let alone loved, and now that he'd let you see all of him—let you use him, take him, and especially care for him—it was too much. And now the shame was devouring him from the inside out.

"I fuckin' spat on ya," he then remembered. "Treated ya like shit. Told ya that ya were nothin' but some fuckin'… useless dumbass…"

"Daryl—"

"Ya should hate me," he simply continued, louder this time. "Ya should. Ya should hate me, ya should leave, shit, ya should go!"

He moved to get up, but his knees wouldn't let him the second he stood. His legs gave out, and you caught him in time, your arms wrapping around him as he leaned against you, trembling harder.

"Daryl, hey… hey," you quickly said, holding him up, or trying to as best as you could. "I'm here. Listen to me… I won't leave. I won't."

Pressing his face into your shoulder, he didn't answer you and went silent. Breathing hard. Twitching a little in your arms like he was cold. Or scared. Or both. You sat down slowly, pulling him with you, holding him in your arms, sensing that he didn't know how to hold himself up anymore. You didn't do anything else for a while. You only held him.

Eventually, you felt one little, wet drop hit your naked chest. Then another.

And you said nothing, but Daryl had gone quiet now, with his forehead pressed against your collarbone. Eventually, he tried to put one of his arms around your waist, and the twitching of his muscles definitely wasn't the good kind. They twitched way too fast for someone who wasn't really moving.

As soon as you moved slightly away from him, he sobbed in shock, thinking you would really just leave.

"Easy, baby. Just grabbing something for you."

Daryl's eyes followed you, wide and glassy, unsure if he should stop you or not, so you gave him a tiny smile—just enough to convince him you weren't going anywhere for real. Then you crouched by the corner of his tent, searching through the clothing you left on the ground. His pants, your panties, his boxers, your bra, and your shirt were all tangled together, looking through it until you found what you were searching for.

The flannel shirt you gave him. You picked it up and brought it back over to where he was still half-sitting, dazed and shivering.

"Arms up," you whispered, remembering how you'd told him those same two words before.

But Daryl only sobbed.

"Come on now," you said gently, watching how he moved awkwardly and unsure. "Only the shirt."

You slipped the sleeves on, one at a time, then buttoned the middle lazily. Not all the way. Just enough so it wouldn't slip off his shoulders if he moved again.

Then you leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Lie down."

He did. Not all the way at first, but once he did, you lay down next to him, pulling the edges of the sleeping bag slightly over both of you, hugging him close until his leg rested over your hip, your hand on his chest, and his forehead against your temple.

You thought maybe Daryl would fall asleep like that. But his breath stuttered.

And the next sob came out of him so suddenly, so harsh, it didn't even sound like crying. It sounded like a choke. Like his body was wanting to push away the pain and couldn't keep it in.

Daryl then grabbed onto you like he was scared, and you could barely keep him still. Even with both arms around his shoulders, his sobs cracked, and he stuttered every time he tried to apologize, repeating it over and over as if it were the only words left in his throat.

"…'M sorry. 'M sorry. 'M sorry…"

"I know," you whispered and kissed his cheek. "I know. I know."

It went on for a while. You lost track of how long. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been thirty. But you didn't care. Eventually, Daryl's crying stopped. He was still trembling, but not violently. His hands relaxed around you, though they didn't let go.

"Daryl?" A hum was the only answer you got. "Can I ask you something?"

This time, he didn't answer with a hum. Just a slight nod, the tiniest one, like it was all he could manage.

"I wanted to know," you started softly. "When you came out of the woods and went up to the RV…" You waited, wanting to see if he remembered what you meant or if he would simply brush it off.

"Just gave Carol a damn flower..."

You nodded and smiled. Not a big smile. Not the kind that told him he did something wrong or something right. It was a quiet, understanding little smile, as if saying, I understand.

But once Daryl realized you weren't answering him, he looked up at you like he couldn't figure out why you weren't mad. Or confused. Or disgusted. Or whatever he thought he deserved. His hand then came up fast, moving in a way that wasn't really familiar for him, with his fingertips brushing against your lower lip once while looking at your mouth. And for a second, it really did feel like the world had gone normal again. As if all that crying and shame and panic never existed.

For you, it seemed Daryl just needed to remind himself that you were real. That your mouth hadn't cursed him out in secret, hadn't spat in his face like he used to do to you. That you were still kind. Still looking at him like he wasn't just white trash.

You then kissed the tip of his finger gently. That was all it took to undo him again. His eyes got wet instantly, and the little shaky breath he took like he was trying not to cry again—it hurt you. Moving closer, your nose bumped against his, one of your hands moving to caress his cheek with the back of it. His skin was still a little sweaty, and he swiped under his eye, even though the tears hadn't fallen again yet.

"You don't have to look at me like that," you whispered.

His voice cracked. "Like what?"

"Like you expect me to leave for good."

Daryl looked at your arm then, the one with the healing injury where you'd sliced it open, the one he thought he was guilty of, in shame and silence. He looked so tired. So tired from thinking that he was the one that almost killed you.

"I don't know what you told Carol," you then continued gently, brushing your nose along his cheek. "But you got her that rose for a reason, right?"

He swallowed once but didn't answer.

"She's not me," you whispered with a smile. "And I'm not her. But I understand."

That got him. He wasn't sure if he should move, if he should do what his twitching hands wanted to do right now. To hold you in his arms as well.

So you reached down and took one of his hands in yours and brought it to your chest. Laid it flat right over your heart. "I know the story," you continued. "The history of the Cherokee roses."

Daryl's lips were parting slightly, but he was nodding in silence.

"That flower only grew when their women cried. Their tears watered it. And when it bloomed, it protected them. It gave them strength. So they were able to keep going. So they could protect again as well."

"Yeah..."

You smiled when Daryl finally spoke, but still, you wanted to remain careful. "It's kinda like... it's a promise."

He tilted his head, still looking unsure.

"Like… no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much shit is in the way," you said, sliding your finger lightly over his chest through the flannel shirt, "there's this rose that grows. It's the courage to keep going, the strength to protect what matters. It sounds familiar, don't you think? Thinking it's invisible... but still holding on. Still here."

"But I hurt ya…" He answered and immediately buried his face in your neck, reaching for your waist so hard that it almost bruised, but not from aggression. Just panic and instinct.

"You didn't mean to. You were scared. You still are."

You looked Daryl straight in the eye so he wouldn't flinch too far away. His lip trembled. Then he did it anyway, apologizing again.

Sighing softly, you pulled his arm a bit tighter around you, letting him feel how warm you still were, how unbothered, how there.

"You're not a bad man, Daryl," you smiled. "But you're a man who got too used to losing."

He didn't answer but held you again, this time much more gently. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, then stopping like he was still afraid he'd fuck it up. But you just cuddled close and let him.

For once in his whole life, someone was feeling warm, safe, and simply there, and it was him getting to keep it. And for the first time since the world ended, Daryl Dixon let himself fall asleep with someone in his arms—with no fear, no distance, no shame, and no guilt.

Just with you.

And he slept like he knew you'd still be there come morning.

𝑻𝒂𝒈-𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕: @cokeangell

[simjakesgirl]

drive in (18+)

synopsis: you and jake haven't seen each other for a while and decide to go see a drive in movie... warnings: afab reader, smut, dom!jake, brattamer!jake (sortaa??), sub!reader, degrading author's note: okay i haven't forgot abt my series but i am multi fandom and while digging through my drafts i found this old jake smut and it's kinda good lol..

you and jake went out to see a drive in movie, unsure of the last time you guys might’ve went on a date. you can guess the outcome of that, you were dying to just touch each other. jake, being a gentleman, tried his best not to go insane when you left the house in the tiniest skirt he'd ever seen. of course he also couldn’t tell you not to wear it because it was him that bought it for you. you knew exactly what you were doing though. it barely covered enough for his liking and you knew that it would drive him crazy. with so much comeback preparations, the only thing you got was phone calls when he was too fucked to even think straight and he needed to hear your voice.

it became obvious that you guys needed more as you both could barely pay attention to the movie. you noticed how jake would look over once in a while, not at your face of course and then quickly turn back to the movie with no focus on it whatsoever. his mind raced with things he wanted to do to you instead, but his restraint was strong. you couldn't help but look over at him too, taking in the way his jaw was tightly clenched and his hands fidgeted with each other. he looked too good and knowing that he wanted you just as bad as you wanted him was enough to tip you over the edge.

you then got the best idea possibly ever. you quickly checked your surroundings as jake’s eyes stayed glued to the movie. everyone seemed preoccupied, just enough for you to get away with your plan. jake drove a pretty old car, not because it was all he could afford or anything, but because he liked the style of it. the downside was the air system was pretty busted. it would only really work when it felt like working and jake constantly worried about overheating the car especially in summer, so he'd try and run the ac when it did work. you realized since you guys left that jake forgot your blanket that you'd use when he ran the ac since you preferred warmer temps. the plan was destined to work.

you began to fake shiver in your seat, rubbing against your arms and chattering your teeth just enough to make it look real. jake quickly took notice, shutting off the ac and turning to check the backseat.

“fuck,” he breathed out. you almost stop breathing at the sound.

he turned back to you, examining the way you shivered and looked up to him innocently.

“i forgot the blanket, i'm sorry,” he apologized sweetly, biting his lip while trying to think of a way to help you.

“it’s okay, jakey,” you pouted, trying to seem as innocent as possible even though your plan was far from it.

“here.” he removed his hands from his lap, gesturing you over with his fingers. “sit on my lap.”

you hid your smile the best that you could, climbing over the center console and sitting between his legs so you were facing the movie. he innocently kissed the top of your head before pulling you gently into his chest for comfort. you were inches away from what you needed, except you were unsure how to get the point across. he brought his hands to your legs, rubbing them to warm you up, but stopping inches away from where you needed him the most. you shifted around, purposefully rubbing against his dick a little bit to give him a hint. his breath hitched, but he didn’t do anything further, making you pout. you tried again, making it more obvious.

“here,” he lifted you up onto his thigh, putting his hand loosely around your waist so you couldn’t fall. “is that better?”

“..mhm” you hummed, lightly grinding yourself against him, fighting for release.

at this point jake knew what you were up to, but he didn’t want you to think it would be so easy. he’d let you continue and then stop you once you were close by moving his leg. tears began to bore at your eyes as your multiple attempt failed. you didn’t know why he couldn’t notice you needed him.

“why're you pouting like that, sweetheart?” he teased, turning back to the screen.

“jakey please.” you breathed out, your tears falling from your eyes at that point.

“what’s wrong, hm?” he started, his voice laced with fake comfort. “you wanna cum?”

you nodded quickly, looking at him with glossy eyes as he looked down on you with dark ones.

“tell me what you want.” he demanded, finding himself getting hard at your quivering lip and teary eyes.

he turned you around effortlessly, your back now facing the movie. you looked down, shy all of a sudden and buried your face in the crook of his neck.

“i..i want you to fuck me jake…please.” you pleaded, just above a whisper.

“yeah?” you could hear the smirk in his voice. “that’s why you wore this little skirt to tease me and rubbed yourself against my dick like a whore? hm?”

you nodded, your face still buried in embarrassment.

“if you want it, you’re gonna speak to me like a big girl,” he said, bringing his hands to your arms and pushing you away from his neck.

you diverted your gaze, playing with the bottom of his shirt innocently, too shy to look at him. his hand quickly left your arm, holding your chin and pushing it up so you had to look at him.

“tell me then,” jake started again as if he was disciplining you.

his eyes locked with yours, making you shiver under his touch.

“i…i wanted to tease you,” you admitted, your cheeks getting hot under his gaze. “m’ sorry, please forgive me.”

your eyes welled up with tears and the pressure from trying to hold them back had you sucking in your breath.

“baby, i know you’re sorry,” he fake consoled you, rubbing his thumb against your bottom lip. “but you know how hard you made things for me?”

“yes,” you choked out, tears soaking your face from how bad you felt.

he stuck his thumb into your mouth, rubbing against the soft padding of your tongue.

“then tell me you’ll be good girl,” he demanded, his eyes flitting back up to yours.

he removed his thumb from your mouth, still holding your chin.

“i’m a g-good girl,” you repeated, just above a whisper.

“you can do better, do it again,” he demanded.

“i-i’m a g-good girl.” you repeated, louder but strained from your crying.

“stop crying, do it again.”

you whimpered, biting down on your bottom lip to try and calm down, but the frustration only made you want to cry more.

“please, jake, i’m a good girl.” you repeated once again, gripping the bottom of his shirt to put your frustration somewhere.

he reached down, unhooking your hands from his shirt to unzip his jeans. he pushed through his boxers to free his cock and you almost drooled at the sight, especially the way he ran his hand over it to jerk himself just a bit.

“you think you’re a good enough girl for it?” he questioned, his voice husky and strained.

you nodded quickly, looking up at him for a split second to meet his dark stare.

"you want it?” he asked.

you nodded again, trying to grab it, but jake grabbed your wrist tightly.

“nuh-uh, you want it, then you gotta beg me for it.”

you whined again, feeling yourself wanting to cry. your core was aching painfully, just wanting to be touched, but you couldn’t do anything about it. you pouted, trying to lightly grind yourself just barely against jake’s leg to ease the pain and clear your mind, but his hands came to your waist, holding you with such a grip, you couldn’t move.

“you really are a whore,” jake degraded, “can’t even spend two seconds without touching yourself. you see how pathetic that is?”

“jakey, please, i can’t think straight. i want it so bad, it hurts, please give it to me. please, daddy.” you babbled, not even registering half of the things you were saying.

“it hurts, baby? is that right?”

you nodded, taking shallow breaths to control your emotion. his cock visibly jumped, not that you noticed at all. you weren’t noticing much of anything at that moment. he knew it was past enough teasing for you, but now also for him.

“fuck,” he breathed out. “lay back for me.”

you laid back against the wheel as jake pulled your legs closer to him so he could see under the skirt. right away there was a dark wet patch against your underwear and his jeans. he pulled them off to the side, you now on display for him. he ran his fingers up your folds, noticing how sensitive you were from the slightest touch. you couldn’t help but moan when he touched you since you’d been waiting so long. he stuck two of his fingers in, watching your face as he slowly fucked them in and out. you wanted him to go faster, but you knew better than to provoke him at that moment. at least he was giving you something. he waited until you climaxed to even think about himself, his restraint wavering towards the end as he guided you through your high.

he spit on his dick, jerking with it before lining himself up. you looked at him with lidded eyes, almost too drunk on feelings to even keep them open.

“fuck,” he breathed out while he pushed himself in.

you moaned lightly, trying to keep quiet before anyone got suspicious, but jake didn’t seem to care. the way he had you, if anyone looked over they'd know exactly what was happening. slowly you forgot to care too, the way jake felt was just too good after so long without him in you.

“kiss me,” you strained out to him.

he pulled you towards him, kissing you and swallowing your sounds as they came. you tried your best to slowly ride him so the car didn't shake so much, but eventually jake got tired of it and took things into his own hands.

“feel good?” he asked through heavy breaths.

“yes, it feels so so good jakey.” you whined, feeling close already.

he took notice, bringing his thumb to your clit to bring you to your high. you tried to hold back, not wanting the moment to end just yet, but the sensation was too much.

"stop fighting it. be good and cum for me, sweetheart."

and that was all it took. before you knew it you were cumming all over his cock and he was pulling you off.

“wait, what about you?” you asked as he was still visibly hard.

“you know i can’t help but feel bad for you, baby, but it doesn’t mean that you can get away with anything. we still have to go home,” he explained, covering you up once again before himself “i didn’t even punish you yet.”

he gestured for you to sit back in the passenger seat and next thing you knew, he was pulling out of the lot...

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

riding his waves

a/n : love and deepspace | rafayel smut | oneshot | mature and explicit | MDNI — not for kids | rafayel x femreader | read at your own risk | story masterlist : love and deepspace

The soft, cool sand was a stark contrast to the angry churn of the sea that had tossed you both like rag dolls just hours before. Now, only a gentle lapping sound broke the stillness, the waves themselves seeming to whisper apologies under the vast, moonlit sky.

You shivered, pulling the damp fabric of your clothes tighter, and glanced at Rafayel beside you. His usually vibrant purple hair was slick with seawater, clinging to his face, but his eyes, bluish-pink and iridescent even in the dim light, held a quiet intensity as he stared out at the ocean.

"Crazy night, huh?" you murmured, a half-laugh escaping your lips, still tasting of salt and adrenaline.

He turned to you then, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips, his gaze calm as he assessed you.

"Looks like we made it out relatively unscathed," he commented, his voice a low, smooth cadence that could calm any storm. He leaned back slightly on his hands, his posture relaxed despite the recent ordeal. "Not exactly how I pictured a beach trip, but... interesting."

"You too," you responded, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the fading chill. Stranded on this isolated shore, under a sky ablaze with stars, felt strangely intimate. The usual playful banter and his often teasing demeanor had fallen away, replaced by a shared vulnerability that felt strangely comfortable.

You found yourselves talking, the conversation flowing easily between the ebb and flow of the quiet waves. He listened with an attentiveness that was rare, his eyes never leaving yours as you spoke of little things, then bigger ones, until a long-buried secret found its way to your tongue.

"You know," you began, tracing patterns in the sand with your finger, feeling a sudden rush of shyness. "I have these dreams sometimes. They're always the same, or variations of it."

You hesitated, feeling a blush creep up your neck. "I'm deep in the sea, surrounded by glowing plankton, and there's... a silhouette. A beautiful, powerful figure, definitely male, with a tail. A merman."

You paused, a wistful sigh escaping. "I can never quite make out his face, just the strong, graceful outline."

Rafayel was silent, his gaze fixed on you, unblinkingly. The usual playful glint in his bluish-pink eyes was replaced by a profound, almost ancient knowing. There was a depth in his stare you hadn't seen before, an understanding that made your heart skip. When you finished, he finally shifted, turning his body slightly more towards the sea, but his attention remained acutely on you.

"There's an old legend," he said, his voice softer than usual, imbued with a strange, melancholic echo. His gaze seemed to unfocus for a moment, as if seeing something beyond the visible horizon.

"They say a long, long time ago, a powerful sea god was tricked. Trapped and chained in the deepest abysses of the ocean, waiting." He paused, and you could feel the weight of his words, even though you didn't quite grasp their full meaning. "Waiting for his bride to find him, to break the curse."

You tilted your head, a faint, incredulous smile touching your lips. "A god? Needing a bride to save him? What kind of god is that?" You meant it as a lighthearted joke, a way to lighten the sudden seriousness of his tone, which was so unlike his usual easygoing self.

Rafayel turned his head slowly, his profile illuminated by the moon, making the sharp line of his jaw and the curve of his lips seem impossibly perfect. His gaze drifted over the vast expanse of the now-gentle sea, the same waters that had raged so fiercely earlier. A profound sadness seemed to settle over his features, a shadow you had never witnessed before, a silent lament woven into the moonlight.

"They say," he continued, his voice barely a whisper, carried on the soft sea breeze, "that the sea god needed his heart. And his heart... his heart was with his bride."

The words hung in the air, imbued with such a longing, such an age-old sorrow, that your breath caught. It wasn't just a story; it felt like a confession, a distant, aching memory.

You found yourself leaning in, captivated by the raw emotion that briefly flickered in his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw. The legend, intertwined with your dreams, began to weave a strange, unsettling tapestry in your mind, pulling you deeper into a mystery you couldn't quite comprehend.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the melancholic facade vanished. He blinked, a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head, and his signature chill, playful vibe snapped back into place like a well-practiced illusion.

He gave a soft, almost dismissive chuckle. "Yeah, something like that. Just an old story." He shrugged, his gaze now casual as he looked at the waves, though you caught the briefest flicker of something guarded, a quick retreat behind his usual easygoing mask.

You nodded slowly, still half-lost in the story, before you finally registered the proximity. You were sitting incredibly close, your knees almost brushing, the warmth emanating from him a comforting presence in the cool night. And as you shifted, your eyes met his.

The playfulness was gone. His gaze was no longer distant or casual; it was intensely focused, locked onto your lips. The soft moonlight painted them in silver, and you felt a sudden, inexplicable heat spread through you, a slow burn that mirrored the moon's glow on the water.

The silence stretched, charged with an unspoken desire, deep and consuming. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that mimicked the gentle lapping of the waves.

He leaned in, slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent question in their depths. There was no demand, only a profound, quiet longing. You didn't pull away.

Your breath hitched, your gaze fixed on his, and you leaned in too, meeting him halfway. The first touch of his lips was soft, hesitant, a feather-light brush, then it deepened, becoming possessive, seeking, yet infused with an unspoken tenderness. The salt of the sea was on his skin, a taste that mingled with the sweet, intoxicating flavor of his kiss.

"Rafayel," you breathed against his lips, the question a whisper, "what... what are we doing?"

He responded by deepening the kiss further, his other hand sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you impossibly closer. His lips moved expertly against yours, coaxing, demanding, tasting. The kiss grew more urgent, a frantic dance of desire as his tongue sought yours, eliciting a soft moan that vibrated deep in your chest.

His fingers, cool initially from the dampness, began to roam, tracing the curve of your spine, then dipping lower, deftly finding the hem of your damp shirt. A shiver, not of cold but of intense pleasure, ran through you as he slowly, tantalizingly, began to pull the fabric away from your skin. In turn, your own hands, fueled by an undeniable hunger, fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, eager to shed the damp layers that separated you. The soft moonlight bore witness as fabric was discarded, revealing glimpses of warm skin beneath.

He broke the kiss for a moment, pulling back just enough to press his lips against the sensitive skin of your neck, leaving a trail of searing heat.

"Sharing body heat," he murmured against your collarbone, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent goosebumps across your skin. "It's cold out here, isn't it?" The playful nonchalance was back, but the underlying intensity was unmistakable.

"You could have easily reignited the bonfire," you managed, your voice breathless, your fingers now grappling with the last button on his shirt, his warm skin a delicious revelation as you finally pulled it open.

He gave a low grunt, a sound of pure male satisfaction as his shirt joined your own on the sand. He then pulled you completely onto his lap, your bare legs tangling with his, your chest now pressed flush against the smooth, firm expanse of his, the warmth radiating from him an intoxicating furnace.

"This is more effective," he rasped, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you so close there was no space left between you.

He pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, his bluish-pink gaze intense and unwavering under the moonlight. His thumb stroked gently along your jawline.

"Should we continue?" he asked, his voice low, a silent question that held immense weight. There was no demand, only a clear invitation, a tender request for your permission.

Your heart throbbed, a wild drumbeat against his chest. Your breath hitched, and you simply nodded, unable to form words, your eyes locked with his. The quiet acceptance in your gaze was all the answer he needed.

Then, his mouth crashed onto yours, a sudden, hungry plunge that consumed your every thought. His tongue, no longer merely seeking, now dominated, intertwining with yours in a passionate dance that left you dizzy and breathless. You could taste him fully now, the lingering salt from the sea mixed with the intoxicating flavor of his desire.

His hands, no longer just roaming, were swift and purposeful, discarding the last remnants of your clothes, cool air momentarily caressing your bare skin before his warm, knowing touch returned.

His fingers splayed across your flesh, stroking, cupping, exploring, eliciting gasps that were swallowed by his fervent kisses. A thrill, sharp and exhilarating, shot through you at the thought of being so utterly exposed, so intimately vulnerable beneath the vast, open sky, where anyone could stumble upon you.

But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came, drowned in the overwhelming tide of sensations, leaving not a care in the world.

He shifted, aligning the tip of his hard cock against your throbbing, wet entrance. A breathless moment of anticipation, then he moved, slowly, sheathing himself within you, stretching you, filling you with his size.

You gasped, a sharp intake of breath, a delicious ache blooming deep inside.

Your forehead fell onto his shoulder, the soft curve of your neck exposed, your nails digging gently into the taut muscles of his back. He began to move, a steady, rhythmic pace that built with each powerful thrust.

The silence of the beach was now filled only by the ragged sound of your combined panting, the rhythmic whisper of skin colliding, and his low grunts and growls vibrating against your ear.

"Rafayel," you uttered, a raw, desperate prayer torn from your throat with each movement, begging for him to do more, to take you deeper into the intoxicating oblivion he offered.

He answered your plea by abandoning your mouth, his lips descending to capture one of your nipples, drawing it in with a hungry suckling motion that sent a jolt of pure fire through your veins. He covered it with his tongue, then teeth, pulling, nipping, as he continued to drive his cock inside your pussy.

Each thrust found that exquisite spot, making your toes curl, a delicious torment that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

Just as the waves of sensation threatened to consume you entirely, his voice, a low, husky command, reached your ear. "Look at me," he whispered, breaking contact from your breast to gaze into your eyes, his bluish-pink irises blazing with an intense, raw desire.

And you did. As the first wave of climax seized you, you met his gaze, clinging to his arms for dear life, riding the overwhelming sensation, your vision blurring with pleasure.

But Rafayel did not stop. He used the very force of your release, the sudden clenching around him, to drive even harder, deeper, hitting that very same spot. Wave after wave of intense sensation crashed over you, making you lose yourself completely in the oversensitivity, until you climaxed for the nth time, each one more intense than the last.

Only then did Rafayel slowed down, his powerful thrusts becoming languid, a gentle rocking motion. He pulled your naked body fully against his, pressing you flush, as if this rhythm, this slow dance, was his way of memorizing every curve, every gasp, every scent of you.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his warm breath ghosting over your skin. He continued that intimate rhythm, a soft, hypnotic sway, until gradually, it began to quicken, becoming faster, then frantic. You felt the raw power building in him, knew he was close.

"Milk me dry, beautiful," he rasped against your ear, his voice strained with impending release, a final, fervent request.

And you did. With a final surge of strength, you rode him, milking his cock dry, until with a shared, desperate cry, you both came together, a violent, beautiful explosion under the moonlit sky.

You remained that way for a long moment, collapsed against each other, the only sounds the pounding of your hearts and the gentle lapping of the waves. Basking in each other's embrace, you savored the shared ecstasy, the profound intimacy of the moment. Rafayel's chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your ear, his ragged pants gradually evening out.

He stirred, pulling back just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then your jaw, before nuzzling into your neck once more. "Next time," he murmured, his voice a low, satisfied rumble against your skin, a playful edge returning to his tone, "it'll be in a proper bed. Where I can fuck you into my mattress without the sand."

[syndrossi]

Okay, look, I said no more AUs until I post Resonant ch37 but in the stress of waiting/prepping for tomorrow's + Friday's interviews, I decided I could write a little comfort AU as a treat.

Here's a little piece of what I'm calling "Reignite AU," which is a mash-up of Restoration AU (Rhaella lives) + Regret AU...

x~x~x

“Why did you bring him here?” Rhaella asked sharply.

The man currently resting on the bed within the guest chamber of their Braavosi home was still pale from blood loss, though the wound in his thigh had been stitched and bandaged. It was not his condition that alarmed her, however. Rather, it was his very appearance.

He looks like kin. Like Aerys in some ways, before the nightmares at Duskendale had caused him to abandon personal grooming altogether. Younger, however. Late in his twenties, if she had to estimate. Not much older than Rhaegar would be now, had he lived, and the more she stared at the man, the more she could see her dead son as well.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Ser Willem said, the title accompanied even now, three years since she had been forced to fake her death and flee with her children to Essos, with a grimace of apology.

She had not been “my queen” for some time. For anyone to guess that she was more than the children’s beloved nurse, just another loyalist who had gone into exile with Ser Willem, was far too dangerous. Targaryen children alone were no threat to Robert Baratheon, for all that he had purportedly cheered the murders of her good-daughter and grandchildren. Targaryen children with their mother, the queen, however…

“There is more,” the knight continued, and once she tore her gaze from the familiar-unfamiliar man before her, she could see that he was unsettled. “A great deal more.”

He pulled the blankets up, and Rhaella shot to her feet with a gasp. Curled beside the unconscious man was a tiny red shape that raised its head to regard her with golden eyes narrowed with wariness. It shifted its wings, removing all doubt that it was anything but what it appeared.

“A dragon,” she whispered.

Dragons had been dead for centuries, and Summerhall had near swallowed her family whole when they had tried to return them to the world. Dozens died that day, and the only dragon who drew breath was my son.

Yearning gripped her, and she extended a hand toward the tiny hatchling. Its neck was long, almost snake-like, and its snout came to meet her outstretched fingers partway, its tongue flitting out to taste them briefly. It then shifted even closer to the man. Its rider, Rhaella corrected herself, though the term seemed ridiculous with the creature so small.

“I did not even mark the presence of the beasts at first,” Ser Willem said. “His knight was wandering the streets, invoking the name of your royal house in search of aid for his lord and his lord’s children.”

“Children?” Rhaella asked, startled.

She had heard the sound of giggles emerging from Dany’s nursery, but she had assumed it was merely her daughter engaged in play, either with her dolls or one of the servants. The rest of the knight’s words trickled into her awareness then. Beasts?

Rhaella hurried out of the chamber and threw open the door to the nursery. Within was her daughter, her eyes bright with merriment as she ran from two young children who could not be more than two years of age, while two more tiny hatchlings circled them in the air, as though themselves at play.

They paused their game, turning to Rhaella as one, and Dany’s face broke into an even bigger smile. “Mama!” she called, barreling into her skirts to envelop her legs in a hug.

The other two children stared at her, their own mirth turning to sorrow within moments. And although they were creatures of legend, it was not the young dragons who stole her gaze.

Rhaella could not tear her eyes from the light-haired child, whose hair shone the same silver-blond as her eldest son’s. His eyes, a purple just as dark, filled with tears as he stared back. He looks like my Rhaegar.

“Muña?” the toddler called out, his voice wobbling.

“Yes,” Rhaella gasped, unable to help herself. She dropped to her knees, and he ran into her arms sobbing. She kissed his hair, heart aching with memories of years long past. Beyond, the other child continued to watch her, his gaze warier.

They look the same age. Twins?

The other babe had dark hair, not unlike her sweet granddaughter’s, though without her streak of silver. His eyes were not purple, but rather a deep, solemn grey, and yet he too looked as though he could be hers.

“What is your name, my dear?” she asked softly, holding her hand out to beckon him in.

The toddler approached cautiously, halting just out of arm’s reach. “Baelon.”

Baelon. One of her family’s given names. “May I hug you, Baelon?”

He nodded after a lengthy pause, and she gathered him into her chest, her arms now full of children. Baelon accepted a kiss to the cheek, and she kissed his brother again. “And what is your name?”

“Rhaegar,” he said.

Years as Aerys’s prisoner-wife had sharpened her control to the finest of points, but still Rhaella struggled to choke back a sob. She smiled serenely instead, her heart fragile as glass within her chest as it continued to pound.

He is my son. She knew that she had not birthed these children, and yet she was equally sure of who he was. The gods have returned my son to me. And perhaps, in little Baelon, one of her sons who had died in the cradle. Or even one of my grandchildren.

“I want my kepa,” Baelon mumbled into her dress.

“He is resting,” she said. “But you may see him if you are quiet.”

That mollified him, granting her time to recover from her daze to look upon their little dragons at last. They were of a size with the red one. One was a deep blue that glinted silver all throughout under the sunlight, and by the way it was hovering near Rhaegar, she guessed it to be his. The other was keeping its distance, a striking black with patches of bronze along its chest and the inside of its wings.

“This is Qelebrys,” Rhaegar said, noting her shift in focus with a sharpness that was just as much her son’s. “She’s my dragon.”

“She is beautiful,” Rhaella said. Even the poetry of her name invoked her own Rhaegar. “What is your dragon’s name, Baelon?”

“He’s Shadow!” Baelon chirped, head turning to his dragon. “And that’s Ser Willam!”

Rhaella had entirely missed the man standing watch in the corner of the nursery, near-blending with the shadows. He marked her attention with a respectful bow, and she caught sight of a long blade sheathed at his side. She swallowed her alarm, resolving to have words with Ser Willem—that would grow confusing quite quickly—about allowing armed men into the house without speaking to her first.

“Ser Willam…?” she asked pointedly.

“Ser Willam of House Royce,” the knight said.

That did not ease her tension. The Vale had been Robert’s greatest ally, and Aerys had murdered Lord Royce’s son, Kyle. Yet he is in the service of a man who looks like one of my house.

“Who is the boys’ father?” she asked.

The knight’s frown held a mistrust near equal to her own. “Prince Daemon.”

Daemon— “Blackfyre?”

The knight shook his head. “He wields Dark Sister, my lady.” That was not what she had asked, and they shared a look of confusion. “May I have your name?”

Her impulse was to lie, as she had been lying for the past three years to protect herself and her children. Viserys and Dany could be of House Targaryen. She could only be Lady Rhea. But they have dragons.

Tiny dragons, yes. But dragons would grow.

And he has my son.

“Rhaella Targaryen,” she said. She saw no need to bother with meaningless stylings when her family’s throne belonged to another.

The knight bowed once more. “I would see to my prince, if my lady would permit.”

She recognized her own tension in him, and became aware of Baelon’s hopeful gaze once more. “Of course.” She smiled at the children. “Shall we go visit your father?”

x~x~x

Shoutout to @textbookchoices for suggesting this particular twist on a "Rhaella lives" Restoration AU.

[narcjsistx]

the rhythm, the notes, the lights. everything is frighteningly perfect, starting from the perfect time, ending with the fact that the concert is practically over. the screaming crowd is just the proof of how much the sleepless nights made sense, how much this job makes you feel alive even if it exhausts you. in your entire career, this is probably the most important moment, the one where you know you have to shine

the rush of adrenaline that runs through your veins makes you almost forget what you're about to do, unbeknownst to anyone. you want to do it, you have to do it, because you know that otherwise you will lose him completely. the more the guitar melody pushes towards the end, the more you think about what you're about to do, how your gesture could improve or ruin everything you have worked so hard to build

but you're in love, and you know he's too

you turn to him: RIN ITOSHI is focused, precise, no movement is casual. he plays as if his life depends on how he makes the notes come out of his electric guitar, with an anger mixed with adrenaline and the argument you had a little while ago. it sounds like he has to prove something to you for the last time, because he also knows that tonight will decide what your future will be: whether you will continue the fake relationship with the singer of his band or actually tell the world that you love the guitarist of the blue lock. he knows full well that, by the end of this evening and this concert, he will know whether his girlfriend of 1 year has chosen him or fame

your heart beats faster than the speakers that are still playing. your hands sweat, your throat tightens, the microphone between your fingers almost becomes even heavier. you need a very big deep breath, almost as if to find courage in your lungs, because the song is practically over and the audience is waiting for the icing on the cake: the kiss between you and the singer. the crowd erupts as the song ends, as you slowly approach the singer who is already smiling at you, even though he is the first to know that this is all fake

anxiety does not disappear, but it transforms: it becomes energy, adrenaline, truth. you advance briskly, the audience slowly seeming to become one voice. you look at the singer, accustomed to the stares, the attention, the farce that has been going on for far too long. he thinks he's the reason you're there. but that's not the case, because behind him, just outside the cone of light, there's the real reason you're approaching: your real boyfriend, the one who plays like he's only talking to you. he's playing as if nothing could disturb him, until his eyes meet yours: it's just an instant, but enough to make him miss a note. his gaze becomes tense, almost an impossible emotion for a phenomenon like him

"are you sure?"

he leans down, while i cup his face "more than sure" you say, and the microphone on the side of your cheek makes the words echo in the big arena. without saying anything else you take his hand and guide it to your side, to your waist, as if he hadn't already done it hundreds of times. RIN ITOSHI lowers the guitar almost instinctively, as if nothing matters anymore in that moment. the singer, behind him, throws a look full of everything: confusion, annoyance, maybe jealousy, but he doesn't even see it, too busy holding you before kissing you in front of thousands of people. a kiss that doesn't ask the audience's permission, nor apologizes to the stage

you feel the taste of anxiety mixing with relief, your heartbeat quickening as the crowd slowly erupts into another big scream. he kisses with hunger, anger, with all the desperation of those who have waited too long to finally give in

it's a kiss that seems to say: finally.

[munsonify]

rough edges

pairing. eddie munson x fem!reader

summary. a charming bookworm finds herself tangled up with the town freak, eddie munson

content warnings. kissing, eddie being a little shit (affectionate), eddie calling you beautiful and pretty, alludes to sex

word count. 838

disney princess collection

it was an odd sight, really.

loud, outgoing, shameless eddie seemed like the type of person who’d go for someone just like him. bubbly, talkative, someone with an edge to them. so, seeing him with you, hand in hand with him, steady walking down the school hallways, it was a little off putting.

you were nice, personable, a bit quiet. you focused on your education, something eddie figured he should pick up on. there was always a book secure in your hands, something that occupied your time. he liked a good book, though it was always fantasy. you? you read any book you could get your hand on. sci-fi, nonfiction, romance. he’s caught you red-handed reading unthinkable things, things that he used against you. he teases you endlessly for it, a soft sort of jab you knew to never take to heart. the big smooch he gives you afterwards proves that to you.

eddie saw the way people gave you two judgmental glances. he was sure you noticed, too, there was no way you didn’t. it never seemed to bother you. none of it mattered to you, not when you were as happy as you were with him. they could stare all they wanted. you were the one content with your life, not them.

you felt the way eddie’s gentle grip moved from your hip to your hand, fingers interlocking gently as he begins guiding you away from the path to your class. you noticed the way people glanced at you as he tugged you away, simply smiling, your focus solely on him. he pulled you out the back of the school, taking ahold of your bag and your book as you gawk at him.

“eddie we have class,” you told him in almost a whine, eyes shimmering up at him as he continues to drag you towards his van.

“well, sweetheart, i don’t really wanna go,” eddie told you, grip on your hand tightening slightly. “you don’t actually wanna sit through chemistry class, do you?”

you watched as he opens the back of his van, hand still in yours while he gently tosses your belongings inside. the moment he shuts the doors, he turns to you, tugging your body to his. with his hand in yours and his other bracing the side of your face, eddie kisses you long and soft, pink lips slotted between yours.

it was a little difficult for you to catch your breath after he’d released the kiss, especially with the way his fingers moved against your face, gently brushing strands of hair away from your face and behind your ear. with a small, exasperated sigh, you shake your head at him. “i do when i have an exam. which, by the way, is tomorrow.”

“i know it is,” eddie told you in a whisper, eyes half-lidded and gazing into yours lovingly, faces still inches apart. “but you’ve been studying all week. you’ll live without the review. i, however, cannot live without having some alone time with you.”

he began to tug you towards the passenger side of his van with intentions of driving you away from the school for the day. you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at him, a small smile on your lips. “you’re so dramatic, eds. you’ve made it this long just fine.”

“barely!” he proclaimed, opening the door for you. before he helped you in, eddie brought your hand up to his neck, pressing right against his pulse point for dramatic affect. “see? i’m dyin’ here, baby!”

you give him a quick kiss on the cheek, letting him assist you up into his van while giggles erupt from your chest. his pulse was fine, eddie’s heart was beating steady, and he was absolutely still breathing. you, however, let him keep up his theatrics. it was endearing. besides, you had been studying a lot recently, and you missed your boy incredibly much. you might as well let him drag you off for a much needed date.

“if only they could see you now, baby,” eddie told you, starting up his van the moment he hops into the driver’s seat. “sitting in my van all pretty, letting me take you on a date. it’s a beautiful sight, truly.”

it was an even more beautiful sight later that night. you were wrapped up in eddie’s sheets, one of his t-shirts covering your bare body, tiredness from how he’d just had you taking over you. you were sound asleep next to him, one of his arms wrapped protectively around your body as he flips through a fantasy book he’d been so close to finishing. he caught himself staring at you though, suddenly enamored with the thought of you.

eddie wondered how he got this lucky. how he managed to get someone as kindhearted and quiet as you are. he was grateful that he did, though, thanking whatever higher power granted him something this special. it was like you were made to soften up his rough edges, to make them more manageable.

[elene78-blog]

I don't think Jeremy is going to relapse into drugs in TBC. And to be honest, I don't think he'll have a car accident like many people say (I think there's already too much to tell without adding a car accident), buuuut… If he did, it could lead to something interesting.

Hear me out.

Jeremy wakes up in pieces in the hospital (it would be crazy to start with that parallel with Jean).

And well, Jeremy has broken several bones, has a severe concussion, and is in a neck brace from whiplash, but the first thing he asks when he can string two words together is if the person he crashed into is okay.

That person is okay. And Jeremy didn't crash because he fell asleep. The other guy was drunk/high, and Jeremy, exhausted as he was, didn't have quick enough reflexes to avoid him (another parallel to what Jeremy could have been like if he'd gone down that road, the person who crashed the car into him).

Jeremy faces a long recovery, at least two months, although he'll be able to return at the start of the season, and it doesn't look like he'll have any after-effects that would prevent him from playing. He'll just have to be careful with his rehabilitation.

The problem is the painkillers.

Jeremy is very nervous, because of course, they gave him them so he wouldn't suffer too much when he woke up and could rest, but Jeremy refuses to take any more. When Rhemann arrives, Jeremy is a nervous wreck.

"They gave me painkillers, Coach. I can't take any more."

"Jeremy, you're going to be in a lot of pain. This is understandable."

"No, no. Please don't force me."

Rhemann doesn't know what to do. Jeremy hears Jean's deep, shrill voice on the other side of the door, and he comes in, almost pushing past the nurse, with Laila equally in pain. Jeremy must be in terrible shape, because Laila and Jean immediately turn pale.

Jeremy continues to refuse to take any more painkillers. Laila tells him that's crazy, and the doctor tells him he'll be in a lot of pain without painkillers and won't be able to rest properly.

"Ibuprofen. I'll take Ibuprofen. Nothing stronger than that," Jeremy declares.

Laila and Cat, who arrives shortly after, tell him they'll monitor him to make sure he doesn't relapse, but Jeremy looks at Jean when he's tired of arguing. Laila and those closest to him may prioritize his well-being over his tacit consent, but there's one person who won't.

"You don't have to prove anything," Jean tells him.

"It's not for you. It's for me… And for my brother. I can't take that."

"It'll be very painful," Jean continues, because he knows it. Oh, he knows it very well.

Jeremy, his eyes bruised from the airbags' deployment and his nose swollen, says it.

"I'll tough it out."

Jean hates this situation, but he won't go against Jeremy's wishes, and he tells the others this. They don't agree, but they don't have to. It's Jeremy's decision.

Although everyone says he's crazy, Jeremy doesn't take anything other than ibuprofen, which, of course, isn't enough to relieve the pain (another parallel with Jean).

Jeremy spends horrible days, barely sleeping because of the pain. He cries sometimes, but he doesn't ask for painkillers even once. Jean stays with him the whole time and grumbles when Laila comes to replace him. Jeremy asks them to leave him alone, but of course they don't.

As the days go by, the pain becomes bearable.

His mother visits him once, and Analisse and William visit him after work to bring him clothes and his French books. His mother and sister seem shocked, as if they believe it's all fake until they see him. They recriminate him and don't stay there for long, uncomfortable because Jean is there, silent but vigilant like a guard dog. Jeremy's father doesn't call him, but it's gotten to the point where Jeremy doesn't even remember him.

Kevin calls. Jean and he argue on the phone.

Jeremy forces Jean to leave for a few hours to shower and rest a little. He begs him because Jean is the most loyal and kind man in the world, and Jeremy doesn't deserve someone like that by his side. He gives in under the pretext that Cat will be here in a few hours to keep him company. Jeremy insists he doesn't need her, but Jean doesn't want to "listen to nonsense."

Jeremy manages to get some sleep when the worst is over and he's left alone.

When he opens his eyes again, Bryson is looking at him with a bland smile.

Jeremy's pulse races.

"You never get enough of attention, huh," Bryson tells him. Bryson unleashes a hate speech toward Jeremy, something he's been bottling up for years. He talks about his grandmother. He talks about how his father left him, Jeremy, perfect Jeremy, in charge of everyone, and Jeremy concludes that Bryson is high on cocaine, or worse. Those dilated pupils prove him right.

Bryson calls him a faggot and other such things. Bryson mentions Jean. Jeremy is fed up with it and says, "Don't blame me for being a loser, Bryson. Do yourself a favor and get help instead of wasting your time hating me so much."

Bryson squeezes Jeremy's bruises until Jeremy tears up from the pain. Then Bryson calls the nurse and tells her Jeremy is in terrible shape and needs painkillers, the strongest they have. Jeremy tries to speak, but Bryson squeezes the healing broken joint, and Jeremy screams.

The nurse brings the painkillers.

And then Jeremy screams the first thing that comes to mind.

A single phrase in French and a name.

Jean appears in the doorway like a tornado, her eyes fixed on Bryson, with Cat and Cody in tow. Bryson immediately backs away from Jeremy.

"I'm going to separate your flesh from your bones," Jean says, and looms over Bryson.

A huge commotion erupts, and when Jean slams Bryson's head against the window, the nurse says she's going to call security. Jeremy has a revelation.

"Call the police!" he yells. "He's drugged. He might even have something on him. Call them."

Bryson panics. Jean smiles. It's not a friendly smile at all.

The police show up within minutes, and with Jeremy in bed completely clean, and Bryson drugged and carrying drugs, there's no denying the obvious.

After this, Jeremy is completely disowned by his family. Then there's silence. Bryson wasn't carrying cocaine, but pure heroin. He's been shooting up for months. It also turns out he's a fairly well-known drug dealer in Princeton. Bryson is immediately admitted to detox, and Warren must pay the police much more money than he had to to keep them quiet about the banquet.

Jeremy can't go home after this, but… at least this time he's been able to save a brother.

[wordssoonforgotten]

I was wondering if you could do a jinx x either piltie reader or a reader that works for silco too where jinx falls HARD for this girl but readers oblivious so jinx has to make it very very obvious just some cutesyness

Jinx x Piltoveran!reader. Hope you like! Honestly one of my favorite things I’ve written so far. No content warnings. 735 words.

Jinx is so over Piltoverans.

In all honestly, she'd been over them since birth. It was simply the Zaunite way; but there was one she simply couldn't manage to hate with rest. You were like a guilty pleasure, except there was no guilt concerning how she felt at all. The pleasure you gave her was more rebellious than anything. However, that doesn't mean you didn't get on every single one of her nerves.

Jinx has been sneaking to see you for a year. It started as cat-like curiosity turned infatuation, but now, every time you so much as look at her a certain way, she feels herself teetering closer and closer to the edge; dangerously close to falling in love. It's new, exciting, and gives her that rush she thought was only possible from watching something explode. (It almost makes her wants to jump right off, just to see if you catch her.) Much to her annoyance, she wasn't sure if you felt the same way she did.

She likes to think she's making it stupid obvious; laying it on thick every time she comes to see you. With the way you just laugh at her, or simply don't pick up what she puts down, she's beginning to think she's not so good at all. It's either that, or you're infuriatingly slow for someone so smart.

For the second time this week, Jinx has weaseled her way through your window and made herself comfortable in your silky sheets. The two of you sit closely together on the bed as you recount every event of your day to her. You speak so softly that your voice almost gets lost with the wind. She uses it as an excuse to lean closer. Every few sentences, your eyes drift to your bedroom door, as if you expect someone to knocking it down any moment. Despite how long the two of you have gotten away with your late-night-rendezvous, you still get nervous. She tilts her mischievously. Her fingers crawl up shoulder and stop on your chin, turning your head to face her. You blush; but continue talking like normal.

That was her very last straw. She deserved more than simple a blush.

"Soooo….princess. Still not seeing anyone?" She keeps her voice light. Like she doesn't care about the answer at all. You raise your eyebrow at the seemingly out-of-the-blue question. "Not currently. Why?" Jinx smiles with false nonchalance

"Just kinda seemed like you would be by now."

"��Well I'm not."

"Are you interested in seeing someone?"

You snort and shrug your shoulders hopelessly. "Who would I even see?"

"Me." She answers immediately. Your brain short circuits and you just stare at her. For a second she thinks she's broken you, but then you very hesitantly narrow your eyes. "Are you..serious?" She barely manages to hold back a loud snort, but she nods quickly. "Very serious. Most serious I've ever been, actually." You nod slowly as if you're still processing her words so she continues. "I've been serious for a while now, you've just been too dense to notice." Playful frustration fills her tone as you suddenly become more alert. "A while!? How long is a while!?" She doesn't stop the chortle that erupts from her.

"Months."

"Months?!" You shout before quickly covering your mouth and glancing at the door. Once You're sure no one heard, you turn a fierce glare at her. "Why didn't you say anything?!" Now her brain short circuits. She looks at you in hysterical exasperation, shaking her head so quickly you're scared she'll get dizzy. "I've been very-obviously flirting for—this whole time!" You roll your eyes as your face begins to heat up. "Well you should've been clearer."

"I couldn't have been any clearer without tattooing it on my forehead!" She scoffs. "Typical dense, unaware pilties. Never noticing the extremely obvious truths right in front of their dumb faces—" She's cut off by your lips crashing into hers mid Piltover hating tirade. It doesn't take much for her to lean into it, her hands coming up to grip your hair. After a full minute of all but inhaling each other, she comes up for air. "Guess that means the feelings' mutual, huh?" You huff and give her a cheeky smirk.

"See how I made that obvious?"

She flips you off before pulling you back into another, harder kiss.

"I'll work on it."

[rikiislvr]

♥︎necklace (5) - nishimura riki

read part 1-4 to understand the plot better! (on my masterlist)

pairing: nishimura riki x afab!reader

so much money.

that was far out of your budget. you were gonna have to work 10x more than usual the moment you came back. but it was worth it right?

you can go support him. and watch him perform with your own eyes.

this entire day you’ve been out shopping, you had to catch your flight tonight since the performance was literally tomorrow.

you finally got your hands on your outfit you were gonna wear to the concert, you hurried home, packing anything else that was necessary,

making sure to alarm your parents before you just randomly left to korea,

and just like that. you were now on your flight to korea, sitting in the seat looking out the window, watching the clouds pass by the night sky, you fiddled with your hands…

was this a good idea?

of course it was but.. would he get mad at you for just randomly showing up with no word? no.. he’ll be happy to see you.

you just hoped it wasn’t too much of a push.

you sighed and reclined your chair, closing your eyes, listening to the soft sounds from the plane as you fell asleep, drowning out all your thoughts.

-

you woke up to the sound of the pilot on the speakers, alarming the passengers that the plane will be landing in 10 minutes. you rub your eyes and sat up.

you check your phone, nothing much but… one message caught your eye. it was from niki.

“wish you were here to see me perform :)”

underneath it says it was sent with a translator, which made you giggle how he put so much effort to talk to you even if it wasn’t in a language he knew well.

but little did he know, you were landing in korea right now.

you fiddle with his necklace that laid on your collarbones, smiling to yourself in excitement.

you weren’t sure why he brought so much happiness out of you. he was a idol who had millions of fans and somehow…

you’re the lucky one?

the plane began to land, and once it came to a full stop, passengers clapped and began to gather their things.

you stood up and grabbed your suitcase from the department above your seat and made your way off the plane.

you were so intrigued by the difference here in korea, it was so beautiful and everything looked so organized.

you caught a taxi, using a voice translator on your phone to tell the driver where your hotel was located before he drove off.

only thing on your mind was tonight. you were too excited to see him again.

on the other hand, niki was a bit down,

him and the group were practicing on the stage they were performing on later, but niki stepped out and sat on the side, sighing before fiddling with your necklace around his neck.

jake noticed this and walked over, furrowing his eyebrows, “is that hers?” he asks in korean, niki looks up and nodded softly.

jake chuckled and sat beside him. “you really like her huh?”

niki sighed and ran his finger through his hair, he didn’t reply, and jake took that as his answer, “what’s on your mind? you seem stressed? is it the concert?” jake asks,

niki shook his head, “i don’t know hyung.. i wish i could see her again.” niki shrugged, jake felt empathy, he never seen niki like this for a girl, because niki never ever spoke about a girl before, so this was new behavior.

“let’s do good today, maybe she’ll be watching?” jake tried to cheer him up, niki tilt his head, pointing to the crowd, jake chuckled, “no- i meant like… watching it online or something. she’ll want to see you do your best right?”

niki sighed and nod, jake stood back up and pulled him up to his feet to continue practicing.

meanwhile, you were getting settled into your hotel, it was so nice and organized, you relaxed for a bit before you started to get ready for the concert, putting on the outfit you put together, styling your hair, perfecting your makeup, you were almost done until you got a message.

you checked your phone, seeing niki’s name popping up at the top of your phone, making you smile instantly.

you opened the dm, seeing niki texted you, “one more hour….” with a emoji that quite literally detected his nervousness. you giggled softly and replied,

“you’re gonna do great!” hoping to reassure him, based off the performances you’ve watched of him, he was an amazing dancer.

you so badly wanted to tell him you’d be in the crowd, but you decided to keep that a secret for a little longer.

niki smiled at his phone before he was called by his leader to began getting ready, he put his phone away to get himself ready for the concert.

just like you were.

a/n: heeeeey guys it’s been so so long & im so sorry for the wait but i did miss you all! :( lmk if u guys like where the plot is going & if i should continue !!

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[21wanderer]

"Alternate ending" - The Wild One

There was unease in Wrightsville - since the biker gang the Black Rebels Motorcycle Club (BRMC) had driven into the sleepy Californian town, the townsfolk had been concerned and worried what trouble this large group of disaffected youths could cause in their normally peaceful place.

The bikers were led by Johnny Strabler, a young man of few words, but revered by his gang. A rebel without a cause. Strong, cool, confident and untouchable - or so he thought.

Having caused commotion at a motorcycle rally in Carbonville, the BRMC had moved on to stir up trouble somewhere else - that eventually led them to Wrightsville. One might think that one knows how this story ends… But this time it's different. ---

It was only about 1 o'clock in the afternoon on the day of BRMC's arrival, when the elderly Chief Harry Bleeker, the only police officer in the sleepy town, entered the Wrightsville pharmacy.

The bell rang like always, but nothing felt normal today, the boisterous gang had only been here for a couple of hours, but it felt like days and the whole town was nervous. This included Chief Bleeker, who now felt like he was on the toughest assignment of his career.

"Hey Doc." Chief Bleeker greeted the pharmacist. Though he wasn't a doctor, he was very knowledgeable in medicine and biochemistry, thus everybody in town referred to him as 'Doc'.

"Hey Chief." Doc replied.

"I need something for my nerves." Bleeker said trying to hide his nervousness.

"Got something right here for ya, Chief." Doc said, almost as if he had expected Bleeker to ask.

Doc attempted to hand Chief Bleeker the bottle, but Bleeker declined with a hand gesture.

"Please give a glass of water, I'll be takin' 'em straight away." Bleeker muttered.

Doc went to get a glass of water for the Bleeker, who opened the pill bottle pouring two pills into his hand, before he put the bottle back on the countertop.

"Seems like our loud and rowdy visitors have done a number on ya, Chief." Doc said as Bleeker swallowed the pills followed by the water.

"Yes…" Bleeker replied glumly, his grip tightened on the empty glass, "never in my time, had I thought that I would end up in situation like this…"

Doc put the pill bottle back behind the counter, not responding to Bleeker's plight.

Bleeker sighed.

"It's like sitting on a tickin' time-bomb. Everyone's on edge - not that I blame 'em - if the situation somehow escalates, I don't think I can handle it."

"Yeah, I don't envy you." Doc replied, resting at the counter looking over Bleeker's shoulder to look through the window facing the street. "It's the calm before the storm, but they are like nomads-"

"Nomads?! 'Locusts' is more like it. If I don't put my foot down, we risk that these hooligans start feeling at home… I've heard of other towns, where that happened… I really don't wanna see that here."

He paused, but when Doc didn't respond he continued:

"Kleiner noticed that I hesitated to act, when those hoodlums made him crash his car. And I think they noticed too."

Bleeker sighed again.

"If I was smart I would be skipping town just like you, Doc."

Doc wasn't pleased with Bleeker's insinuation.

"You know very well, Chief, that I am not 'skipping' town for at least another 3 months. So I will have to live through this, just like the rest of you."

There was a long pause. It almost felt peaceful in contrast to what might be happening on Wrightsville's streets...

Chief Bleeker, lost in thought, began speaking again, Doc was confused at first, but he quickly figured that Bleeker was in a train of thought, now saying it aloud:

"It's their leader Johnny - Johnny Strabler, he strides around the town like he owns it, and his men follow him around like puppy-dogs. He doesn't say much, but he radiates an attitude - I don't know what to call it - a dominance, that makes his crew follow him without question, they're wrapped around his finger."

"Hmmm..." Doc said, breaking the officer's flow of thinking and made him look at him, "listen Chief, I may be able to help you... But it may be a little 'drastic'."

"The situation seems to call for it," Bleeker replied, "but thank you, if you can help in any way, it'll be appreciated."

"Very well, then listen very carefully…"

---

Bleeker left Doc's pharmacy twenty minutes later, and it didn't take long, before he was forced into action against the rebellious youths. A brawl had broken out, outside Bleeker's brother, Frank's, café.

Some townsfolk had already intervened, having incapacitated a biker, who looked like he'd already had way too much, and struggled to get out of the grip of the town's mechanic, while still trying to stand up straight.

"We'll be taking this punk to the cell, Chief," the mechanic said, and headed towards the police station.

Chief Bleeker was forced to step between the mechanic and the biker gang members present trying to calm them down, fortunately it was only a handful - for now.

It didn't however take long, before the BRMC had gathered outside the police station, yelling and screaming, really trying to escalate the situation. Bleeker did his best to stay calm, but he was nervous, and he knew the biker gang could tell.

"Look - I've told you already, your friend is NOT under arrest, he's only in the drunk tank to sleep it off. Once he has sobered up, he'll be free to leave (just like the rest of you)."

Bleeker returned to his office, uncertain if he had actually improved the situation and managed to calm down the rowdy crowd outside. As long as they stayed outside, that would be a good sign at least - unless they started causing chaos elsewhere…

It seemed inevitable, that something bad would happen, soon, very soon - a single spark igniting the powder barrel, and if he was to prevent it… He had to reflect on Doc's proposition. ---

A couple of hours later, Chief Bleeker walked back outside, the crowd was still there, but they seemed to have dispersed a bit. Bleeker pulled together all the courage he could muster, before loudly and clearly addressing Johnny.

"Johnny? Will you please come into the station and pick up your friend, please?" Bleeker tried to sound both authoritative, but also polite at the same time, not knowing if he was successful at either. Johnny didn't say a word, he just raised his eyebrows, and began to walk towards Bleeker, the crew followed his movement. "J-Just Johnny please," Bleeker said trying not to stammer. Johnny turned his head, looking at his gang, then with that smooth and cool voice, he simply said: "Alright, I'll take care of it, guys," and followed Bleeker inside.

Once the doors was firmly closed behind him, Bleeker turned to Johnny, gesturing him towards his office. "Johnny, can I talk with you privately for just a minute, please?" Johnny was silent, but the silence spoke volumes - he was confident and in full charge of the situation, a lone 'octogenarian' cop was no threat to him, so he might as well humour that old geezer, not that anything he could say to him would change anything.

As soon as they were inside, Bleeker took his chance and jabbed a syringe with a clear liquid into Johnny's neck. Johnny instinctively reached for it, but collapsed on the floor, his body convulsing, Bleeker fell down alongside him, holding the syringe firmly in his hand, making sure it was emptied inside Johnny's neck.

When he was sure the syringe was empty, Bleeker managed to get back on his feet, exchanging a final gaze with Johnny, who looked at him with the strongest contempt in his eyes, before his head collapsed, hitting the floor.

Bleeker stood still in the office, still holding the empty syringe in his hand. The unconscious Johnny seemed to slowly shrink, as a visible vapour left every orifice of the youth's body. Carefully Bleeker pushes Johnny's over with his foot making it face upwards. Despite that Doc had told exactly what would happen, Bleeker was still disturbed by the sight, but it also filled him with awe.

Johnny's insides were clearly gone, no bones, no organs, not even his eyes, which were now just empty holes. But his skin remained, stretchy and flexible - and able to be worn. With shaking hands Bleeker undressed what remained of Johnny, discarding all the biker gang leader's clothes in a pile.

He held up the skin amazed at the result. This is crazy, Doc, he thought. Running a hand through the Johnny's hair and over the face, that felt like a deflated balloon, Bleeker flipped the skin over, so he could enter through the mouth as Doc had instructed.

It was a bizarre, yet exhilarating experience. Getting his feet in place was difficult with his aching back, but he had no intention to stop. Taking Johnny's body for himself was a drastic move, but desperate times calls for desperate measures. Sliding the skin upwards his frail legs felt stronger and grounded, once they were covered by Johnny's.

Excitedly Bleeker looked down at his new manhood, it was erect and pulsing with vitality, he had lost long ago. How many girls (and guys) must have felt this? he thought as he stroked it. Not enough, a wicked thought said in the back of his head.

Pulling the skin further up, Bleeker's wrinkled and sun-worn skin was replaced by Johnny's smooth and youthful. There were bruises and scars, for sure, but Johnny was a fighter and had probably been in countless bar brawls and fistfights before. He felt his new abs, there was no denying, that this guy was strong, Bleeker had a feeling that if Johnny got into a fight, he'd always win, maybe then it's only fitting, that his muscles serve me now, Bleeker thought, given that I bested him.

Bleeker thrust down his hand into Johnny's throat and into his smooth, muscular arms. Once it was firmly in place, he twisted and stretched it, feeling an unfamiliar strength, that now worked for him. He flexed, and it responded flawlessly. The other arm followed suit - and Bleeker was now only moments away from a new existence.

Stretching Johnny's mouth a final time, so it could fit over his head. Bleeker completed the transformation. Bleeker massaged Johnny's face and it all fell into place. He felt a jolt of energy causing through his entire body, and he opened his eyes, Johnny's eyes. Looking down himself there was no doubt that it was a complete success, this body was his.

He ran a hand over his impressive new chest, feeling the heat and the smooth, soft chest hair under his fingers. 'Johnny' looked at the clock, realising how much time had passed. He'd need to get going before the gang, his gang, stormed the station.

'Johnny' slipped on his underwear, his jeans, his socks and stepped into his solid motorcycle boots. He pulled the sweaty t-shirt over his head, pleased with how he recognised the smell as his own. He put on Johnny's hat, before setting his sight on Johnny's leather biker jacket. It was Johnny's crown, the very garment, that told the world who he was, and what he represented.

Mine, was all that Bleeker could think as he picked up the jacket, this is going to look so good on me. The leather creaked as Bleeker claimed Johnny's jacket as his own, pushing his rejuvenated arms into its sleeves. There was a very devilish satisfaction in buckling the belt, then slowly zipping the zipper to his chest. Bleeker smiled as he looked down at the "Johnny", his new name, written on the jacket, just above the heart. Mine.

Bleeker caught his reflection in a mirror and grinned, his new reflection - young, strong, confident, handsome, respected, uncontested, feared - and the epitome of cool.

"Yeah," Bleeker said with the youth's smooth silky voice, he flexed a leather-clad arm, it still responded flawlessly "I could get used to this." He grabbed his keys and with a confident swagger walked towards the drunk tank, where a slightly groggy gang member was lying. Bleeker unlocked the door, the rattling metal caused the biker to look up at Johnny. Bleeker smirked, he knew that Johnny would have done the same, no words needed.

Outside the police station it looked like all the BRMC members had gathered, waiting for Johnny and their buddy. "Alright!" 'Johnny' said firmly, looking at the crowd. It was a completely different experience. The gang looked at him with respect and admiration, almost reverence.

"We're outta here!"

He didn't have to say anything else. They would follow him without question. It was a power and respect that Bleeker hadn't felt in decades - if ever. 'Johnny' made his way through the crowd and they followed him like an entourage back to where their motorcycles were parked. 'Johnny' smirked at the sight of Johnny's motorcycle. Johnny didn't show much emotion, but Bleeker was very excited as he mounted Johnny's bike, his bike, but he hid that excitement behind Johnny's cool demeanour - his cool demeanour.

'Johnny' revved the engine, feeling a surge of adrenaline and youth, he hadn't felt in eons. He slipped on Johnny's sunglasses with a faint smile, then he took off - and the gang followed him.

'Johnny' had led the gang out of Wrightsville, he didn't know where he would lead them, but he knew that he had an undeniable power over them, they were his gang now, and they would follow his rules. And if there was ever any sign of dissent, Johnny had several more of Doc's syringes stored safely inside the pocket of his biker jacket. Maybe he could turn some of these delinquent youths into more 'productive members of society' - but for now, he was the Wild One.