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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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TW: Dubcon, coercion, weaponized incompetence, 18+

The 141 swear the clit is in the wrong spot and you show them proof.

They’re utterly convinced the clitoris exists below the vagina.

A whole team of adult men, half of them deadpanned and the other half hooting at your furious denial, mansplaining to you where the clit can be found. And they’re wrong.

That’s what the internet is for. That’s what diagrams are for. But it doesn’t matter how many you pull up and thrust in their faces, they’re scoffing and shaking their heads and telling you that in their experience, it’s located elsewhere.

“That photo’s upside down.”

No. It’s. Not.

“You sure? Bit, grainy, that one.”

The clit is right there. There. LABELLED.

“She’s bent over, or somethin’.”

IDIOTS!!!!

You should let it go, but you can’t. They’re so fundamentally wrong it hurts. Part of you is sorry for every pussy they’ve ever been with, and the other part just needs to make them understand, a desire so strong and so urgent that it makes you do stupid, stupid things…

Like take off your pants and show them for real.

Your outrage runs deeper than your shame, so you kick one boot off, yank your shit down until you can free up one leg, and plop your bare ass onto the rec room couch to show them once and for all.

“Here, look,” you huff, pointing to your pussy. “Right here.”

It’s Sgt MacTavish who moves, abandoning his spot next to the pool table to wander closer. “I don’t see nothing.”

With an exasperated breath, you scoot your ass forward and spread your knees nice and wide, and tap your finger right over your clit. “Can you see this, or are you fucking blind?”

He gives you a skeptical look, tilting his head and coming to stand right in front of you. “That’s just... skin.”

You're so mad, you barely notice how quiet it’s grown in the cramped room, with every one of them zeroed in on what’s happening on the couch.

“It’s right here. Here, Jesus. Just put your fingers right here, you can f-feel it.”

Your voice cracks on that one word because you know right then that you’re taking it too far. You should have given them up for lost causes, left them to their lifetimes of poor performance and let it go. But you couldn’t let it go, and now your heart is pounding because everyone is watching MacTavish’s fingertips find your very obviously there clit, and it shoots a jolt of something very confusing through your pelvis.

“Ahh,” he says, a little light of mischief in his eyes while he fumbles around it, beer held tight in his other hand. “That is something, I think.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the clitoris.” You’re half waiting for an apology, or at least for someone to admit that you were right, but instead you get MacTavish’s eyes dropping from your face to your pussy, watching his own fingers nudge against your sensitive clit.

A movement catches your eye — you watch LT take a few steps away, stopping to wedge the backside of his boot against the door so it can’t be opened from outside.

“Still think you’ve got it wrong,” Garrick grumbles, materializing beside MacTavish. “Both of you yanking my chain, now.”

You open your mouth to tell him to fuck off, but MacTavish beats you to it. “Nah, c’mere. It’s right here, I think.”

You gasp when his fingers get replaced by Garrick’s, fumbling around the exact same way, but up too high.

“Nothing there,” he says, so confidently.

For fuck’s sake.

You take his fingers and guide them lower, and— wait, how did he get slick, wet fingers? Did he spit on them beforehand?

“This little thing?” Garrick murmurs, sliding a little circle around your clit like he’s done it his whole life.

Your gaze wanders again to LT by the door, his arms crossed and eyes fixated, not on the hand moving against your pussy, but on your hot face, as if he’s watching intently for something specific to flash across your features. You’re pretty sure you just look a little horny and confused, legs twitching when everything starts to feel warm and syrupy inside your lower belly.

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, yanking your attention back towards Garrick’s serious brown eyes above you. “You feel it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

You’re getting wet. They’re all watching, and you can feel yourself getting more and more turned on, becoming pliant beneath that minuscule touch. Do you like this? Do you like having the attention on you, while you’re— Christ, you’re naked in the rec room, past the point of proving anything. You’re just greedily keeping your knees spread apart, getting your clit fondled by your coworkers now for no good reason.

Garrick blinks down at the conflict on your face, and takes a slow breath. “I think—“

“Think you’ve had your fun, Garrick.”

The man responds immediately to Price’s voice, straightening up and giving his Captain a wide berth. You should do something, should make a move to put your clothes back on, but all you can think about — all you can feel — is the sudden absence of touch on your clit, the hunger and the throbbing inside that’s crying for something direct and persistent.

Price doesn’t bother with any pretense. His boots scuff the floor on his way over to you, watching your face as your embarrassment attempts to slam your knees closed, but your arousal tries to keep them open. All you manage to do is this pathetic little jerk of your legs that doesn’t communicate anything but how desperate you’ve become after getting touched by two of his men.

Price braces himself with one hand on the top of the couch, dropping his face down closer to yours than the other guys dared to come.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispers, smoothing his palm down your bare inner thigh. It’s warm and rough, confident as he runs his knuckles back lightly over your sensitive skin. “You’re thinking these horrible men have tricked you, and now you’re all wet and naked, and it’s going to be embarrassing to look anyone in the eye after this.”

Yeah, you’d probably be thinking that, if you had any thoughts left in your brain. You blink stupidly up at him, breaths coming faster when you feel his fingertips stroking against your poor, aroused little clit.

His eyes are as steady as his hand, giving you soft touches. “It’s okay. Not one of em is thinking less of you for getting a little wet.”

There’s a chorus of affirmative rumbles from behind him, and though that shouldn’t mean a fucking thing to you, all you feel is a hot wave of pleasure at knowing they’re pleased with you. Price is touching the most sensitive part of your pussy, and they’re all getting off on how you've responded to the attention. They may have tricked you into this in the first place, but you are giving this to them now. You’re letting them watch you get played with and get more and more turned on, heat rising across your skin while you’re relentlessly rubbed.

“We took it too far,” he admits. “Got you all hot and bothered when we should have backed off.”

His fingers skate down your cunt, not going inside, just coasting over the slick wetness you can’t help but have when you’re this turned on.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

A little whimper escapes you when he goes back up to where he was before, your inner muscles giving you an inescapable flutter of pleasure at the fact that he’s decided to keep going. Your eyes dart back over to Ghost, the dark gaze now fixed on your wet little pussy, and a noticeable bulge behind his zipper.

It’s so quiet in here. From outside the walls there are faint sounds of boots and male voices, but in here there’s just your shallow breaths, the heartbeat pounding in your ears, and the soft, wet sounds of a pussy that's enjoying being touched.

"Sir, I'm— I'm about to cum." Your hips curl upwards on their own.

"Don't you worry, love. Do what you need to do, and then we'll get you sorted."

You lick your lips, eyes darting around in sudden reluctance. Have any of them taken pictures without you knowing? Oh, god. This is going to ruin—

"None of em," Price says, loud enough to carry, "are going to mention a bloody about this. Right, boys?"

A around of "affirmative"s has you focusing back on your captain's eyes, for just a few seconds before everything melts.

Your eyes close right as you start to cum, focusing on the warm sensation and the flashes of memory — Ghost by the door, Garrick's already wet fingers, Price's voice—

Your knees spasm closed around his hand while you pant raggedly through it. You don't want to open your eyes. You can't bear to see them all, because even halfway through your orgasm you can feel the shame taking hold.

Slut.

A little sob escapes your throat, and you grip your hands into tight fists by your sides and prepare yourself for the end of your life as you know it, all because you got wet.

A second hand finds you, covers your eyes so that you couldn't see them even if you wanted to. Your body goes limp, like an animal turning docile after being hooded. The hand between your legs easily pulls away, giving your thigh one last caress.

And then you feel more hands. One keeping you blind, one gathering your pants, one guiding your bare foot back into your clothing. It's got to be three of them putting you to rights, and you just stay there in bewilderment, respecting Price's blindfold while someone laces up your boot.

When the room goes bright again, it's like it never even happened. Ghost is racking up a new game, MacTavish has his back against the wall, nagging Garrick about something he forgot to do. And Price has his back to you, heading for a cigar from his coat pocket.

You sit there for a minute, staring at your boots and focusing on that swollen, vague ache in your pussy. It's the feeling you know so well, telling you that if you could only get fucked a little more, you'd get to cum again.

When you finally find the strength to stand, you silently shuffle out of the room and make your way down the hall.

They definitely know where the clit is.

And now they know you're a slut.

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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟕 - 𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU (all parts here)

CW: Reader is hit in the face

It’s a moment every animal knows — the instant you comprehend that you’re in imminent peril, and your brain makes the decision between fight, flight, or freeze.

It’s not a conscious choice that propels you to act, but you do. You smack your fist down as hard as you can on top of his knuckles, over and over amidst a mindless frenzy to wrench the ax away from his control, digging your knees into the dirt and heaving—

You get free so suddenly, the momentum lands you flat on your back, knocking the wind out of you in one solid whoosh. If you were a trained fighter you might know that this is when you have to move, even when you feel like you can’t. You have to kill him now, before you can even draw a breath, before he has a chance to recover and retrieve your only weapon.

But you’ve never fought anyone in your life, and in those few seconds of panic over your lungs locking up, Gaz materializes on top of you.

His arms are trembling, even as he efficiently pins you to the ground. You can only assume it’s his muscles giving out from the exertion of killing half a dozen people in the span of an hour. But his fingers are iron, clamping around your wrist in a way that shoots a sharp pain through your arm, right as you’re able to suck in your first gulp of oxygen.

The agony is too much. Your hand spasms open, and you’re forced to drop the ax with a yelp, as invisible splinters of repulsion shoot through your nervous system.

You can’t get away.

He’s touching you with his murder hands, huffing his hateful breath into your neck as he flings the ax out of your reach, landing in the grass with a soft thump. The fact that he doesn’t want to immediately kill you with it sends another, stronger wave of dread through your belly. You’re alone out here, surrounded only by the corpses that are proof of his cruel nature.

He’s so heavy, and you’re so tired.

Gaz seems to sense the change in your body when you give up. Your muscles go limp as tears of despair prick at your eyes, and all you can do is turn your face away from his.

“You,” he pants, loosening his grip to restrain you mostly with his body weight, “are not an easy person to find.”

Tears begin spilling out over your nose, even as you screw your eyes shut as tight as you can. You walked right into his trap, and it’s all your fault.

Now you’re both shaking. You’re both high on adrenaline and low on energy, vibrating against each other while he catches his breath and decides what to do with you. Your thoughts should be racing, coming up with escape routes and plans, but they’re not. You’re locked onto the one inevitability that’s been nipping at your heels all these months: you’re dead.

Fate has finally caught you in a misstep, and you’re going to die now. You can’t help but picture the worst case scenarios, flipping rapidly through your brain like a horror movie highlight reel, terror closing up your throat.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead.

Gaz is saying something, but you can’t process it. The air has become too thick to breathe, too thick to hear or see. Stuttered half-sobs wrack your chest, cramping your muscles into tight knots. Desperately you try to suck more oxygen, breaths coming faster once Gaz’s weight lifts off of you. You lay there uselessly on the ground, light-headed and tunnel visioned with despair as you gasp over and over—

Smack.

Pain radiates across your face so suddenly, all the autonomy shoots back into your limbs like a lightning bolt. You’re not sure if it’s the sting that brings you back, or the blind outrage that he just slapped you.

“We’ve got to go,” Gaz orders.

“W-what?” The hot imprint of his hand throbs on your cheek as you blink stupidly at the shadow above you.

“There’s blood everywhere, we’re going to have biters here in an hour. I’m not going to hurt you, just— just fucking breathe, idiot. We’ve got to move.”

You can feel his knees on either side of your thighs, feel his arms shaking beside your shoulders like he’s just hunched over you, waiting for reality to sink into your brain.

Finally you find your voice, even if it’s a weak, disbelieving croak. “You hit me.”

”Sorry.” He doesn’t sound at all sorry. He sounds urgent and annoyed, as if he resents the two seconds it took to say it.

Helpless tears well up in your eyes again. You should never have survived this long, this was a mistake. You should have let the first one get you, when you watched that fresh biter stumble around your apartment lobby for the first time. Should have offered your own flesh and given up immediately, to avoid all of this.

“I don’t have any tampons,” you whisper, swiping at your eyes.

“Got them packed away. Come on.”

Finally Gaz gets to his feet, and before you can even muster the energy to sit up, he hoists you upright by your armpits.

Your head immediately spins with the sudden reorientation and lack of food. He must sense your wobbling because he holds you steady for longer than necessary, until you flinch away from his touch.

“Get your bag, get as much food as you can carry on the move,” Gaz instructs, his dark outline bending down to grab something from the dirt. “I want to be out of here in five minutes.”

—————————

The rain makes everything so much worse.

It’s a steady drizzle by the time you’ve got your things packed, and you’re bundled up as best you can with all of your jackets layered damply together.

It won’t be enough. You’re going to get soaked through in an hour, and then you’re going to die because wet and cold means dead out here. You’re still not sure why you’re alive, why any of it matters at all, but being assigned a task has unfortunately put you in work mode.

Gaz is waiting for you at the edge of the trees. “Here,” he says when you join him, pressing a piece of clothing into your hand.

It’s a coat of some sort, sturdy and thick enough to make you think it might be waterproof.

“Stop at the gift shop on the way out?” you grumble, exchanging your least favorite jacket for the new layer.

“Something like that.”

Impatient with your speed, he tugs the straps of your pack into place for you, clipping it across your chest and making an annoyed sound in his throat. “Come on, then.”

It rains all night.

Your saving grace really is that waterproof layer, keeping your trunk warm and dry while the rest of you becomes sopping wet. You must be going slower than normal, because you’re not thirty minutes into your journey before Gaz pulls you aside under a thick evergreen and forces food and caffeine pills into you.

That’s when the true misery kicks in, when you have enough brain power to soak in how fucking wretched you are. Everything is soggy and dark, and your body is so tired. One step after another, your feet find their way where they’re supposed to go, and your mind wanders to stupid, irrelevant places.

You fantasize that you’re not actually trailing along behind a mass murderer in the dark woods. It’s actually not raining, and the group is still alive for you to hate. You’re going through those houses again in the dark, finding cabinets full of tampons, and every food and supply you could possibly need. You take the time to coat your body in some designer lotion brand, and you even catch a few hours of sleep on someone’s king-sized, memory foam mattress.

The hallucination continues as you walk, becoming more and more ridiculous until you’re creating fake scenarios of your new life in a sanctuary city. It’s the dream you’ve held all these months, that some day you’ll find a place safe and warm, with rules and laws and stability.

You’d be able to let your guard down, and fall in love with someone handsome and tall. Really tall. He’d keep you under his protection and teach you how to fight, like all those fantasy books you read in your past life. You’d finally be able to rest, and have enjoyable sex, and do all the things that humans can only do when they’re not running for their lives.

They’re things you’ll never be able to do again, so you dream of them while you walk through the sodden underbrush, and the thorns, and the slippery roots.

The caffeine has just begun to wear off when Gaz finds somewhere to stop for the remainder of the night. It’s a shallow cave, more of an overhang than anything, and definitely not dry inside. You both have to press into the concave of the rock to find shelter from the rain, unpacking your bed rolls to use as blankets.

And then to your horror, Gaz shuffles up next to you.

“No.” you exclaim, elbowing him away.

“Fuckin’ hell. Not trying to touch you, just getting warm.”

“Get warm over there,” you hiss.

There’s an uncomfortable silence then, which you imagine is him grinding his teeth in the dark, trying to figure out if he should take your body heat by force.

“Now that we’re not walking,” he says finally, in an annoyed rush, “you’re going to cool down very soon and very fast. And I’m not bloody waiting for your little teeth to start chattering before we take-– fucking-– rational survival measures.”

You clamp your jaw shut to keep your teeth from chattering and sniff pretentiously. “I’m warm enough without you, so it s-sounds like your problem.”

The soft pattering of rain on leaves gives you a sick sense of satisfaction. You hope he’s really cold and really wet, and really, really pissed at you for winning one against him. If he wants what you’re not offering, he’s going to have to take it. He’s going to have to prove, right out in the open, that he’s exactly the person you’ve always known he is, and there will be no denying it.

When he speaks again, his voice is unexpectedly soft and smooth. “I have a chocolate bar in my bag.”

Your eyes spring open in interest, which quickly changes to a scowl once you realize what he’s doing. “Good for you.”

“It’s… ah.. Snickers. A big one.”

Resist, resist. You ignore the vivid memories of caramel and peanuts, and sniff again. “Just going to brag all night, or can we get some sleep?”

There’s the sound of a zipper, and then the familiar rustle of a candy bar wrapper behind you. You can’t help the way your mouth instantly waters.

“I reckon three hundred calories is a fair enough trade for putting my back against yours.”

Three. Hundred. Calories.

Fuck.

Murders aside, you’d have to be a fool to refuse that offer. Irritated, teeth beginning to chatter, you scoot your ass back on the rocks until you bump into him, and then snatch the candy bar out of his hand. Gaz laughs under his breath at your eagerness, but thankfully doesn’t kick you while you’re down by commenting on it.

You both settle in, spine to spine, and you wait until you’re as comfortable as possible to open your prize.

It’s… indescribably good. It must have been near his body in the bag because it’s wonderfully warm, and buttery soft. You close your eyes and take bites as small as you can, trying to stifle the small moans of pleasure, and failing once or twice.

Between the sugar filling you with dopamine and Gaz’s warm back against yours, you don’t remember falling asleep, with the empty wrapper still clutched in your fingers.

—————————

You wake up with your mouth dry, and your teeth coated in that sugar fuzz from eating before bed. Crinkling your nose, you attempt to go back to sleep before you can wake up any further and notice your various aches and pains.

No use. Your ass hurts from sitting on pebbles, your neck hurts from sleeping semi-upright, and it stinks—

Your heart begins to race as your eyes spring open, and you verify that you are smelling what you think you’re smelling. It’s that unmistakable stench of rotting flesh, like the worst roadkill you’ve ever passed by.

“Gaz,” you whisper, right as the biter stumbles into sight in the woods below.

He’s not awake, you can tell by his slow breathing. Quietly you elbow him, keeping your eyes on the danger. “Wake the fuck up.”

“Mm. What?”

“There’s a biter. Can you shoot it from here?”

Gaz turns his head to peer over, and you both watch the corpse shuffling by, in what you assume is the direction of the bloody camp. Barely recognizable jeans hang off one rotten ankle, leaving the biter in only a tshirt and pink underwear atop sunken, grey skin.

“She’s going the opposite way,” he finally murmurs. “Let her be.”

You open your mouth to argue, because that attitude goes directly against Doran’s philosophy, but then you close it again. Doran’s dead, and you’re apparently got new rules to learn.

There’s more movement in the trees, and you both soberly watch as five more biters make their way past your hiding spot. Five more arrows you could shoot, that Doran believed would make a dent in the population, if everyone did their part. Gaz apparently sees it as more of a drop in the ocean, which is far more worrisome. Has it really become that bad?

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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yayyy wrens ok!

-🐇

I’m always fine! Anyone who says otherwise is selling propaganda.

#wren answers #rabbit anon #🐇 anon

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rememberwren · 5 months ago

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Simon tries something new

Little drabble to get me out of the block.

Word count: 630

18+

CW: smut, simon spits in your mouth :)

Simon's homecoming sex is always slow.

Too much adrenaline to digest, too many memories to bury so they can never be dug out again.

It's kisses on your neck until your skin melts under his tongue. Lean fingers working you open until his palm is soaked and your breathing uneven.

Soft legs around his waist, your arms holding his head to your face, kissing the aches of his mind away.

It's rare for him to change from his usual unhurried pace, to break through that comforting tempo he's so used to—like the rhythm of a tune that calls him back home. Like a siren, coaxing his soul away from the bloodshed and back into his body—and his body back to you.

A big hand leaves its gentle grip on your waist, curling firmly at the base of your jaw to hold your head steady against the plush pillow.

He collects a glob of spit in his mouth. It falls into a string, slowly, until it sits at the slit of your lips.

It startles you, at first—brows fluttering to your forehead. But even in the haze of sex you manage to recollect yourself just in time.

A shaky exhale from your nose, and then you lick your lips deliberately, slow as anything, gauging a reaction from his eyes.

He watches how your throat bobs when you swallow it down.

He watches when you open your mouth again, pink tongue hanging out. Inviting, warm.

He cums right afterwards with a muted curse.

Doesn't care if he's sensitive as can be when he fucks you through his orgasm, then through yours, until your legs are trembling so fiercely that he thinks he's shattered you like the finest porcelain.

A stolen kiss, sloppy and wet. One where his lips taste yours fully, where your teeth clack as they're in the way.

Simon doesn't pull out. Waits a tick instead, hiding in the curve of your shoulder, long enough for his blood to return to where he needs it, still inside of you—so tight in the afterglow of your orgasm that he thinks he might cum again if he's not careful.

He fucks you a second time, ensuring your lips never part from his.

When he rolls onto his back, taking you with him, he lets you take the lead. Impaled right on his lap, hips dancing like waves on the shore, mouth parted to breathe softly and slow.

It's your turn now, he guesses, because suddenly lithe fingers are wrapped around his chin. Your thumb tugs at his lower lip as your hips slow to a more controlled pace.

"Open," you whisper.

Simon can only oblige. One look into your eyes is all it takes, his mouth already open before you even ask.

Your spit lands slowly on the flat of his tongue. He tastes it like you're dripping honey in his mouth, like that's his favorite thing to savor after weeks away from everything good.

His hand comes to cradle the back of your head only to pull you down, where he kisses you until his head spins because he doesn't care to breathe—doesn't think it matters.

"Like it when you tell me wha' to do," he says to your lips. "S' a nice change of pace."

You can hear the smile in his voice.

So, you smile too.

"Yeah?" You reply, panting softly against his mouth. "Then be a good one and fuck me like you haven't seen me in weeks, eh?"

Not the hardest order he's ever had to follow, he reckons, since it's the truth.

He breathes a chuckle, but otherwise agrees, stealing yet another kiss from you. Arms fully wrapped around your waist, feet planted on the bed, Simon fucks you like he hasn't seen you in weeks.

"Yes ma'am."

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