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Backshots... Back Pain, Sorry

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUTTY smut kind of smut. Fluff if you're a freak. Summary: It starts with a back massage, ends with your face in a pillow and Hotch scolding you mid-thrust for arching your back incorrectly. You’d argue, but it’s hard to speak when he’s fixing your posture with his [REDACTED] Warnings: MDNI (established... whatever this is, oral [f!receiving, brief mentions of m!receiving], unprotected p-in-v bc we live on the edge [♫ of glory ♫]), age gap, casual oopsie choking, accidental-but-not-really voyeurism, Hotch is pussy-whipped af but somehow still is a patronizing piece of shit, mentions of Jack (sorry Jack) Word Count: 6.6k Dado's Corner: Phi attempting the “Don’t write Hotch like a pathetic bottom after humiliating him in 30 Seconds” challenge: lasted a strong 30.5 seconds. Proofreading brought to u by Dr. Bin @hotchology PhD

masterlist

The first thought you had when you saw how big Aaron’s hands were was not, (un)surprisingly, that they’d be perfect for back massages.

That was probably your second thought.

Because your first was… well, that those thick fingers looked suspiciously well-suited for another kind of activity involving a lot more curling and a lot more work from his middle and ring finger.

Still.

Now – naked (just the top half, because he insisted. Something about how deep tissue massage works better on bare skin and some other pseudoscientific bullshit you’re trying very hard not to sexualize)- lying face down and completely at his mercy, you have to admit:

He’s freakishly good at the massage thing too.

Also, the noises coming out of your mouth are quite similar anyway.

Same pitch. Same breathlessness. Same “Yes, that’s the spot, sweetheart - like that?” murmured behind you in that pompous gravelly chuckle that does absolutely nothing to help you separate the two scenarios.

At least this time, it’s his thumbs digging into the knot just under your shoulder blades and not… well. Other places.

You don’t know how he does it.

It’s awful. It’s amazing. It makes you want to cry, make out, confess every fear you’ve ever had since the third grade, and tell him about the time you got lost in a supermarket when you were six and never fully recovered.

(Stepping stone of your abandonment issues, actually. Very formative stuff.)

But instead, you just hum.

And before he can tease you (because you know he will, the moment he realizes you’ve melted into a limp, worshipful little puddle over a shoulder rub), you manage to mumble:

“Can you keep doing this forever?”

Also because - small detail, minor point - he’s pinning you to the mattress with his hips. Like, fully. Whole FBI-agent body weight centered right over the curve of your ass.

And every time he shifts - reaching up to get a better angle, dragging his hands (those large, beautiful hands) up the sides of your spine - his hips roll just slightly forward.

And- yeah. He sort of… rocks against you.

Not on purpose.

(Probably?)

(…Definitely.)

Which would be fine. Totally manageable. Not at all a problem - if it weren’t for the fact that he’s wearing the least fuckable pajamas on Earth… which, of course, makes them ten times more fuckable.

Plain, boring navy bottoms. A matching buttoned top. (Aaron Hotchner cannot survive without buttons. He needs order. He needs structure. Even in REM sleep.)

Classic grandpa cut. V-neck just deep enough to show a scandalous sliver of collarbone you might, unironically, faint over.

(Thankfully, your current view is limited to his bedside table: a vintage old-man lamp that costs more than your phone, and a framed photo of him and his son.)

(Hi, Jack. Sorry for having thoughts about your father.)

Back to the pajamas - the most crucial detail is the fabric.

It’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. High-thread-count sorcery. Probably imported. Definitely overpriced. Breathable, which is just a fancy way of saying stupidly thin.

Thin enough that when he leans in - presses down - you can feel the shape of his-

…Anyway. You’re getting ideas. (Again, sorry, framed Jack.)

“Not to be paternalistic,” he starts. (It is to be paternalistic. Entirely so. But you’ll allow it. You’ll allow anything, frankly, because for some reason it’s insanely hot when he talks like this.)

“-but you shouldn’t have a back like this at your age.”

“Well, thankfully I’ve got your magic hands to fix it, don’t I?” You smile, turning your head to look back at him, because you’re an idiot who still thinks eye contact might save you.

It doesn’t.

What you get instead is one of his signature sighs - the special not-to-be-paternalistic-but-very-much-is variety that sounds like he’s aging ten years just trying to keep you alive - and then a gently condescending lecture about cervical strain and spinal alignment and how you “can’t just twist your neck around if you actually want this to help,” yada yada-

“I know it doesn’t feel like a big deal now, but these things add up,” yada yada-

“I just-can you please take this seriously? I know you joke, but I’d like you to still be able to stand up straight in ten years.” yada yada, (okay, long-term vision, wow, didn’t know we were doing that now) yada yada-

“Sweetheart”.

All of it delivered in that deeply patronizing, annoyingly hot concerned-professional voice he’s perfected.

The one that should be irritating. Would be irritating, If it weren’t currently paired with both his hands kneading down your back, thumbs sinking into that dangerously tender spot just above your hips.

(You would roll your eyes, but you’ve just been told that’s a cervical risk. So you moan into the pillow instead. Respectfully.)

“Breathe through it,” he says. And you do. Immediately. Obediently.

Because he says it so kindly that you have to keep reminding yourself – repeatedly - that he actually cares about your spinal health, and is not, in fact, secretly calculating how many ways you could arch your hips to grind back against his very conveniently located crotch.

(You are. You’re calculating. You’re the problem.)

“Yeah, that’s a good one. Keep doing this,” he says, as his thumbs keep moving - maybe in circles, maybe up and down - you honestly couldn’t say. You’ve lost all grip on spatial awareness.

All you know is there’s a pulsing, needy little bundle of nerves between your legs now demanding attention.

Especially when he comments, right as his fingers glide just above your ass-

“You’re really tight here.” Sir (GN). Be serious. “You should start being a bit more mindful about your posture.”

And with just those few words, your clit - tired, neglected, and frankly done with being emotionally sidelined - decides it’s going to take what it can get.

If a proper orgasm isn’t on the table, a slightly patronizing lecture from Aaron Hotchner about spinal health will have to do.

It politely raises a hand. Submits a request to speak. The brain, overwhelmed and half-fried from continuous exposure to his voice, approves it immediately.

So you ask, way too casually for what it actually means:

“Could you go lower?”

“Lower?” he repeats, taunting, as his hands pause their tantric little routine before gliding under your waist and flipping you over onto his orthopedic mattress.

Now you’re face-to-face with him.

Arms crossed. Brows furrowed. That specific, sharpened brand of exasperation he reserves only for you - his favorite little headache (how romantic of him) - comes today with a bonus layer of disbelief.

Because Best-Profiler-Or-Whatever-Goddamn-Award-He-Just-Won-Again 2012 (the year's not over, but if the Bureau doesn’t give him another brass plaque to add to the terrifying shrine of ego and martyrdom he keeps in his office, he might actually cry) has officially clocked that the look in your – probably very dilated - eyes says one thing and one thing only:

Fuck me. (So Shakespearian.)

Still, since profiling is such a complex job –

(Or so he claims, usually while humblebragging about how he reads murderers for a living, yet somehow still can’t figure out the real reason you keep staring at his hands-)

so many factors, so many nuances, every twitch, every blink, every micro expression a breadcrumb-

So, you, being the considerate, emotionally generous person that you are, decide to spare him the effort. You remove all ambiguity, wrap your legs around his waist, and pull him in.

(Also: your boobs are out. The top of your pajama set’s currently sitting neatly folded on the far bedside table, placed there with care by none other than the Sexy Masseuse Extraordinaire himself.)

(You can’t turn to look at it. If you twist your neck, he’ll scold you. But you know it’s there.)

(So yes. #FreeTheNipple could easily be Exhibit B. Another little clue in the ever-growing case file of She Wants Me. Please, Aaron. Be thorough. File it under Intent.)

And apparently, he does.

Because without you saying a single word, he exhales - through his cutest, slightly uneven nostrils (and probably a deviated septum he refuses to get checked out) - and mutters, incredulous:

“Again?!”

Ah. Yes. Again.

Because to be fair, it is technically true that the second Aaron walked through the door - still suited up, still rumpled from the flight, fresh off a three-day case on the West Coast - the only greeting he got was a breathless “I missed you,” right before you yanked him down by the tie and onto his own couch to physically demonstrate that you (unlike him, [sometimes]) actually mean what you say.

So moved were you by his presence that you completely forgot to do the one basic thing required of anyone with even a shred of shame or social awareness:

Close. The. Curtains.

(You keep forgetting there’s an entire wing of Aaron’s apartment complex that has a front-row seat to his living room. Practically panoramic… oh- hi, Linda from 154.)

But it’s fine. It’s fine.

You fixed it.

You skipped the full nudity part and went for the most logistically respectful option: unzipping just his fly, just enough to free what you needed. Nothing more.

Just the essentials.

Just a fully dressed woman bouncing on a fully dressed man’s lap.

You’re pretty sure that doesn’t count as public indecency. (It’s basically PG-12. Glee’s airing worse on national television every Tuesday at 8/7c and that show’s somehow still going. So really, you’re fine. This is fine. Society has seen worse.)

…You also really, really hope no one saw it in the first place. You tell yourself no one saw it.

You keep telling yourself that, even as your brain starts tallying how many windows overlook this very couch. (Six. There are six. Possibly seven. And that woman on the third floor with the poodle - she definitely saw something. She always does.)

Those people didn’t see that your panties were still on - just pushed to the side, soaked through, clinging to your thigh.

Didn’t see the way your mouth fell open when you sank down onto his cock, gasping from the stretch, from the fuck yes finally of being full again.

Didn’t see his head fall back against the couch, eyes shut, the half-muttered “Jesus Christ” he left when your hips started rolling.

They didn’t see the way your thighs trembled when he grabbed your hips, then your waist, then your thighs again like he couldn’t decide where to hold you hardest, just knew he needed to keep you going.

Didn’t hear the noise he made when you grabbed a fistful of his tie for leverage, just to stay upright while he hit so fucking deep.

And they definitely didn’t hear the way your moan cracked when his mouth brushed your ear and he muttered: “Been thinking about this the whole damn flight.”

Three hours. He sat in a government plane, in slacks, probably surrounded by spreadsheets and murder, and still somewhere over Colorado, he was hard and thinking about you.

“I missed you,” you really mean it. (Yes, you want to fuck him. Obviously. But it’s also starting to feel like the reason you’re so desperate for his body is because being without him hurts a little more than it should.)

“That’s what you said in the shower,” he reminds you. (Oh. Right. The shower. The one that happened immediately after the couch.) “And on the bathroom sink.” Ah. Yes. You’d offered to blowdry his hair, but something else got blown first. (Priorities.) “Don’t you think that’s enough for tonight?”

He basically looks at you like you’re the most beloved disaster he’s ever encountered.

Fond - yes.

Amused - definetely.

Also very much trying not to laugh. He even bites his lip to hold it back.

Veeeery humbling experience.

And still, he leans in over you and locks his lips with yours - sweet enough to excuse how annoyingly chaste it feels. You start to pull him back in but he detours to your cheek instead, lingering there.

“You’re adorable,” he pities you. “Now please could you turn back over?”

Choking yourself with the pillow suddenly sounds like a fantastic plan. You eye it. You consider the logistics. You’re halfway to asphyxiating yourself into emotional amnesia when he leans in and kisses your shoulder.

Then the other. (Symmetry. He’s disgusting.)

You brace for his hands on your back, but it’s his mouth instead.

Starting at the nape of your neck, he works his way down your spine, lips dragging wet and slow. Every kiss sinks into your skin like he’s trying to rewrite your nervous system from the top down, rearranging your fucked-up muscles better than his actual massage ever could.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not even when his fingers hook into the waistband of your pajama pants and start easing them down - his mouth just keeps going, picking up exactly where the fabric leaves off.

You still get butterflies at the stupidly familiar feel of his calloused palms skimming down your thighs, knuckles brushing bare skin as he peels your bottoms away.

Could be excitement. Could be the fact that he’s been edging you for what feels like a fiscal quarter. Could be because you’re head over heels for him and refusing to deal with it. (Unclear. Not investigating.)

Anyways, Aaron - sweet, disciplined Aaron - folds your PJ pants, sets them neatly on top of your already-abandoned top on the bedside table (it was only a matter of time, that poor top’s been waiting for backup all night), and then immediately dives back in mouth-first (correction: teeth-first) sinking a bite right into the peak of your ass.

One side, then the other. (The man really loves symmetry.)

Groaning into your skin as you gasp his name - only for him to shut it down halfway through (fuck him, really) - he slides one arm beneath your hips, the other draping heavy across your thighs, and manhandles you into place in one smooth (hot) motion on all fours.

Ass up, panties still on (and very much soaked through).

It’s… a moment.

You crane your neck, scrambling for words - something clever, something linguistically adult - but what fries every functioning synapse isn’t just the way he’s staring at the soaked spot on your underwear;

It’s the way his pupils visibly dilate when he catches the barest glint of your cunt beneath it.

And still, he manages to outdo himself.

Because Aaron Hotchner’s greatest talent - aside from his intellect, that weirdly specific dry humor only you laugh at, and, of course, the mouthwatering, life-altering, holy-shit-that-thing-has-weight dick he’s somehow just casually lugging around - it’s his uncanny ability to always state the obvious.

“You’re soaked…” he murmurs. “You already fucked me and you’re still soaked.”

(There’s just something in Aaron saying that you fucked him…Call it power-hungry. Call it praise kink. Call it whatever.)

“Shit, say it again.” You just want his voice. More of it. Inside you, around you, anywhere.

You gasp as he hums straight into the damp fabric of your panties “Smug little thing… Let’s see how long it lasts.”

Then he drags his face down, nuzzling his nose along your glistening slit – catching every slick ridge through the soaked cotton, barely giving you any pressure, just enough to make you momentarily twitch.

He doesn’t bother teasing – just goes straight for your clit, flushed and throbbing, and latches on.

Mouth open. Tongue flat.

You start cursing everything.

Cursing the fabric of your panties he still hasn’t moved aside.

Cursing the way the soaked cotton catches every flick of his tongue – turning each pass into friction and making everything worse.

Cursing yourself for the sound you make when he moans into you – mouth hot and hungry – and yanks your hips closer like he can’t fucking help himself.

Grips your ass, fills both palms, pulls you tighter to his face until there’s nowhere for you to go – nowhere for you to run – nothing you can do but take it.

He’s drinking you. He sucks your slick through the fabric, letting it saturate his tongue, then releases your nub with a wet, obscene pop just to do it again.

Then again. And again.

Clicks his tongue just to hear the sound it makes against your cunt.

Right when you think you might actually die from how deliberately he’s taking his sweet time, he finally peels the fabric to the side.

(Thank God.)

“Fuck, Aaron-” you choke, fisting the sheets as he dives into your into your hole.

You were so fucking wrong.

His real talent isn’t stating the obvious.

It’s the way he makes out with your cunt, making you clench against him, and that molten heat already begins to gather low in your stomach.

“You taste better every fucking time. God, I missed you,” he mutters, one hand pressing into the small of your back to hold you down, the other spreading your ass so his tongue has more room to work and can slide deeper.

He fucks you with it.

Pushes in, pulls back, then he drags himself back up to your clit and just… goes feral. A combination you’re 100% sure he makes up on the spot, yet it’s somehow the exact cheat code to your nervous system.

You start grinding against his face, chasing friction like it’s oxygen, needy for whatever the hell that is until your thighs are trembling and your brain has officially vacated the premises.

The only word(s) you manage to hold onto is-

“Aaron- Aaron, please-”

Not your best work. Not ideal.

You should specify - to Mr. Old Man™ - that after please, there was going to be don’t stop.

But instead, it comes out half-strangled, choked off by the groan you let loose as he pulls away too fast, too soon, leaving you gasping face-first into a very wet, very real patch of drool on the mattress.

(It’s cooling against your chin now. Disgusting.)

You writhe, still aching, still pulsing, your body practically begging for his mouth, his nose, his fucking tongue - anything to fill the hot, miserable emptiness between your legs - until his hand wraps around the back of your neck (shit. fuck. shit), lifting you way too easily.

(Maybe because he’s strong. Maybe because you’re fully limp with desperation. Maybe because you don’t resist even a little bit. Hard to say.)

He pulls your spine upright, presses you back against his chest and crashes his mouth to yours.

And as he groans into your mouth, his whole face glistening with your arousal, smearing messily against your cheek, his cock presses between your folds, dragging through the soaked disaster he made of you.

The thick, swollen head - already leaking with precum - bumps against your clit as he grinds forward, dragging through your slick with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, a choked moan catching halfway in your throat…

…Right as his fingers start to curl around it.

Soft. Careful. Too careful. Like his hand landed there on instinct and now he’s realizing it, hesitating, trying not to make it a thing (which, joke’s on him, it already is).

(Also, if he could go ahead and press those thick, possessive, chubby-ass fingers a little deeper into your neck- yeah. That’d be ideal. Five stars.)

So, probably in a noble act of distraction (or self-preservation), Aaron starts to push in.

That first stretch.

That toe-curling burn you never fully prepare for. The one that drags your body open inch by inch like he’s carving a space only he gets to fill. And you adore it. You crave it like a sickness.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, mouth grazing your jaw. “I couldn’t resist.” And another kiss, “I need to fuck you properly so you don’t wake me up begging for it again.”

(If he keeps holding your neck like that while saying shit like that, you’re definitely waking him up again. With your mouth. Or your thighs.)

You decide to clench around him in reply (how generous of you - really, public service) - tight enough that you know he’s furrowing his brows right now, trying so hard not to let out one of those high-pitched, desperate little whimpers that would completely shatter the illusion of his usual Important Serious Man™ composure.

“Mmm, sweetheart,” he groans, dragging in deeper until he’s finally fully seated inside of you, buried to the hilt. “You’re not even trying to hide it, are you? Squeezing me like that…”

He should really be speaking for himself, considering the thing twitching inside you just because it’s lucky enough to be nestled inside you is his cock, not yours.

And sure, he starts rocking into you all slow and deliberate, hips rolling against the swell of your ass like he thinks he can distract you with rhythm alone, but it’s textbook deflection.

(Hotchner: 1 – You: 0. For now.)

“Aaron-” you gasp, barely coherent, because fuck, you’re full. Like - can’t think, can’t breathe, forgot-Aaron’s-home-wifi-password kind of full.

(Which is annoying, because you were just about to remember it. It was something long and unnecessarily specific, like JHotchnerILoveAmerica65 or JackRules2012.)

(AHotchnerNet_3G_guest_home_office?)

(QuanticoSecure_LinkV2?) Nope. That’s the Bureau one. (You may or may not have shamelessly stolen their bandwidth to watch YouTube videos in his office the first time you visited - sitting on that black leather guest chair, legs swinging, waiting for him to come out of some high-stakes consult.)

(Ugh, come on, you almost had it. It’s the one with the weird numbers… Jack’s birthday? No, that was the old one, the one you used to mooch off before he got weird about network security after that article in The Atlantic.)

(Was it Hotchner_Home_8347_SECURE_VPNLOCKED? Or was that the printer? What was it?)

(Wait - is he 7.5 inches? 8? 8.5?! Feels like that but you’re way too biased.)

“Oh fuck-” Your nails bite into the solid curve of his bicep, your back arches on instinct - no thought involved, just muscle memory screaming yes, like that, and your body goes soft over his, melting like heat’s finally overtaken every vertebrae you’ve got.

Boneless. Useless. Yours now comes with a floppy warranty.

He notices, so he wraps his other arm tight around your waist, keeping you upright. “Yes, honey? You like that? Is that what you’re trying to say? Or-.” A sharper thrust. “Do you need me to go harder already?”

Not accepting your whimper as an answer, he goes harder anyway.

White-hot static floods your brain, sparking behind your eyes. You lose track of sound, of sense, of everything but the slap-slap-slap of skin on skin, that becomes even louder than the creaky-ass wooden antique bedframe Aaron refuses to replace.

(Yes, it was expensive. Yes, he insists it’s historical. Yes, it’s probably haunted. No, you do not care. Louis XIV himself could rise from the dead and tell you it’s a collector’s piece, you’re still letting Aaron split you in half on it.)

“Do you feel it?” he asks.

You know what he means. Doesn’t even need to say it.

Especially when his hand tightens just that little bit more around your throat - enough to blur the edges, enough to make your cunt flutter in a grateful little thank you because that was literally what you were about to beg for and this man just read your goddamn mind and saved you the humiliation-

“Well- it’s- fuck yes, right th- it’s kind of impossible not to, isn’t it?”

Wrong answer, apparently.

Because it earns you exactly zero gold stars and a one-way ticket to being shoved face-first into the mattress, his palm flat on your back.

(Or maybe he’s just decided he won’t be satisfied until you’re properly, thoroughly, professionally fucked dumb, until the only thing your brain can process, let alone say, is his name.)

“Lift your hips,” he instructs.

“What-”

“Just do it.”

You do. Of course you do. Because you are weak and unprincipled and you like it when he uses his dad voice.

(Sorry, framed Jack. Not your dad dad. Like- authority figure dad. Weird to explain. Just- sorry Jack.)

He reaches for the pillow from his side of the bed (naughty… part of you hopes he doesn’t bother changing the case afterward, just so he can fall asleep every night wrapped in the scent of your sex… but then again, you’re talking about Aaron, so he'll probably sanitize it twice and iron it back into place) and slides it beneath your stomach.

“There. Better angle for your back,” he mutters.

“Are you fucking kidding me… oh fuck- my back?” You try to mock him, but all you can think is that this stupid orthopedic pillow just shoved him even deeper.

He’s drilling into you so hard, so fucking perfectly, that all you can focus on is how thick he is - how every goddamn ridge, every pulsing vein, every inch of him is dragging against your walls and hitting your spot every single time.

Somehow, you’re still not used to how deep he gets. Still not over the fact that he fits like this, that he fucks like this. That he’s that deep. That much.

You start thinking you should give him a little plaque.

A nice, shiny, brassy “Deepest Stroke Award: Best Dick 2012” kind of thing. Stick it right next to his Bureau commendations so everyone that steps into his office knows he’s that good.

So good that as he angles himself even better (you didn’t even know that was possible), you don’t even hear the bedframe anymore.

(Which is convenient, because next time he wakes you up at 3 a.m. - all apologetic and sleepy and sweet, muttering “sorry, sweetheart, I just need to turn over, please go back to sleep” while trying not to make it creak - you’re gonna tell him to just flip you over and fuck you like this until you both go deaf. Sleep like babies. Problem solved.)

You’re gasping, whimpering, face buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tight in the sheets they might tear, and Aaron has the audacity -the actual fucking balls (which, by the way, are slapping against your clit with every thrust and fuck, they feel incredible… justice for balls, truly) - to tut at you.

“Sweetheart, you’re collapsing your shoulders again, try to pull them back. Keep the neck long.”

You try to lift yourself. You really do. But your arms are jelly, your spine’s gone to hell, and your entire body is preoccupied with coming apart on his cock.

Still, his big, warm hand spreads flat over the center of your back as he straightens you out. “Come on, sweetheart. Don’t make me correct your posture and fuck you… engage here.”

(Which is ironic. Because right now? He’s doing both flawlessly.)

“Trying,” you pant.

“Oh, I can see you’re trying,” he mutters, and somehow it’s affectionate and condescending and it should make you furious but instead your cunt clenches yet again like it wants to say thank you, sir.

He shifts his hips and pushes in deeper, angling just right and you see white.

Just white. No thoughts. No gods. No laws. Just the smug chuckle he lets out as your mouth drops open and a sound escapes that isn’t even a word anymore.

“Poor thing,” he coos as his pretentious mouth brushes your spine. “Clenching around me like that and still trying to impress me with your form. You can’t even hold yourself up, sweetheart. That’s adorable.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole? Can’t you just say one of those stupid cheesy things you tell me all the other times?”

He kisses your shoulder. “Because for some reason,” he murmurs, lazy and devastating, “we both know why this turns you on more.”

It’s because you watch too much porn when he’s away. That’s what it is. That’s the problem. You look for the perfect video, scrolling through every possible variation of "older man, authoritative voice, hairy chest, forehead lines, kind of sad but knows how to eat pussy."

Trying to find a man with his exact nose. His exact voice. His exact cock.

But you never find it. You never find him.

And you’re too chickenshit to ask him to just send you a video of himself fucking his fist - because he’s probably doing something more important, like saving Gotham or shooting an active shooter - and you don’t want to be the reason he gets sidetracked while stroking his lenght in a government office. (…Though, the idea is… not bad.)

So instead, you settle. Again.

You open one of those copy-paste porn videos made for men who think women are doormats with vocal fry, and let it play. Same limp dialogue. Same dead-eyed expressions. Same choreographed humiliation kink that somehow makes you feel like the one being punished.

And still, it doesn’t work. Because Aaron Hotchner has fucked up your brain chemistry to such a degree that other men just don’t do it anymore. You slap the laptop shut to end up staring at that blurry pic you took of him coaching Jack’s football game. (Sorry, Jack.)

He’s just in a bland T-shirt. Biceps hulking under cotton. Arms crossed. Whistle hanging from his neck like he’s about to say something inspirational and slightly disappointed.

That’s the reason.

(...Or maybe it’s just that nothing on this godforsaken Earth turns you on more than when he tells you what to do - precisely how to take it, exactly how to behave - even though you’ve spent an embarrassing amount of mental energy convincing yourself that enjoying that somehow makes you less of a feminist, like Simone de Beauvoir’s going to rise from the grave and revoke your womanhood because you like being manhandled by a man in overpriced pajamas.)

(Yeah… it’s definitely because you watch way too much porn.)

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand sliding back up to your throat, palm pressing lightly, thumb stroking under your jaw as you try to mumble something broken and vowel-heavy that you’re pretty sure started as his name. “Oh…” Aaron chuckles, putting two and two together. “So this is what you want?”

“Hnngh…” you try, but he slaps your ass. (You swear to God, the next time he walks in front of you on a staircase, you’re smacking him. Right there. Mid-step. He will be humbled. You will have your revenge.) “Yes. Yes. Just- just stay there.”

“Here where?”

“Shut up.”

Another slap.

Another involuntary moan. (Still. Stairs, Hotchner.)

“No, but seriously - your back. You sit like shit. You fuck like a dream, but Jesus, I’m gonna send you to physical therapy myself if you keep collapsing your shoulders like that.”

You whimper into the pillow. Your clit’s caught between the pillow and your cunt clenches hard, slick dripping down your thighs, and you don’t know if you’re closer because of the way he’s choking you or the fact that he just corrected your posture.

“Could you – fuck – could you just talk more?” (There it is. Your final shred of dignity. Cashed. Spent. Gone.)

He hums behind you. “Oh, now you want feedback?” Then he leans down, and suddenly you’re wearing him – coarse salt-and-pepper chest hair scraping your slick back, the full weight of him pushing you down as his cock punches so deep into you, you have to roll your eyes back.

“You want me to tell you how fucking good you feel?” he grits, hips picking up pace, snapping harder now.

You’re not really in the conditions to answer.

Your mouth is open but your brain has blue-screened, locked in a loop of oh my God oh my God oh my fuc-

“God, look at you,” he groans, almost in disbelief, hand splaying across your upper back to keep you down, to stop your writhing. “Making a mess all over my cock. You’re dripping. Absolutely soaking me.”

And oh… you feel it.

The soaked patch you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he still hasn’t taken off - just shoved down far enough to fuck you properly - slapping wetly against your skin every time he drives in.

(You’re naked. He’s half-dressed. Fully dressed, actually…)

Oh, you feel it.

The wet, sticky sound of your cunt swallowing him with every thrust. The soaked spot you’ve been leaving on the pyjama pants he didn’t even bother taking of hitting you over and over again while you’re naked.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he huffs, and oh - his voice cracks. He’s close. Good. (That’s so hot.) “Taking me so well. Still gripping me like it’s the first time. Letting me fuck you this- this deep- Jesus Christ-“ (Amen.) “I can feel every goddamn pulse-”

His hand slides from your spine to your throat - tightens just enough to send your body into full siren-mode panic, only to twist it into white-hot bliss a second later.

And then the other sneaks between your thighs, fingers already soaked in you, finding your clit like he’s done it a thousand times (you’re still in the double digits) and starts circling. . Fast. Messy. Precise.

The kind of perfect that short-circuits thought. That makes your jaw go slack. That makes your breath catch on the edge of something that isn’t quite a moan, or a cry, or-

It almost slips out.

That thing.

The three-word, soul-ruining thing people only say when they’re either very brave or very stupid. And right now, with his fingers rubbing you and his cock still buried so deep it feels like belonging, you’re dangerously close to being both.

“F-fuck, Aaron-”

“I’ve got you. Let go, sweetheart.”

And you do.

You break. Your thighs tremble, your back arches involuntarily (and Aaron’s too far gone to lecture you about spinal integrity now), and your moan turns guttural and ugly as your orgasm crashes through you - pulling his name from your throat

You clamp down so hard around him he curses, jaw clenched, hips jerking once, twice, then he’s there too.

Hot, deep, choking on his breath as he thrusts into the tight clutch of your pulsing cunt, burying himself to the hilt, spilling inside you in rough, thick spurts that have your body jolting again from the aftershocks.

He groans into your shoulder, mouth open, teeth grazing skin, hips still twitching through the aftershocks - every helpless pulse of him inside you dragging another ripple of heat down your spine, through your thighs, and eventually, shamefully, down onto the sheets.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move, really, except to press his chest tighter against your back, as if he’s trying to stay in your skin. Like if he lets go, something might slip - out of him, out of you, out of whatever the hell this is.

His breathing is still a bit ragged, hot and damp against your shoulder, and you feel his lips brush there, once, then again - barely a kiss, just contact.

Just reassurance. Just him not knowing how else to say I needed that. Instead it’s just words not meant to be heard - just soft, scattered nothings that don’t quite form sentences, all of them pressed into your skin.

"You're okay,"

"Got you,"

"So good, baby..."

Over and over. Sweet. Ruined. Honest.

Your chest hurts.

Because he means it.

He’s not thinking about it, he’s just being. And it’s the most terrifyingly beautiful thing he’s ever done to you. You need to ruin it.

“FUCK, that was incredible. Where did you keep all of that?!”

He pauses. You can feel him trying not to laugh.

You roll onto your side, gasping. “No, like, WOW. Wow wow wow, Aaron. Wow. Who are you? What was that? Have you been holding out? Were you possessed? Should I call someone? Is there a hotline?”

You watch the faint blush creep across his cheek as he pushes up onto his elbows, runs a hand through his post-sex hair (sexier than pre-sex hair, somehow), and exhales the most exasperatedly fond sound you’ve ever heard.

“Please don’t call anyone.”

These moments - when he completely misses a joke that any normal adult would clock instantly - really do make you want to climb him like a tree all over again.

But what really gets you? What sets your neurons on fire and your soul on its knees?

The phenomenon - still unstudied, tragically overlooked by science - in which post-sex Aaron becomes the most meticulous, terrifyingly competent man alive.

He doesn’t hesitate. Just materializes a warm cloth from nowhere (possibly interdimensional?), cleans you up with it, straightens the sheets, fluffs the pillows, and tucks you in.

You don’t even know when he grabbed his glasses, but suddenly they’re on his face and you’re on his chest, half-sitting, draped over him.

You might feel shame for being so clingy if he ever said anything about it. But he never does. Not even a snide little quip. Just those small, fond huffs that suggest he’s mostly annoyed at himself for enjoying this so much.

Or, like now, he reaches calmly into his go-bag and pulls out what is undeniably the driest, dustiest, most textbook-looking book you've ever seen in your life.

“Sorry,” he says, settling back against the headboard. “I’ve just got a few chapters left… do you want to pretend to be reading with me?”

Wise choice of words, Agent Hotchner.

Because what you really want is to drown yourself in his pheromones and rub your cheek on his chest hair until your responsibilities disintegrate.

“Wearing those,” you sigh dreamily, eyeing the glasses, the page, the stupid peaceful look on his face, “you can do anything you’d like.”

He shakes his head - fond. Touched.

Probably regretting all his life choices, but not enough to stop.

He flips open the tome, rests it against one bent knee, and starts reading. His finger glides up to his lips every time he turns a page, like he’s savoring each one. Every now and then, he adjusts his glasses.

You watch in awe.

Reverence.

…Horniness.

So you just keep kissing him. Aimless, endless little things - his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, the back of his ear - any patch of skin within a lazy head-turn radius gets worshipped.

“Wow. Wow wow. Aaron. Wow. Wowowowowow.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just keeps reading, completely unbothered.

Occasionally hums.

If you’re lucky, he presses a kiss into your hair or the side of your temple - never rushed, always lingering, like he’s sealing something in.

Or if he just does that because he’s an old fuck and that’s how they taught knights to kiss their trembling maidens back in the 1500s.

He looks so… peaceful. Way too peaceful.

Which is immediately suspicious.

You open your mouth, just about to ask, “Can we do it again?” when, without even glancing up from the page, he slides the hand resting on your waist down.

Dips straight into your PJ pants, then your underwear.

Your mouth falls open. Nothing comes out.

Not even the question. He’s already answered it.

He exhales through his nose - completely unbothered - as his index finger starts stroking your clit in the slowest lazy little patterns.

Like fingering you under a blanket mid-biography is just his evening chore before tea and chapter seven. Like he’s got all night. (He probably does.)

(You can’t even moan yet. You’re too busy trying to process the fact that he’s still reading.)

And then, instead of simply licking a finger to turn the page like a normal person, he brings two of those thick fingers to his mouth.

He sucks on them, eyes still fixed on the text, lips closed around his fingers as he coats them in spit. And without ever lifting his gaze, he sinks them deep into you - curling just enough to make your thighs tense around him.

“You think I don’t know the real reason you’re always staring at my hands?”

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

#woahh. i have a lot of feelings. i also believe i must now apologize to framed picture jack. sorry for sexualizing your dad this much #but like?? holy shit?? this is wonderful #sigmund freud from beyond the grave is having a field day with the excess of emotions this very specific scenario has evoked #art #aaron hotchner fic #ssa-dado #hotch x fleabag!reader #smut #and a damn good batch of it too #i had to come back and add these thoughts:#hotch cannot escape his need to be in control. and i will submit to that control willingly. fleabag!reader is me. she is us. we #we are she #OH! and the pjs. those friggin pjs. AND THE BEDFRAME LOLOL #ALSO THE LAST SENTENCE? HE WENT THERE

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nightshine72 · 3 months ago

Text

I need you to understand that when I say "comments are appreciated!" I mean that I will reply to every one of them. I mean that an email with an ao3 notification has a higher priority than a message from my mother. I mean that I will have entire discussions in the comment section if you're up for it. Message me on tumblr and I will have the same discussions on an even more unhinged level. I will dissect entire personalities and ships and fictional political structures and worldbuilding with you. I will become your new best friend. You already ARE my new best friend. At the last battle, I would raise Anduril and say "For my ao3 readers" while a single tears rolls down my cheek, and dive into the fray. I would upload from beyond the grave if someone asked about the next chapter

#ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #fanfic readers #ao3 comments #ao3 community

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 2 months ago

Text

To love me better

Tags: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna x fem!Reader, american!Reader, forced/arranged marriage, dark romance trope, dead dove, age gap romance (reader is around 21-22, Sukuna is 37) heavy dacryphilia, finger sucking, use of “good girl”, use of pet names, Sukuna is his own warning.

Synopsis: Yakuza Lord!Sukuna owns all of entertainment district. You’re trying to work to put yourself through law school. He has a proposition for you, and you have one for him.

An: I fear that I was going to explode if I didn’t write this. I’ve been in a not good headspace. Blah blah blah school sucks blah blah work sucks blah everything sucks. I’m sorry if this sucks too. Edit - I forgot to mention that this will be a multi-part fic.

Part one. | Part two. | Part three. |

*art creds for sukuna image goes to @.maru6 here on tumblr

Nothing in this life comes for free.

Your father taught you from a very early age to never take handouts from anyone because they’ll always benefit the other person more. He was an immigrant to Japan, and he worked hard for every yen he made.

He instilled that same work ethic in you.

After being hurt on the job from working in a poor environment, your father became very ill. He couldn’t move around as much. Sitting up out of bed made him feel winded. He slowly withered away into a shell of the man who once raised you.

Your mom was long gone. She couldn’t help out, nor did she even want to.

All you were left with was a pile of debt and utter rage. Had your father not been taken advantage of by greedy corporate conglomerates, he would still be here today.

It inspired you to want to go to law school. Your dad should’ve received a hefty settlement check for what he endured from his workplace conditions. The money wouldn’t have solved everything, but it would’ve alleviated some of the stress your dad dealt with in his final days.

You’ll never forget how hoarse his voice sounded while he was on the phone with different agencies, trying to sue that place who forced him into an early grave.

You’ll never forgive them for stealing your dad away.

If you were more ambitious, you’d work to try to change the system entirely, but you knew that wasn’t your fight to face. You wanted to help the already disadvantaged families who were facing injustices beyond their control.

So, you started law school. You were smart enough for it. You had the heart. You just didn’t have a special last name to fund your college tuition. You were a first generation Japanese American in the family. While both your parents were born in America, you were born in Japan, but you were still an outsider.

You were never properly indoctrinated in the culture. Sure, you knew the basics. You knew proper etiquette and appropriate behaviors to live in Japan, but you didn’t understand the layers of how society operated. It was as if you were never assimilated into society as a Japanese citizen.

Your dad wasn’t born here, so he never could explain to you how your last name means everything in this town.

Despite it all, you’d become a lawyer even if you had to bury yourself into debt to do it. You’d work to put yourself through college. You’d do it and bear a smile on your face because you don’t take fucking handouts.

That lead you to becoming a bottle girl at one of the most exclusive clubs in the entertainment district: Malevolent Mass.

The manager said you had the right look, whatever that means. It didn’t matter. He hired you on the spot despite your lack of a substantial last name.

This would be fine. You’d work at night on the weekends and put yourself through school during the day, and you’d keep it a secret from your school, knowing you could lose your position in the prestigious school.

It was a perfect plan, right?

Yes, it was perfect.

Customers seemed to love your polite attitude and warm hospitality. You had quickly made a name for yourself in the few short nights you had worked there.

It was only your second weekend, and your section was full. It was almost comprised entirely of men and their gold digger wives, but you got use to the sexual comments and predatory smiles.

The environment was heavily secured. When you were hired, the managers made sure to show you where security was posted up at every dark corner. They also showed you where cameras were located and assured you that not anyone could just walk into Malevolent Mass.

However, you were well aware that the most dangerous people often worse suits and golden Rolex’s.

It was a busy Friday night. You had already shotgunned two 5 Hour Energy drinks, and you had been steadily sipping on a Monster throughout your shift. You had been in classes all day, and you were scheduled to work until close at 4am.

“Cherry, can we get another round of champagnes?” a sleazy voice pipes up, calling you by your codename. The club was so security driven that they gave all the bottle girls codenames to protect their identities.

“Yes sir,” you respond with an entirely fake bright smile. Your buzzed customers couldn’t tell the difference especially with the low lighting and bass boosted music.

As you walked over towards the bar, your eyes fall onto another table. A man was leaned back with his hands behind his head. He looked entirely relaxed as a girl was bent over your lap.

A crease formed between your eyebrows. They couldn’t be serious, right? Malevolent Mass had a whole downstairs portion dedicated to public sexual acts and other deviant kinks. Why the fuck were they doing that in the normal club area?

As you took a step further, ready to confront them, you realized that the girl was positioned oddly. She wasn’t angled towards his crotch, instead she was hovering over his thigh.

That’s when you noticed she had a rolled up 10,000 yen note, and she was snorting a white powdery substance off the man’s thigh.

Holy fuck, you were in over your head.

Stumbling back towards the bar, you felt your head start to spin a little. It was probably due to fact you’d only consumed energy drinks in the past 12 hours.

“Girl. You don’t look too good,” the bartender, Yorozu, said as she guided you to take a seat. “Are you okay?” she asked cautiously. Compared to the other bottle girls and dancers, Yorozu was the closest thing you had to a friend in this establishment.

“I’m fine,” you quietly replied, shaking your head. It was just drugs. You needed to take a chill pill. It’s not like people go to clubs like this just for some liquid courage.

Yorozu put a glass of water in front of you anyways, not quite believing your words. “Here. I promise you get used to it all,” she offered with a kind smile.

You gave her an appreciative smile as you took a sip of the water. Your hand was trembling, and you realized you had been sweating.

The water felt nice, and you inwardly warded off energy drinks for the rest of the night. It wasn’t worth feeling like a panicky mess.

“I need another bottle of Dom Prignon for booth 12,” you said as you looked back up towards Yorozu. She nodded and walked towards the back to retrieve the bottle of too expensive champagne.

While she was gone, you took a deep breath and looked around towards the security posts. It felt like a small safety blanket in a place like this. Finishing your glass of water, you felt infinitely better as she returned with the bottle.

“Here you are! Let me know if you need anything else, and seriously, don’t feel bad for reacting that way. It’s a bit of a culture shock for everyone during their first few nights,” she assured you as she handed you the bottle.

“Thanks, I appreciate you,” you replied with a genuine smile. Yorozu had a nice energy to her like you felt like you could get close to her one day. A girl friend would be nice to have in a place like this.

As you walked back over to your section, your lips curled into a frown as empty seats filled your eyes. Had they gotten tired of waiting and abandoned your section?

You felt disappointed as you looked around for your customers. They were nowhere to be found, but one silhouette remained in the very back corner.

“Did you bring that bottle for me? How sweet. Too bad I don’t drink,” a deep gravely voice spoke up with a hint of condescension and pure predatory prowess.

You hesitate as it feels like the air in the club shifts simply from this man’s presence alone.

“You don’t drink..?” your voice is uneasy. You feel off balance while interacting with the man tucked away in a dark corner.

“No,” the stranger replied, and he leaned forward a bit, propping his elbows on his knees as his eyes were staring straight at you. “Don’t be shy, girl. Come closer. I won’t bite…” the condescension in his voice tells you otherwise.

You swallow thickly before slowly taking a few steps closer. As you approached him, you were able to see him in all of his glory. The breath is completely sucked from your lungs as you’re able to finally get a good look at him.

He wore a white button-up top with black slacks that really didn’t leave much for the imagination. His sleeves weee rolled up to his elbows, showing off tattoos on his arms.

His face was hauntingly alluring. His tattoos also went up to his face. He had intricate lines under his cheeks that stretched down to his chin. His hair was a natural light rosy color that was pushed up from his forehead. It looked effortless and messy, unlike most business men who rely way too heavily on hair gel.

His eyes were a soft crimson color that looked like blood that had been spilled. A jarring scar slashed over his left eye, but it wasn’t ugly by any means. No, this man held a god-like status when it came to looks. However, his energy felt nothing short of daunting and corrupt.

“Who comes to a club to not drink?” you ask nervously, having to fill the eerie silence with something. It felt like you were suffocating in this man’s presence.

A rugged chuckle leaves his lips, and he tilts his head back slightly. It feels like his laugh sticks to you, making you relax and tense back up all at the same time. You can feel every yen he’s worth with each chuckle.

“If you must know, I come here for a… different sort of entertainment,” he says as his lips curled into a smirk. His eyes unabashedly roam your body — twice before he meets your gaze again.

“Oh, that’s downstairs,” you reply as you feel relieved. This man was just in the wrong section. Surely, you’d guide him to where he needed to go, and you’d be free from whatever kind of verbal hostage situation this was.

“I’m content with where I’m at,” he says with a sort of finality that leaves little room for argument. “Come closer, doll.”

His arm props up on the back of the curved booth, and his legs part into that sort of manspread position where he takes up a good portion of the booth with his massive size.

“I-“

The man pulls a clip of money from his suit, and he makes a show out of flipping through the money before he lays six 10,000 yen notes on the table.

What the hell.

“60,000 yen for you to shut up and come closer,” he says in a voice that lacks the faux kindness he was putting on earlier.

Every survival instinct in your body was telling you to run, but your brain was telling you that 60,000 yen was enough to cover your student housing and for a train pass for a month.

You slowly inch closer, your heels not even lifting from the ground.

The man gives you an amused look as he raises an eyebrow at you. “How much for you to sit on my lap?”

“I-I’m not a dancer..” you reply sheepishly, wondering if he thought you were one of the performers for the club.

“Good thing I’m not asking you to dance, doll. I’m asking you to sit in my lap,” His lips curl into a feline grin. He’s enjoying toying with you like this. “So, I’ll ask only one more time. How much?”

Your heart is pounding against the confines of your ribcage. It felt like you had a little angel on your shoulder telling you that selling this man your time will only further escalate, but the little devil on your other shoulder was telling you to milk him for whatever he was willing to give.

You stayed silent for a few minutes, calculating what a whole month’s expenses would cost you along with the 60,000 yen you already made.

“90,000 yen,” you sheepishly murmur, bracing yourself for him to yell at you for even suggesting such a high number.

There was a beat of silence before the sound of more money being unfolded was heard. He chuckled as he placed down nine more 10,000 yen notes.

“Look at you being all cute while asking for money from me,” he teased, resting his back against the back of the booth. His hand patted his thigh, signaling for you to take a seat.

“I’m not asking— You offered!” you protested, feeling a bit defensive that he would suggest that you just asked him for money.

“Don’t take such a whiny tone with me, doll. I’m only teasing you,” he says as he gestures to his lap yet again. “Sit.”

You bite your bottom lip as you look down towards his lap. You were really about to sit on this stranger’s lap for money… If your dad could see you now, he’d probably disown you.

Good thing he isn’t here.

You slowly walked over towards him, and you carefully take a seat on one of his thighs, planting your feet firmly on the ground so you’re slightly hovering. You need to be able to get away from him at a moment’s notice.

A strong hand slowly snaked up your back, towards your hair, and you tensed up quickly. The stranger wrapped his hand around the back of your neck.

“If I have to tell you again, I’m taking back my money. Sit,” he viciously growled in your ear.

You were already this far in. You should see this through. This club is safe. You were sure of it.

As you slowly allowed yourself to prop your full weight across his lap, your eyes scan around the club, looking at the security points. None of the men would even glance in your direction as if they were purposefully ignoring your section.

What did you just get yourself into?

“See? Was that so hard?” he taunted as his hand slowly dropped down to clasp around your hip. “Why is an angel like you in a club like this?”

Everything in you told you not to answer that question. As soon as he knew your weakness, he’d definitely use it to his advantage, but he probably already knew money was a good motivator for you.

“I didn’t know there was a no angel policy,” you say, trying to remain casual as you flash him a small smile.

A deep chuckle erupts from his chest. He appreciates you trying to use humor to deflect. Clever girl.

“I suppose you’re right,” he rolls his head to the side, cracking his neck from both sides. The sound of bones popping causes a shudder to go through your body. This man was good at giving a false sense of security. “But angels don’t last long in a place like this. It would be a pity to see you be ruined.”

His other hand firmly rested against your thigh, right above your knee. He gives your leg a light squeeze. “Tell me your name, doll.”

“Cherry,” You respond without missing a beat, giving your code name instead of your real name.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” he asks, allowing his fingertips to glide against the exposed skin of your thigh. Your breath picks up in speed, noticing he’s getting more bold with touching you.

“Am I suppose to?” you ask, genuinely curious if this man was some big shot that you were suppose to know.

You very rarely kept up with politics, only knowing major crime names from your law classes, and you definitely didn’t keep up with conglomerates. This man wouldn’t be the first millionaire to walk through the doors of Malevolent Mass, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Another deep raspy chuckle escapes him. “No, I actually find it quite cute you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

His hand slithered up your back once again, and this time he grabbed a fistful of your head, tugging your head back to look up at him. A gasp slips past your lips as your eyes meet his crimson ones.

“Tell me a secret, cherry,” he hisses your codename like it’s disgraceful on his tongue. “Do you belong here?”

You think to try to get up from his lap, but his other arm has worked to secure you to him tightly. The security men aren’t even glancing in your direction. No one would hear you over the music blasting if you tried to scream, and if this man was as important as his inflated ego suggested, no one would likely even help you.

You’ve done everything thus far to get out from underneath the rich man’s thumb, but it feels like every time you take one step forward, something pushed two steps back.

Do you belong anywhere? No where feels like home after your dad passed. Tears stung into your eyes. Why were you thinking of him at a time like this? He can’t save you now.

The man’s lips twitched into a smirk as he saw the tears building in your eyes. That alone was confirmation enough. You didn’t belong here at all.

His other hand reaches up to your face, and he gently strokes your cheek — a contrast to how tightly he was holding your hair. “Such a pretty crier,” he deep gravely voice coos to you.

You can’t even help it at this point. You try to blink the water away from your eyes, but the tears slip down your cheeks anyway. You just silently cursed yourself for ruining your own makeup.

“You’re a crybaby, aren’t you?” he asked as his fingers brush against your pouty lips, and he grabs your chin carefully. “Open.”

Accepting defeat, your lips part ever so slightly for him, and you can feel the way his heart races in his chest from the sight. He narrowly eyes you as two of his fingers slip past your lips.

You’re momentarily stunned from his thick fingers filling your mouth. You feel a thrum between your thighs, but you try to ignore it. Surely, your body was just betraying you, and his body was betraying him. You were able to feel every inch of his hard on through his slacks. The sight of your tears only served to spur him on further.

When you give his fingers a light suckle, he purrs a praise for you. Leisurely, he thrusts his digits in and out from your mouth. He admires the way you accept them in without a single complaint.

“Such a good girl for me. Try a little harder,” his voice darkly instructs you as he slides his fingers deeper past your tongue, hitting your inexperienced throat.

Your throat involuntarily constricts, causing you to gag and cry more. You hum around his fingers as you whimper. He merely laughs at your pitiful display.

“We’ll have to train your cute little throat to take more, won’t we?” he asked, making a dull ache settle in your lower stomach. You had never done anything like this, and the way he was treating all this so casually filled you with some sort of… excitement.

His words also struck you with fear as you realized this meant he was likely far from being done with his antics.

His fingers continue until you’ve coated them in a thin sheen of saliva. When he pulled from you, you were panting even though he hadn’t taken away your ability to breathe.

He smirked as he gazed at you as if he can tell that your cunt is clenching around nothing right now. It’s like he knows every perverse desire you’ve fantasized about in your alone time.

“You’re a vision, doll. I’m going to have so much fun breaking you,”

Before you could even think to inquire what he meant by that, an unfamiliar male voice spoke up to your side, causing you to flinch slightly. The other man was dressed in basic business attire, but he had a scrappier look to him.

“Sir?”

The stranger tensed, and you could practically see all the playful taunting energy in his face melt away. He stared daggers into the newcomer’s soul. “Speak.”

“Members of the Gojo clan were spotted near Dante’s 7th circle,”

“Dammit, what a pest,” the pink-haired male growled. He clearly didn’t fancy being interrupted.

You perked up a little from the mention of the infamous Gojo clan. You had heard plenty of whispers about the clan fluttering about on campus, and the clan had been brought up momentarily in your organized gangs class before the professor quickly shut down the conversation.

Yakuza clans were talked about in school, but the professors were very careful about what they chose to say, knowing that members were everywhere amongst them.

The stranger carefully moved you from his lap, and he stood up, gathering himself before turning to you. “You behave. I have to go tend to something, but I’ll be back for you,” he said as he reached into his coat, and he casually tossed a whole clip of yen onto the table.

Your eyes widened at the stack of money sitting on the table, and your heart began to race. It felt like the last two hours had been a complete blur, but now, you were face with a thick stack of money — probably enough to cover you for at least three months… and you weren’t even done with your shift yet.

Your excitement was quickly overshadowed by fear. He was coming back for you. How intertwined had you gotten yourself into this mess?

taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby

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bunji-enthusiast · 1 year ago

Note

Can we please get at continuance of the beyond the grave post? Maybe where the reader finally faces Brandon?

Two Bones To Pick — Beyond The Grave

• Sypnosis || coming to terms with it all.

• CW || hurt/comfort, fluff, reader is late 30’s to 40’s (fyi), Grave is chronologically 43, lots of terrible writing. Short— my bad.

• pairing || Grave/GN!Reader

• Note || Oh my GODDDD, i am so sorry for making you wait. Mf life got in the way 💀. > Previous part

It was now past midnight, the moon rising and making way for dawn.

You couldn’t understand it, how he was so willful and ignorant at the same time. Grave was so beautiful, yet so strange all the time. As he ever was.

He always was a strange man, you could never really comprehend him fully. The way he does kind acts in complete darkness, the way he smiles so silently in spite of whatever pain he was experiencing. You could never really understand.

In a way, you felt lucky, to be able to meet Brandon Heat all those years ago. Getting to know him as a person, it almost felt off that he had ever joined the mafia. He had too much of a kind heart, yet he always pulled through.

To know Brandon was to know sadness, Grave was a different mystery entirely you weren’t sure how to face.

“Ompf!” You crashed into another person, rubbing your temple as you calmed the ceaseless throbbing that had went on in your head. With a calmer gait, you looked up and began to apologise, “I’m sorry, I wasn-“

Oh.

It was Grave, Beyond The Grave. Suddenly a deep churning rumbled your stomach, anxiety mostly just from having to look at him. At once, he notices your forlorn expression and lays a hand on your shoulder.

Worry knits his brow, creases unnoticeable to the naked eye. Grave nodded curtly, as he unfortunately was left without the ability to speak properly — rarely had he been lucky to do so for few circumstances. He was trying to convey something, as if he was asking, ‘are you alright?’

At first, it seemed so silly and simple; but you knew otherwise. Your shoulders slumped, feeling a little defeated and at a loss for words. In spite of Grave’s few limitations, he still can care even if he holds a very cold stature.

To put it simply.

You weren’t sure.

Why? So many emotions and so many troubles, all swirling down to one thing. Because of Grave, because of Brandon Heat. You couldn’t find his reasons palpable for ever wanting to come back in the first place, and now, he was working hard to eliminate SEED.

But why? Why him? He shouldn’t need to. Grave was just so… indifferent, it felt like the usual shining coin you could see on the side walk just turned to a rotten emissary, floating away on a gutter.

Yet even better then ever, he came back strong. Your own heart simply just wanted you to get away from Grave, from Brandon Heat. You simply just couldn’t cope with the very fact, his extension.

Oh, his extension?… that sounded so heartless. At that very moment, Grave held your face, at most simply shaking you a little to snap out of whatever trance you were in. He was asking you, ‘You okay?’ So silently, without thought or grievance you couldn’t help the tears that flowed.

Grave, was beginning to understand. To understand who you were, why he had so randomly get flashes of you from his previous life - his previous identity. At an extent, the cold-shelled deadman felt warm.

You felt your head laying on his chest almost immediately, entirely as your legs to which Grave had noticed were about to buckle.

Brandon Heat was a kind man, kind man. A kind man who drove in the dark and took care of people in the shadows. Always lurking but never attacking, always putting others before himself. Never deeming it a necessary thing to kill those deemed innocent, even if it was to blantantly murder the happiness and innocent charms right before their very eyes.

So how charming had he remained, to be quiet and thoughtful even becoming Beyond The Grave?

That was a question for another time, to remain unanswered. He simply just held you as the weight of it all came crashing down finally.

Simply, without struggle. There would be no strength.

Even the death himself knew that.

#gungrave #gungrave x reader #gungrave imagines #beyond the grave x reader #beyond the grave/reader #beyond the grave #brandon heat x reader #brandon heat #brandon heat/reader #he’s so cute #awe :(

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ozzgin · 3 months ago

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content: gender neutral reader, violence, murder, Yandere School horror AU, inspired by Tomie (header from Lovesick Dead)

Yandere!Classmate is of a particular kind of beauty. A ghastly allure, a pallid visage, the darkest of eyes, and an imperturbable smile. Perhaps that's what makes his elegance so uncanny: the stiff curve of the lips, the emptiness of his expression. Nonetheless, his eerie charisma continues to draw people in. Except, of course, the one who matters most: you.

Yandere!Classmate is visibly interested in you. He follows your movements with religious duty and is always the first to answer your concerns or needs. His assiduous efforts to impress you might've gained the admiration of his fellow attendees, if it wasn't for some exceptional circumstances: quite frankly, the entire school yearns for you. Whether it's other classmates or higher staff, your affections are not something to be freely given away without protest. Your mesmerising suitor has awakened a rather fearsome collective envy.

Yandere!Classmate is sitting at his desk as usual. Yet, something today is different. The atmosphere is suffocating, an unspoken tension lingers over the room. You glance at your classmates in confusion; their faces are drained, their hands tremble rhythmically against the wooden surface. Your teacher's voice is merely a croak, and he does not dare to face his students. Everyone is terrified. Why?

Yandere!Classmate grins mockingly at his rivals, relishing in their maddening fear. They must surely be wondering how such an aberration is possible. They were certain of his death: they slashed, and pounded, and crushed, and tore apart. They saw - with their own eyes! - his scrambled remains as they vanished beneath the soil. He should've been gone, utterly erased from existence, one less burden standing before your undivided attention. Nonetheless, he is standing among them anew, without a scratch marking his skin.

Yandere!Classmate is bolder than usual. He approaches you with childish delight, lowering himself before your seat and extending his hands outward, awaiting your touch. His fingers are tremendously cold, nails cracked and stained with dirt.

Oh, if only you knew, (Y/N), the extent of his adoration. Not even Death itself could ever keep him from you, his beloved Darling. You smile at his flirtatious gesture, completely oblivious to your sealed fate: you're never, ever escaping his love. It goes far beyond the grave.

#yandere classmate #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x darling #yandere headcanons #yandere imagines #yandere scenarios

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evergreen-endo · 14 days ago

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so i started writing this chika smut and had reader kinda in a prey x predator situation and submissive and scared and unsettled blahblahblah but it was so predictable i erased it all and gonna start over with reader who is a little crazy and doesnt really value their life :P

#match his freak reader chan!#<- EWHHEFHEKWJF #anyway #exciting! almost makes me wanna rewrite my knife play with endo drabble thingy with freak!reader #heh #almost....#venus beyond the grave — ♱

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tinysunshine · 2 months ago

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

‎ ‎[ 𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 ]

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

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

word count: 19.7k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

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

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

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

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

you just need to convince them.

Rick has a problem - and that problem is you.

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

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

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

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

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

Heartbreaking.

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

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

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

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

But you’re a fucking brat.

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

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

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

No. He’d never admit to that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which makes him feel even worse.

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

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

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

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

How much he likes you.

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

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

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

Rick repeats that excuse in his mind like a mantra.

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

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

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

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

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

────

Daryl is not this guy.

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

And that was before the fucking apocalypse of walkers.

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

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

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

It terrifies him.

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

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

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

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

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

So, Daryl’s fighting back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s definitely not the only one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

You’re driving him crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And a little suspicious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unlike Rick, apparently.

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

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

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

Jealousy? He feels weirdly possessive, he -

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

Just like that, everything changes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You get it, really - you do.

You just don’t want to stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, they’re driving you crazy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe he’s just a sick bastard.

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

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

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

“I’m a virgin.”

────

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

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

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

It being you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looks like you’re all pink and frills tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what you’ve been waiting for.

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

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

You shiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goddamn, Rick loves you so much.

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

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

All for you.

────

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daryl’s stomach sinks thinking something happened to you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thoughts on a part two? 💓

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 3 months ago

Note

Hi 👋, can I request a self aware Smilk & reader, where he’s the only one who knows of their existence, and the reader can sometimes take control of him which causes some confusion to other cookies.

(You can choose whether it’s a one-shot or headcanons)

Yess self awareness time

.......

After trying and trying again, you finally pulled Shadow Milk Cookie from the gacha, thrilled that he finally came home!

Now that you've understood all the hype surrounding him and how crazy powerful he can be after clearing his Beast Yeast episodes, you had all your star jellies, toppings, and a legendary beascuit saved just for him.

But ever since obtaining him, you've noticed some...oddities with him that made you assume it was part of his programming/AI.

When you see him walking around the kingdom or working at a station that's not the toy store, he's looking at you a lot.

Of course, some cookies may glance at you occasionally, with even fewer breaking the fourth wall (like Black Sapphire and Devil Cookie), but that's just what the devs added as a funny joke.

Shadow Milk...is different. He doesn't follow their script to a T.

The way he talks and waves at you, shows off during battles and making himself the last cookie standing in difficult arena fights, and doing his juggling trick when he knows you're looking at him.

Then he actually responded to you after you made a remark about where to put his statue...and at first you're startled, bc no way could that have been a coincidence...

In reality, he had an "awakening" of his own--in that his knowledge suddenly extended beyond CRK's borders.

Somehow, he can see and hear you, becoming 100% aware that he's in a video game.

But you assume his new antics are part of his programming...until one day the charade falls apart and he straight up tells you that he knows the truth. He even says your username, the device you're playing on, and the day you started CRK as proof in case you think he's lying.

You're stunned at first, but then you think it's actually pretty awesome....until he claims that he's the only one who knows and felt like it would've been better if he didn't.

Of course, the master of deceit would rather ignore the truth and live out a lie, like all the other cookies are....but he's stuck with this earthbread-shattering truth that's only his to bear.

In a way, being "trapped" in this game reminds him of the witches and the time he spent in the silver tree, believing he escaped one prison only to end up in another.

After you leave the game to tend to some real life matters, he tries sowing chaos in the kingdom by revealing this to other cookies, thinking they'd "wake up".

Yet none of them know wtf he's talking about. Not even the Beasts or Pure Vanilla, who thinks he's just trying to trick everybody again..although he admits that what Shadow Milk is saying sounds most outlandish.

Typically, he'd be able to conjure up some kind of "evidence" and manipulate wide masses into believing any word he says.

But you're untouchable, and he has no way of obtaining tangible proof of your existence to show the other cookies...and once he realizes this, he gets frustrated.

"Who do you think fulfills our wishes at the tree???? Who do you think indulges us with star jellies????? Keeps this kingdom from crumbling to pieces?!! We are ALL the puppets to an even bigger puppet master!"

Anyone who hears this yap from him just thinks 'is he alright? like genuinely?'

The next time you log in, Shadow Milk is gravely upset that he has to carry this burden and decides to take it out on you.

Suddenly there's lag spikes when his ability is on cooldown (so you can hardly use them in battle and lose your ranking in arena), he avoids you trying to pick him up in the kingdom (much to other cookies' confusion, as from their pov, he's fleeing something that's invisible)...and he even corrupted his own stats to make it seem like any promotions were gone and his level dropped back to 1.

You ask him why he's causing you all this trouble, and his next rant was more or less....a reasonable crashout.

"I was a god...or at least that's what I thought. But no. I've been lied to. A master of deceit...has been lied to again!! What cruel irony! This world...this life of mine....it's all been one big game from the start! And nobody knows but I!! HAHAHA!! Tell me, [username]..what's it like being the true god of this world? Do you enjoy toying with our lives? What makes you think you deserve my power?! Damn you....and damn this prison!! YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN THOSE WITCHES!!!"

Other cookies just see him screaming at nobody in particular, although his rage forms rifts in the ground, from which the other-realm creeps out to attack anyone close to him.

You end up closing the game out of fear, leaving it alone for the next several hours.

While initially scared to reopen it, you did understand why Shadow Milk lashed out like that--he thought he was in control, and couldn't comprehend the idea of it being somebody else.

You don't know why he, of all cookies, had to be cursed with this forbidden knowledge, but what could be done about it now?

Nothing.

So you returned to the game and found a plushie of him somewhere after looking around for a few minutes, and after clicking him, he turns back to normal and scowls.

"What? You've come back to toy with me more, stupid god? Or were you just worried that I did something to your precious kingdom?"

"No, and no." You say, explaining to him that while you'd never fully understand what he was feeling--and couldn't help him explain your existence to other cookies--you wanted him to see you as a friend, not a puppet master or a witch or some untouchable god like he accuses you of being.

To show him you're serious, you bought all of his decor and gave him his own little castle/spire-like area, where he can indulge in his hobbies or just retreat there whenever he wanted to.

For some time, Shadow Milk is silent as he inspects everything and for a moment...you thought he reverted back to his NPC programming...

Then he looks at you and grins a little. "Jeez, if only you put this much effort into the rest of the kingdom."

"Yeah, well...I'm working on it." You chuckled. "Black Sapphire and Candy Apple Cookie think it's "dull" and doesn't compare to your spire, but-"

"I'll deal with them later. This...is acceptable."

It's fair to say...he's content.

He seems to finally accept his new reality, as he doesn't corrupt his stats or sabotage your gameplay anymore, allowing you to use him as your strongest magic cookie again.

Now if you start shifting your focus towards pulling Awakened Pure Vanilla, however, he might stir up some trouble to make the process take even longer

#i like the concepts where he escapes the game/goes all monika on the player....#but what if he just stays a silly little cookie? 🤔#clanask #anonymous #cookie run x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #crk #shadow milk cookie #shadow milk x reader #shadow milk cookie x reader #platonic #self aware au #headcanons

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yeyinde · 1 year ago

Text

i'm wanna print this out and press it into the folds of my heart like flowers in a book.

the premise, the dynamic, the mythology is scratching my brain so perfectly that i don't even know what to say except loud screeching that doesn't translate well into written word. i just love this. so so so much.

and i especially love your Readers/MC because they feel like they live beyond just the realm of the fic they're in or the pairing their with. it's a Ghoap x Reader fic, def, but i can easily imagine Persephone existing outside of that and i think that's why i love your works so much (and also including, of course, the poetry masked as fanfic, the blistering interactions between the MCs and the MMCs, and godtier plot/writing). they just feel real.

this was crafted to absolute perfection. an instant hit of dopamine with each word 🖤

The Acheron

An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 10.6k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Modern retelling - Greek mythology AU. Hades and Persephone. Two Kings of the Underworld. Abuse (by reader's mother). Bad BDSM etiquette. Dom Simon Riley. Switch John MacTavish. Impact play, spanking. Ichor (blood) play. Non-con voyeurism. Kidnapping. Submissive reader. Reader is named Persephone but has no physical characteristics. Violence. Alcohol. Praise kink. Reader talks to plants. Blowjob. Biting. Anal play. Subspace. Dubious consent. First they're sour, then they're sweet, then... they're sour. Tags are for your health, not mine. .A meeting, a trick, a meal.

Hebe’s is humming.

You nod to her through the crowd, a gaggle of mortals waiting at the counter, the line of them moving swiftly as they order their pastry-coffee duo for this dreary, rain slogged morning.

Her perpetually young face lights with exuberance once she spots you, and you can’t help the smile that fights into place at the sight of her. Hebe is a cherub. Soft, curved for ages, like she had been sculpted by her father himself. Today, she’s dolled up in tones of pink; pink lipstick, fuchsia stained cheeks, magenta streaks in her otherwise dark, tightly coiled hair that sits at her shoulders.

For a while, before you were brazenly corrected, you wondered if maybe your mother wanted Hebe as a daughter, instead of you. A perfect picture of untouched purity and power, an eternal cupbearer, worshipped as the goddess of Mercy. She was sweet, like her famous Portokalopita, orange syrup cake that drew a group of wanting mortals at the door every morning. She’s a stunner. A mountain of sunshine, a ray of positivity.

Sometimes, you hate her for it, even if she is one of your best friends.

Something about her cheerful demeanor can dig at you, scrape along the sticky matter of your brain, gnaw at the soft bits that you’re still trying to protect, tender pieces that match your heart.

You follow the hall to the back room, where bookshelves taper off and large floor to ceiling windows flank the east and west sides to allow as much light in as possible. There are others here, a few mortals curled in overstuffed armchairs, books and cappuccinos in hand, light jazz soothing the atmosphere through a few hidden speakers. Healthy clematis blooms along the stair rail, purple blossoms disappearing into the second floor, where more reading rooms wait, books and plants boundless inside Hebe’s.

A place for everyone.

You feed the clematis a little spark of magic, enough that the vine stretches, shivering and sprouting more flowers. “Aren’t you stunning this morning?” The plant curls around your fingers eagerly, imbued with the essence of power, drinking up the magic drops you encourage into its cell structure. “So healthy and strong, you’ve recovered so well.”

“Good morning.” A wraith of a voice whispers, and you catch the iridescent flicker of a cloud, of Nephele. The clematis will need pruning soon, probably next week, or maybe you can make time in the next few days, you don’t really have too much going on, just your birthday, and that delivery to Hera-

Ghostly fingers stroke the inside of your elbow, and the cloud nymph regards you with an insightful expression. “Earth to Seph.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is meek, and she shrugs.

“I asked what you’re doing tonight?” Oh.

“Dinner… with my mom.” She nods, and says nothing, jaw clenching, apologetic grimace lining her lips.

“And Friday… Aselgeia?” The club. Your muscles tighten. It’s been over a year since you’ve been to Aselgeia, the club of many vices, the ones where mortals and creatures and gods all mix interchangeably, chasing their own pleasure. The memory of last time heats your spine: A private room. A black chair. A stranger swinging a paddle towards your bare-

Nephele coughs.

“Yeah, definitely.” You put the box down that you’re carrying, twelve small pots containing strings of pearls, all crossbred to produce different colors, emboldened by their proximity to you in the Greenhouse for these past few months. They’ll sell well, you have no doubt. “I’ve got a few more boxes to bring inside. Don’t supposed you could do something about this slag weather we’re having?” You gesture, and she snorts.

“Hebe says they’re fighting. Probably looking at weeks of storms.”

“They’re always fighting.” You whisper it, even though most know the truth. Zeus and Hera were explosive. Tumultuous. Which is fine, you suppose, for a private life. A public life, however, one that belongs to the Golden King and Queen, should probably be a bit more… restrained.

After all, why should you and everyone else have to suffer because Hebe’s mom and dad can’t get along?

“I’ve got a lot of cataloging to do, so I’ll catch you around. Text me after dinner tonight, if you need to talk.” She finishes quietly, kindly, but without encroaching, and you squeeze her hand with affection.

“Thanks, Nell.”

The final two boxes stack comfortably for your dash inside. You're eager to get all the plants settled so you can get back to the Greenhouse, slink away to your personal temple, your place of refuge, somewhere quiet to prepare for your dreaded birthday dinner in peace.

“Hello.” A male voice calls, accented so strangely it’s impossible to place. He waves, trying to flag you down.

“Hello?” You turn, nearly stumbling back at the sight of him.

Who is this?

He’s stunning. Brilliant blue eyes study you from a mountaintop, taller than you by more than a head or two. His hair is short on the sides, but long in the middle, a fashion of mohawk you’re unfamiliar with except for in Hoplites, warriors who sacrifice themselves for the sanctity of the state. He’s broad, built like there’s a Herculean amount of muscle underneath his immaculately tailored midnight black suit, and his cheekbones complement the razor edge of his jaw, framing a full set of dark, plush lips.

He looks like a dream you’ve never had. A fantasy that failed fruition.

Fairer than Adonis. Brighter than Apollo.

Butterflies kick up a fluttering frenzied in your belly.

“Sorry to bother ye, I’m looking for Hebe’s?” Ah. You smile.

“You’ve found it. This is just the backside. Front door is around the walk to the left.” He steps closer, and you’re about to introduce yourself when you hear the whinny of a screech owl’s tremolo, a tinned melody that whistles past your ears.

Olympus tilts. Axis trembles. And so do you.

The stranger is keen, and glances around.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I um… it’s just that owl, I swear I saw the same one a few days ago… I didn’t think they were too common around here.”

“Dinnae think they are.” His eyes twinkle, celestial light that has you drifting, floating through time and space into starlit irises. The air turns heavy, hot- fresh fired bricks weighing down your chest, and everything spins, day turning to night, night molting black, deep hues of purple and blues streaking past your vision, spinning like moon, twisting you up until your balance is faltering, and you sway. “Whoa, hey.” Fingers fold over your arm, surprisingly cool, chilled, and it pulls you back into your body, spine uncurling, brow smoothing.

“Sorry, I…”

“Ye alright?” He’s still holding your arm, directing you to a bench, relieving you of your box in a swift motion.

“Yeah, sorry… I… I skipped breakfast.” There’s no other explanation, right? The handsome stranger tsks.

“Can I get ye somethin’? Maybe from inside?”

“No!” You blurt, horrified. Hebe would have a cow if she thought you were feeling faint or had skipped a meal. She takes caring for her loved ones far too seriously. “No, I’m almost done, and then I’ll be on my way home. I’ll eat there.” He raises an eyebrow, completely skeptical. “I swear.”

“Alright then. Let me help ye with the rest at least?” He’s standing with a hand extended, and you track the veins on the inside of his wrist until they disappear beneath his t-shirt, golden, tawny skin just barely allowing them to be seen. You wonder if it’s mortal blood that catapults through his body, or the rich, golden ichor that also spills from yours.

“Sure.” He lifts the box, gesturing for you to grab the other.

“I’m John, by the way.” John. It simmers in the front of your mind, stitching itself into the fabric of your magic.

“Persephone. My friends call me Seph.” Bold. Too bold.

“Ye’re Demeter’s daughter.” He comments, and you blink, fresh wave of regret curdling the sourness of your stomach.

“Yes.” Fool. Give your name to a stranger, and this is what will come. “Do you know-“

“Only in passing, dinnae worry.”

“Who said I was worried?”

“Ye wear yer emotions plainly.” Your cheeks burn, embarrassed at the blatancy of his statement. “It’s refreshing. So many of us, we play too many games, hide our true selves.” Us. Golden ones. Gods.

“You’re Cloaking.” You intend it to be a statement, an observation, but with a tight jaw and frowning brow, it’s an accusation.

“Aye. Wouldnae want to scare ye away, would I?” What? Your steps slow, gait pausing in concern. “Sorry, ah. Bad joke.”

“Oh, that’s alright.” He carries the boxes to the door, setting them down carefully, and then rising back to his full height. You swallow the lump in the back of your throat.

“Well, John,” you say it with a hint of sarcasm, and it conveys your doubt. That’s not your real name, is it? “It was nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, expecting a shake, but he holds it with both of his, back bowing, lips softly pressing the skin of your knuckles, tender touch making your knees weak, your heart swooping and swooning.

“The pleasure was mine, Persephone.”

“Have you given anymore thought to your role in the coming year? Your presence at harvest, or planting, would do-”

“I haven’t.” The wine is too oaky, so earthy it takes like dirt, the opus of your mother’s existence, and you swallow it down in silence.

“Persephone.” She chides, like she has a million times before. “If you just tried, a little harder-“

“I am Spring, mother. Life. Rebirth. Fertility.” You ignore her wince. “But that doesn’t mean I’m well suited for crops, and grain, and harvests.”

“It means exactly that. Otherwise, the Greenhouse would not exist.” Her knife slices into a bloody piece of meat, red dripping down the sterling to her fingertips. “Why must you fight your destiny?” Your mind wanders to your visitors the other day, the sisters. The Moirai. Does she know? Is that why she’s saying this? Did she send them? “You spend so much time actively trying to deny me, holed up with your flowers and silly little house plants-“

“It is you who denied me.” Her eyes narrow. “You who didn’t want me to become a fertility goddess, who wanted me to be some weapon of green light, to be the spitting image of you. You raised me to be a threat!”

“Is it so wrong, that I did not wish for my daughter to become a common whore? That I had hoped to prevent her becoming such a failure? That I dreamed of her becoming so much more than… what sits before me now?” The words do not shock you anymore. You’ve grown to expect them.

That does not mean they do not sting.

“It is wrong that you kept me locked in this house, away from the world, until I was too strong for you to control.” You spit, fork clattering against your plate. Rage sears white at the edge of your vision, overflowing bouquet of flowers in the center of the table blooming into massive blossoms, edges of petals beginning to curl inward.

“Control yourself.” She warns. “Or I will do it for you.” Your pulse thunders. The air in the dining room crackles.

You do not relent. Rationally, you know you should. You know this will only end one way, that this will sever another tie to your past, to your mother, one you won’t be able to repair… but you can’t stop. The magic itches under your skin, screaming.

The ivy that covers the outside brick shatters a windowpane above her head, springing through the opening like a virus seeking a host, sticking to the inside wall. Glass falls to the floor, rain pelts the roof.

“Persephone.” Shining silver spools, churning across the table, through the air until it takes form-

The Whip.

Your mother’s favorite.

It licks your skin, your fingertips, your knuckles. A different touch, from the reverent kiss you received only hours ago. It cracks through the air like the lightning.

“That’s enough.” She vows.

You will not cry. You won’t. You won’t let her get to you like this anymore. You’re a woman now. An adult. You’re not a child, you’re not, you’re not-

She sighs. Your fingers clench the stem of the wine glass so firmly you think it might shatter.

You finish your meal in stiff silence. Its heaviness droops all around you, blanketing the entire table, your fork, the distance between you and your own mother. It’s an eon. A millisecond. Never enough because you always crave more. More space. More time. More distance. Her eyes spark, anger burning hot behind them, but she says nothing.

When she’s finished, she rises from the table without another word, disappearing down the hall.

Happy Birthday, you guess.

In the middle of the night, the Greenhouse is quiet.

Even the plants slumber, most of the daylight seekers, pistils, stamens, all covered by their petals, lying in wait. In the back, you pad along the floor of moss, allowing the tiny tendrils of green to skim along your bare skin, pulling opulent, indulgent specks of power into themselves. Wisteria lines the walls, tiny blooms of purple and white falling like curtains of stars, only parting for the archway that leads to the spring, a small freshwater lagoon that spills from the crust of the earth as hot as tea, bubbling eternally, waiting for you.

Tonight, the water is ethereal. Steam rises from the pool, slicking its stone home, and you bask in it, muscle and bone turning languid, supple in the roiling spring. It’s nearly sublime, almost perfect.

Your mother’s voice still echoes. Even now, hours later, you can hear her.

A failure. A disappointment.

Your knuckles sting from the salt of the Whip, the silver crust that slices so effortlessly, just as it has since you were a child.

You cried a lot, then.

Now, it’s few and far between. You’ve grown, rebelled, retaliated. You’ve become a lost cause.

Ungovernable Persephone.

The pain still sits so heavily in the bottom of your soul, a wretched, tangible thing that sprouts blackened vine from the earth and a whole manner of other things.

You eye the marble encasement, the walls that harbor the spring. They too, are black. Born from your rage, your sorrow. Your uncontrollable, ungovernable power that grew from the depths of your despair and built you a temple.

The Greenhouse. Your home.

Everyone called it a wonder. A feat, proof of your power. Trees and vines and branches all twisted together, building a harbor, solidifying your presence, your Golden light.

You took your first offering in this place, the glass for the windows and the roof, the final piece of your shelter from the storm, the first stake of your life as a goddess, your life of freedom.

You left your mother’s house that day, only returning now on occasions. You never looked back.

Though, you can still feel the Whip, can still hear it whirl through the wind against your supine form. Can still feel the ridges of scar tissue that never fully healed.

You could have called Nell. Or Hebe. Or Melia. Anyone of them would be here for you. Would listen. Understand.

Outside the window, an owl hoots.

You sink beneath the water line, magma rushing over every inch of your body, washing you clean of her, of the Whip, of the wounds on your knuckles.

A trembling fawn. Still to this day.

A wicked daughter to have, they tell her. A vengeful soul. Rotted to the core.

Ungovernable Persephone.

Olympus is buzzing, even on its ninth day of rain. It’s a vibration that all manner of beings can feel, creatures, gods, even humans. The ground rattles like there’s a lightning bolt shoved into the center of the rail system, electrifying the wires and tracks, zinging from pole to pole between the buildings and above the streets where cars putter alongside those who walk to their destinations.

When you were a child, the name of the city was almost dirty. It made your mother’s nose turn skyward, disgust and disdain clear as the day on her delicate features. “The golden city is anything but.” She promised, on her knees before you, gentle hand at your back. “Those who live there are heathens, and naught else. They would seek to destroy you if they knew the truth.”

For many, many years, you never step foot here.

Not until University. Once you graduated, the rope around your neck, the bit in your mouth began to loosen, and you had already lost your taste for the expanse of metropolis, more interested in your own space outside city limits where you could feel your connection to the earth, where you could indulge your power in privacy.

“It’s not the city she fears.” Melia told you one night. “But Aphrodite. Demeter’s worried ‘Di will knock you right off the whole bloody planet.” She peered over your shoulder, catching the gleam of Apollo, his bright eyes tracking her from across a crowded bar. “Trust me. She’s a jealous bitch.”

Tonight, the city is waterlogged, soaked to the bone, raindrops splashing as you slide from the car to the black door tucked inside a black wall, a soft faced Harpy standing in front of the passage.

“Hebe. Persephone.” She greets, turning to your other companions. “Nephelle. Melia.” You pull your power through the earth that sits beneath cracked concrete and heavy asphalt, spinning your Cloak up and over your body, adjusting your appearance just so. Your mask slips into place, obscuring nearly all your face, both Nell and Melia pulling together something similar.

“Ocypete.” Hebe pauses. “Is there a riddle tonight?” The Harpy grins, flashing rows of too sharp teeth, fine points that can cut the flesh from bone in a clean bite.

“No riddle.” The door creaks wide, and she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening.”

You don’t notice the way her eyes linger after you’ve passed.

Aselegia is one of the safest places in the Olympus. Here, Golden ones must be Cloaked, mortals must be masked, and creatures must go to great lengths to hide their identity. All intermingle with one another, safe in the anonymity. Gods and Goddesses usually choose to mask as well, a practice, you believe, stemming from common occurrences of violent jealousy, an effort to prevent becoming the target of one’s wrath.

The club itself is big enough to get lost in. The first floor houses the lobby, and a set of elevators. The walls are covered in shiny waxed mahogany, red wine rich carpet covering the floor, and it smells different, sweet and smoky, cigars and finely spun sugar. Intoxicating.

The elevators will take you anywhere you have access, and most can visit three floors. There’s a dancefloor on the main level, with a giant bar, private rooms in the wings, bottle service, tables. Very standard. Other floors have gambling tables, quieter music, even a dimly lit pool and sauna.

It isn’t until you get above level three that things change. Endorsements or sponsors are required. Waivers need to be signed. Negotiations begin.

Pick your poison.

You start on the main level tonight. Melia insists, and you agree, grateful to the Oceanid for suggesting starting slow, the low rumble of nerves still present in your magic, your body. The music thumps, high to low song and symphony synthesized into something electronic, and it draws you into a sway, shoulders against shoulders, hips moving in time with the melody.

“Shots?” Hebe brightens, waving over a cocktail waitress, a pretty thing who eagerly does her bidding, enraptured with the way she moves in the skintight, cornflower blue dress. Her Cloak has disguised her well enough that no one would know who she is, but she does not ever manipulate her body. A cherished rule of her own, you’ve learned.

“You’re beautiful.” The girl coos, and Hebe nods, singing over the explosion of Nephelle’s laughter.

“I know, sweetheart.”

A slick sheen of sweat coats the space between Melia’s breasts. You’re both on the dancefloor, moving with the music, Melia perfectly in time, like she was born to it, and you pull her close, slinging an arm over her neck to whisper in her ear.

“He’s here.” A god’s dark eyes glint in the night, between the passages of writing bodies. He wears a white mask, stitched with the threads of glowing sun, but his obsessive gaze gives him away. He’s transfixed, focused solely on the Oceanid in the middle of the dance floor, and she giggles, turning so that her ass is pressed against your pelvis, her head tipped back on your shoulder.

Her hand extends, an invitation. A request.

He’s by her side within a second.

“Apollo.” You nod, and he barely spares you a glance, too busy cradling his Oceanid’s face.

“You have been ignoring my calls.”

“I’ve been busy.” He tenses.

“You’re still angry with me.”

“Of course, I am.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re here for Sephy’s birthday, not this.” He peeks towards you, sliver of regret flashing across his face.

“I’m sorry, Persephone.” You wave him off, not wanting to be in the middle of… this.

“It’s fine, we’re just… out. It’s not for anything special.” You look away from them, casually glancing around. You look, but you do not see. Not until…

There’s a male, wearing a pitch-black suit. A god? A mortal? He’s taller than anyone else in the room, broadest shoulders and proud posture, everything about him drawing you in, like blood in the water.

The room stands still. Silent. Empty, save for two.

Tempered water like glass, undisturbed. An undertow vicious beneath the surface, unknown to all.

“Hello.” The pitch of his voice is familiar, almost dreamlike, something that’s never been real, yet startling all the same.

“H-hi.” You stammer. His hand reaches, a magnetic force pulling yours from where it’s clawed against your thigh, and he grasps it like he’s cupping a dahlia bloom, a fragile collection of so many petals that make up an entire beautiful blossom, a universe unto itself.

Black leather caresses your skin. Clear, golden-brown eyes pin you in place, anthracite spiking around his pupils in a halo. You cannot see his face, or his skin, only what’s barely visible of his eyelids and dark spun lashes.

Still…

His beauty is terror. It’s the throat of a lamb, freshly cut. The mutilated carcass of a doe, feeding a forest. Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

It drags you out into a river, where your feet no longer touch the bottom. It sings to you from the depths.

You cannot tear yourself away.

He does not let go. Even when that same voice fills your mind.

“My darling. You shall rule all that lives and moves, you shall have the greatest rights among the deathless gods: those who defraud you and do not appease your power with offerings, reverently performing rites and paying fit gifts, shall be punished for evermore.” *

Warmth slips from your hand, sand flitting through your fingers, a fleeting touch of comfort and confusion fading into the night.

My darling.

My darling…

When the light comes back to you, the male is nowhere to be found. Only Apollo and Melia stand to your side, still in their own world.

“Will you let me take you upstairs then?” He croons, and your heart dances, nerves and anticipation all spiraling together like a sailor’s knot. You know what comes next.

“Only if the girls can come.”

You try to forget the strange encounter on the main level and focus on your needs instead; you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it, and you say the same to Hebe, too, when she disappears with a male who seemed much too large to not be the son of a giant, leaving you alone on a small, velvet couch, Nell and Melia already long gone. Your second martini sits untouched, and you keep yourself from looking at any one being too closely, lest you get caught staring.

That’s when you see him.

Light blue eyes. Handsomely styled mohawk. Even with a Cloak and mask, he’s hard to forget.

John.

His mask is a red skull, covering nearly all his face, the sculpted brow severe, almost angry.

His eyes glow behind it, locked on yours.

Oh. Shit. You vibrate like a live wire, hanging onto yourself for dear life.

“Hello.” Your mouth doesn’t work. “I’m Soap.” He extends his hand, and you blink. Oh, right. The alias. Because what is the point in all this, if you give your real name?

“K-kore.” You manage to stammer, and the corner of his eyes crease.

“Why are ye here?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are ye looking for, little goddess?” He still has not dropped your gaze, and you can almost taste him on your tongue, feel him in your mind, your body.

Myself.

Your teeth dig downward, pressing hard before you whisper the truth.

“Pain.” His eyes flash, and then he tugs.

John- Soap, takes you to a private room. You follow, numbly, shivering with a million emotions, stumbling through the chances, the possibilities of seeing him twice, when before he was a stranger.

A coincidence, you decide, putting it out of your mind. You’re dwelling on it too much, picking it apart, riling yourself up… over nothing. Over a handsome god, existing in the Golden city? Like you’ve never seen those before… like it’s so unbelievable.

“Are ye alright?” He murmurs, stepping up to your back. You can feel the heat of him, his warmth bleeding from beneath the suit to your exposed skin, the dress you chose wholly exposing your spine, your skin.

Your nipples tighten. Your heart races, and your thighs press together inadvertently.

“Yes.”

“Dinnae lie.” He’s gentle in the reminder, and you fill your lungs.

“I’m just… nervous.”

“Ye’ve done this before?” He’s assuming. You nod, quickly, and he motions to a very comfortable looking lounge chair, where you perch on the edge of the cushion. “What would make ye happy tonight?” Anxiety unsettles your posture, and you choke down the embarrassment that tries to claw its way up your throat.

“A… a spanking.” You whisper, pushing flimsy confidence forward. Far away, a piece of your mind, your magic, pleads. It cries, it begs for release. It urges you forward, and you lift your face to his, seeking approval. Comfort.

Reassurance.

The cold hand of doubt rears. It snickers at you. It laughs.

Reassurance from someone, anyone but yourself? Comfort?

No.

“Do ye-“

“My safe word is flower.” You spit, motioning to the stool that waits between you.

It’s an act. A song and a dance, something fake and forced. But he doesn’t know that.

He freezes. Thick tension runs the gamut, heavy and exhausting, and you smother yourself, your emotions, your reactions to this very moment.

Pain. The desire burns. It pushes you to the zenith, until you’re down on your knees, folding yourself forward.

Pain, to turn it off. Pain, to make it all stop.

Pain, to release you into yourself.

What matter of creature are you, that you can only feel whole, when parts of you are carved away?

“Up.” John commands, and you lean back, confused. “Ye’ll do this over my knee.” He bends you, with grace, back towards the soft cushion, laying comfortably, your palms flat.

A hand coasts over the swell of your ass.

“Ye’ll count.” His voice has shifted. Gone is the feather’s edge, now replaced by steel. His accent still rings true, but there’s a firmness to it, a finality. Dominance.

“Yes.”

“Ye’ll tell me yer name, and today’s date, when asked. If ye cannae answer, we’ll stop. Immediately.”

“Okay.”

“I need a yes.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll go to ten, then.” We.

“I can take more.”

“We’ll decide what ye can take, when we get there.” You acquiesce, fingers digging down into the cushion before forcibly relaxing. “Big breath.” He coaches, and then-

The first slap stuns you. Only with his hand, and yet still so much stronger than last time with a paddle. It punches air from your lungs, the noise that rockets out of your throat a mix between a scream and a moan.

“F-fuck.” You croak. “One.” He doesn’t hesitate and rains the next one down on your opposite cheek. Again, it robs you of oxygen. “Two.”

“Good girl.” The praise is very small flame at the bottom of the darkest well. It barely lights the path ahead, desperately trying to catch, to grow, but it’s too easily snuffed out. His palm rubs the base of your spine to the tops of your thighs.

Crack.

The sting sizzles outward from impact, and you gasp. “Three-“ Another, same cheek. “Four!” The whistle of the swing alerts you a second before the next, and when you shout “Five!” it sounds off kilter.

“What’s yer name?”

“Seph-Persephone.” Raw warmth simmers beneath your dress and underwear, and the fire at the bottom of the well starts to rage, growing larger, eating what it’s been given, hungry, seeking, trying to build momentum. He asks you the date, satisfied at the lack of delay, and swings so high, you can see the shine of his palm from the corner of his eye. Your toes curl.

Whack. Two, too quickly.

“Six!” A choked cry. “Seven.” Your face is wet, saltwater tracing the plush swell towards your mouth and chin. You sniffle.

“I know, I know. Ye poor thing.” He bunches the fabric of your dress, scratching it across your scorched cheeks. “Ye’re doin’ so well, almost there.” The words barely register, only the sentiment cuts through the haze. Your thighs are pressed so tightly together, slick dripping from your cunt, the aching throb of your clit rubbing against your panties. You’re desperate… to be touched, to be hurt, to be whole. You need it. Crave it more than anything else.

He delivers two more strong, healthy, swift blows. Eight. Nine. They enflame you completely, fire burning in the pit of your soul, encasing you in a coffin where no one can hear you, or see you. Safe and tucked away, floating into a dark cocoon of eternal night.

At the tenth, the room changes. The air grows colder, nearly frigid, shadows clinging to the walls, and you barely register being moved, held like a child, tucked into a chest. There’s talking, somewhere, in your mind or maybe behind you, two pitches at war, a dance of wills.

“Beautifully done, darling.” Somewhere far, far away, in the last sliver of your sane mind, you realize it’s a different voice, a voice echoed in gemstones, ruby and emerald and pearl, before that too, slips into space, and you drift deeper inside the luxurious praise. A warm bath. A sunlit meadow with thousands of Narcissus dotting the hill, soaking up every ray. A golden fawn, taking her first steps to freedom.

John’s face looms into your line of sight, maskless, no Cloak.

“We need a yes.” He murmurs, cupping your cheek. “Persephone.”

“Hmmm?”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.” The words don’t match. They don’t click, they catch, they bump against each other, trying to lock into place, failing over and over.

“Supposed to go… home with my friends but-“ Your tongue is heavy, weighted beneath a giant sequoia, and you shiver. The chest that your head bobbles on catches, an arm securing you in place. It’s warm, and firm, heavier than a tree. Who…

“Little goddess.” He prompts, and you sigh, already wistfully unaware.

“’kay, yeah. Yes.”

You’re already slipping away when the world goes dark.

Your eyes open to a strange place.

You don’t recognize any of it, from the massive four poster bed with lithe, gauzy curtains drawn closed on three sides, to a fireplace the size of a giant, roaring, sizzling flame burning endlessly in its hearth. You don’t recognize the room, the black marble floors, polished to a brilliant gleam, one that you can nearly see your reflection in, or the vanity, dark oak housing a hand carved mirror. You’ve never seen the ornate stained glass window before, stretching from floor to ceiling, the size of ten men. You don’t know the bed, sized for a king, emerald silk sheets and a matching duvet, with a million pillows that were just cradling your head. The robe you’re wearing matches, the green only a shade lighter, and you tuck it tight across your body, realizing you’re fully nude.

The fire pops. It pushes a gasp from you, caught off guard, and at the sound, another being in the room stirs from the plush rug just beneath the bed.

A three headed dog.

It, they, stare at you, tongues wagging, eyes wide. Jet black fur, darker than midnight, white teeth so sharp they could rip your throat free in an instant.

You’ve seen this dog before… in pictures. Schoolbooks. You know their name.

Cerberus.

Panic races through your veins, ratcheting your heart rate higher and higher, your body and mind separating, all synapses dizzy with fear.

Oh gods. Where… where are you? What happened? You were just… you were just having some fun, at Aselegia, with John… weren’t you? Where…

Are you dead?

You reach for your power, digging deep, trying to drag as much as you could to the surface-

Nothing.

You bleat, a scared lamb, in panic. It’s a cry. A scream. An awful sound. You need your rage now, but all you find is fear. You cannot reach your power. There is a blackened lock around it, a casing that holds it away from you, out of reach.

Cerberus whines. They hold their position, tail swishing back and forth, and you scramble towards the middle of the bed. Your ass protests, skin warm and tender against silk. Your knees tuck to your chest, and you force your eyes closed, trying to take long, measured breaths without success.

You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re-

The door clicks. John appears, two palms out, hesitant, and cautious. Your voice shakes, no matter how hard you try to reinforce it with iron will. “G-get away from me.”

“Ye’re alright, Persephone. We’d never hurt ye.” We?

“We need a yes.”

“Need ye to say yes, so we can take ye home, take care of ye.”

Something flickers behind him. A figure, a shape of shadow, shifting.

Dark. Dangerous. A wolf, circling a kill.

The male from the dance floor. He wears no mask now, but the feel of him, the threat of his power, is unmistakable… and familiar. You sputter on it, choking on him and John, the threat of their power combined looming, suffocating. “Oh gods.” You clutch the robe tighter. “Wh-where am I?”

“You know where you are, darling.” The other one says, and you moan.

“N-no. I… I can’t be. I can’t dead. I can’t be here… I-“

“You’re not dead, Persephone.” He cautions. “You’re very much alive.” And shaking, alive and trembling so vigorously you can hear your teeth chattering, chest heaving up and down, desperately trying to suck air inward. Cerberus whines again, and he rubs a thumb behind one of their ears. “Easy, Cerberus. She’s alright.”

“I ca-can’t be here. I have to… I have to go home.” The room seems wet, dollops of tears falling from your lashes, sticking to your skin and the sheets. Reality slams forward, rushing right up against your nonsensical mind.

It takes one gentle pulse of their power, to realize the truth.

Hades. They’re… Hades. They’re Hades and you’re… you’re in the Underworld.

Beg. Beg them for mercy. Whatever it is you’ve done, you must try.

“I’m s-sorry. I don’t know… I don’t know what I did but I swear, I’m sorry, I-“ John tries to reach, seeking your hand, but you curl up into a tighter ball.

“Shhh. Ye hae nae done anythin’ wrong, sweet Persephone. Ye’re alright. Ye’re safe.” Safe? Safe in the Underworld? With them?

Oh gods. You let Hades spank you.

“You… you tricked me.” You whisper, raw betrayal and pain weeping profoundly in your heart. You trusted him and…

You are a fool.

“We did what was necessary.” The wolf-like one says solemnly, gaze heavy.

“Necessary?” You squeak. “What’s… necessary about this?”

“We will explain everything, after we’ve eaten. Or maybe had some more rest? It’s the middle of the night, for you.” What?

“No… I can’t… I can’t stay here. I have to-“

“Go home? So, you can hide away in your temple, kept company only by your plants and the occasional friend you let inside?” You blink, stunned, mouth dropping open.

“How do you... have you been watching me?” The stained-glass window on the far side of the room shifts, drawing your attention, morphing slowly from a tawny blur to a… screech owl.

“Oh, my gods. Oh…” The room shudders. “You can’t keep me here, I have to go…” Wolves circle, flanking where you sit, precarious and hopeless, a hand in front of your body like it will save you. “Please.”

“It’s alright, darling.” The dark one moves, blurred in shadow, magic blanketing you in a warm, comforting hold, heating your bones, encouraging your eyes to slowly shut.

The last thing you see is the ceiling, your body cradled in the embrace of a stranger.

Morning comes slow.

At first, you don’t open your eyes, even though you’ve been long awake.

If you open them, your fear will be real. It will be valid.

So, you keep them closed. Keep them shut long enough you drift in and out of twilight, until someone clears their throat.

Fuck.

“Are you going to open your eyes?” His voice is ruby and velvet. You shudder.

“Hades.”

“Technically. One half of a whole, but my loved ones call me Simon.” Your brow flexes at that, and there’s a soft chuckle in response. “Will you wake? It’s well past morning now.”

“Are you going to render me unconscious again?” you hiss, cracking an eyelid. He’s sitting in a posh armchair, oiled black leather beneath his black suit, eyes steady on yours. His face is a map of scars, but instead of seeming rough, or out of place, they naturally suit him, complementing his broad jaw, severe expression, perfectly sculpted bone structure. His nose is crooked, like it had been smashed and rearranged once or twice, but still sits as if it was meant to be, and you wonder how anyone could do anything of the like to Hades.

He's handsome, in the way that you expect to die from.

“Only if you cannot behave.”

“Perhaps I could show you how I behave.” You smile with a full set of teeth, words ending in a snarl, and he huffs another gentle laugh.

“I have seen the victims of your wrath, Persephone. I have no doubt you’d strike me down if you could.” You swallow the nausea in your stomach. Your magic.

“I want my magic back.” You blurt the demand, not even pausing to consider a more tactful way.

“We did not take it, only… bound it, for the time being. It’s still within you, we would never separate you from your power.” He sighs, a golden pearl rocking in his palm, glinting in the fireplace’s gleam. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not a monster.”

“Then let me go home, if you’re not as they say you are.” His eyes harden, face twisting sour, and then… sad.

“I’ll give you some privacy. There are clothes in the closet. Johnny and I expect you for breakfast, and then a tour… if you’re good. Cerberus will show you the way when you’re ready.”

If you’re good.

Cerberus leads you through a maze of decadent marble and arches.

You follow behind them hesitantly, cautious, and they mind you, slowing when you’ve lagged too far behind.

You can’t help it. You’re mystified.

You expected the Underworld to be dark, and dingy. And while maybe it is on the dark side, with glossy, polished marble, giant onyx columns that blot of the sky, and black stone everywhere… when you peek out the windows, you’re gob smacked.

Beneath wherever you are, which you’re beginning to suspect is Hades’ palace, is lush greenery. A verdant, fertile field lays to the south and the east, wrapping around to the edge of a forest, where you can just barely make out a large variety of deciduous trees. To the North, a river winds, separating the palace from a large meadow and… a town? You shake your head, as if to clear your addled mind and cloudy vision. Is that truly… a town?

“Asphodel Meadows.” Someone says from behind you, nearly jumping you from your skin.

“Fuck.” You gasp, hand clutching your chest. It’s a man, not John, or Simon, but a stranger, clad in all black.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s… okay. I- what did you say?”

“The town. It’s Asphodel Meadows. A place for mortal’s souls.” He bows. “I’m Thanatos.”

“I’m… Persephone.” He smiles, just slightly.

“I know who you are, my lady.” My lady?

“What do you…” words nearly fail as you grapple. “What do you do here?”

“I am a child of Nyx. The god of Death.”

“I thought Hades…”

“They are the Kings of the Underworld. I am the personification, the embodiment of Death.” Oh.

“You reap.” You whisper. His jaw tightens, and then smooths.

“Your escort is impatient. I think he’s probably ready for his bacon.” He eyes Cerberus, who whines, tapdancing on slick marble.

“Bacon?”

“Yes. He’s very spoiled. Eats better than the Kings themselves.” He motions down the hall. “It’s just that way. Lovely to meet you, my lady.” He gives you another bow, and then turns down a corridor, one that had not been there before, leaving you and Cerberus alone in the empty hall.

“I- you too.”

The Kings, as Thanatos called them, are both seated when you push the incredibly heavy door open. At the sound, John rises, Simon behind him, and the three of you stare at one another for a minute, until Cerberus barks.

“Please, sit.” John motions to the only other place set, a third chair between them. You swallow.

“Uh…”

“We don’t bite.”

“Not unless ye want us to.” John smiles, sinfully handsome in the morning light. It streams into the surprisingly cozy dining room through a group of five windows, all facing east, capturing the light of… a sun?

“Is that a sun?”

“It’s a sun of sorts.” Simon offers. “We have a sky, weather. A sun, a moon. Clouds. Everything that exists in Olympus.”

“Are ye hungry?” You hesitantly lower yourself into the chair, surprised at the array of food displayed. “We ah, weren’t sure what ye liked so, got a bit of everything.” Meats, yogurts, sweets, cereal, fruit, anything you could want laid out in front of you, but it’s something so near to your heart that catches your eye. Portokalopita.

“They are Hebe’s.” Simon murmurs.

This is a trick. They kidnapped you. They’re holding you hostage. You have to convince them to let you go. The warning resounds, and your stomach thrashes.

“I want to go home.” You push the plate of orange cakes away, disappointment flickering across John’s face, exasperation on Simon’s. “Please. I… I appreciate your hospitality and you… you bringing me home for… aftercare,” you grit the word, shame rocketing up your spine. This is what happens when you trust. You let Hades spank you, for fucks sake. And then they abducted you. “but I need to go home. The plants, they need me. My friends-“

“Your friends are used to going days on end without contact from you.” Simon cuts you off, and the blood drains from your face. “Are they not?”

“N-no. They’ll know I’m missing, they will.” Lie. He knows. You know they both know, just by the way the regard you. Half pity. Half amusement. It makes your blood boil. “Fuck you.” You hiss, shooting up in the chair.

“Seph-“ John tries to soothe you, calm you, using your nickname like he knows you, and it only makes you more irate.

“Don’t call me that.” You whirl on him. “I trusted you! I don’t even know you and I let you-“

“That is the nature of Aselegia, is it not?” He counters, cutting you off. You gape like a fish. “The anonymity. Dinnae turn it on me now.” His tone melts from ice to warmth, sympathy bleeding from his irises. “I assure ye, we are more than trustworthy. We would never, ever hurt ye. We would never let anythin’ happen to ye. Ye’ll see.”

“Then let me go home.” He shakes his head sadly but says nothing, and rage snaps in your heart like the drawback of a rubber band, stinging and sharp. “What do you want from me?” John opens his mouth, and then abruptly closing it, deferring to Simon.

“You are our guest. We’d like to get to know you. I promise, just as before, you will not be harmed in our care. We will never hurt you."

"How do I know that?" You’re incredulous. “You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Let us strike a deal then.” He declares, and John nods supportively.

Don’t, your good sense screams. Don’t be an idiot.

“What kind of deal?”

“You will stay here for two days, forty-eight hours exactly. We will show you this realm and get to know one another in that time, and at the end, we will reveal the doorway that leads back to Olympus.” You raise an eyebrow.

“Two days? And then I can go home?”

“Two days.” John echoes. Sapphire eyes gleam, and you carefully, quickly, try to pick apart every word in the proposal.

“My magic.” You demand, and they both answer immediately with a resounding,

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Your power is wild, Persephone.” Simon tells you, not unkindly. “We do not know how the Underworld will react to it, and we must think of our residents, all the souls we care for here. We cannot let something upset the balance that is so delicate.” Your mouth goes a little dry. You were expecting more of an answer about control, domineering you, your magic, keeping you contained. Not… care for souls.

“Yer mother raised ye to be her weapon.” John says softly, kneeling before the chair where you sit. His hand rests on the cushion, and you wonder if he means to touch you. “We dinnae regard ye as such, but until we understand ye better, we need to protect-“

“I understand.” You cut him off. You don’t need some forced sympathy, pity, thrust upon you by Hades, of all gods. They exchange a long glance, one that gives you a small peek into their lives, layers on layers of words and sentiment, communicated with a single glance.

Simon reaches for John, pulling him to his feet and into his body, chest to back.

“Do you agree?” Two days. Two days and you can leave. You can do two days of anything. You certainly cannot fight them, or your way out. What choice do you have?

“Sure.”

“We need a yes, darling.” Darling. The pet name makes your toes curl. You take a big breath.

“Yes.”

The valley outside of Asphodel Meadows is one of the most stunning places you’ve ever been. It’s lush and lively, covered in Narcissus and Asphodelus, like a meadow one could only dream of. You're not sure why it feels so familiar, like the cusp of another life, or a nightmare, but it takes root inside you. You lay in the field of flowers, letting them cover your body, wishing so desperately to touch your magic, so you could truly feel them, the grass and the dirt and the stems here, all things that seem like they’re so full of life, so opposite your expectations of the Underworld.

“Shall we continue?” Cerberus perks up at the sound of their master’s voice, head popping over the flowers to spot both Kings standing on the path, a good distance away. They peek at you, heads tilted, and you sigh. It seems you’ve been assigned a minder, in the form of a three headed dog.

You join them on the road before long, walking silently, sullenly, John sneaking glances at you nearly every chance he gets, and you can pinpoint the heat of his gaze every time, the throbbing intensity of his focused power nearly bowling you over.

“So, there are two of you?” What are you supposed to talk to the Kings of the Underworld about, anyway?

“Aye. It’s a little-known secret. One realm, two gods to rule.” You frown, perplexed.

“But… you haven’t always been that way?”

“No.” Simon answers. “We were once Golden brothers in battle, long before your time, before becoming this. When we fell in love, our souls split. They merged with our magic, tied us together eternally. Now, we rule as one.”

“So, you’re married.” You deduce.

“In the most permanent way you can think of.” They stop short of a bridge, one that crests high over a roaring river, and Simon gestures broadly. “Persephone, this is the Acheron.”

The Underworld is a place of rivers, you learn. Waterways that hold power, that possess the ability to cleanse you, free you, burn you, punish you. There is a river of fire, a river of weeping, a river to forget.

The Acheron is the river of woe.

Fitting, you think, standing on the bridge. Below, bright turquoise water rushes by, crashing into rock and boulder, each sound more akin to a scream than the thunder of a tributary. Mouths, long and full of despair, wail beneath the current, wraith like creatures with bone white skin and eyes skimming along the top.

You get lost in them. Lost in the irreversible cycle of woe, desolation creeping up inside your own self as you peer down into the depths. Are you not like them? Despondent. Bleak. Isolated. Is that not what you’ve made with your life, what was chosen for you? Hidden away, sharpened like an axe never to be used. Are you not alone, like them? Trapped, like them?

You don’t even realize you’re leaning forward until pressure rests at your back. “Easy. Dinnae want ye fallin’ in.” John murmurs, stepping away the edge, bringing you with him. Your limbs feel shaky, and you wonder if it’s because you just almost went over… or because you didn’t eat earlier.

“Sorry. I uh-“ you don’t know how to explain it, that feeling. The agony that bubbles up in the back of your throat.

“We know.” Simon regards you with empathy, understanding, and you shake the attention loose, pushing ahead of them, down the bridge and into town, into Asphodel Meadows itself, eager to leave the river and its woe behind.

In town, the Kings are well received. It surprises you, to watch them in the street, welcomed by the souls who live there. They take you on a tour, introducing you to residents, explaining the structure, the magic and the infrastructure that makes it all work. Souls take their preferred form in Asphodel Meadows, allowed to choose for themselves, whatever they feel most comfortable in, and you’re shocked that such benevolence would be bestowed upon anyone in the Underworld.

Why are they showing you this? Why go to such great lengths? What is the purpose?

“Hi.” A small voice breaks you from your confusion, and you find a small girl at your feet, bouquet of Narcissus clutched in her tiny hands. You crouch.

“Hello.”

“I’m Phoebe.” She giggles, cheeks round and rosy.

“I’m Persephone.” You incline your head. “Phoebe is a beautiful name.” Your heart pangs. She’s so small, so… fragile. How did she die? Where is her family? Is she here alone?

“Thank you, my lady.” She tries to bow, and you rush to stop her, stilling her with a hand.

“Are those for me?”

“They are. Johnny said they’re your favorites.” Johnny? You glance over to where they stand, both turned your way, something unreadable in their reflections.

“Well, thank you. They’re lovely.” She wishes you well, skipping off in another direction, and you meander across the street, unable to hide your quizzical expression.

“Johnny? Not Hades?”

“Ach. The kids they’re… they’re usually a wee bit scared, first thing. It’s better for them, if we’re friends.” He shrugs, but Simon watches him in reverence, pure love and light beaming from his gaze, adoration in every slow blink.

Your heart skips.

Fuck.

“Are you not hungry?” Simon muses, walking beside you and John in the castle. Your shoes tap along the way, echoing, and Cerberus barks. John glares at them.

“I… I am afraid to eat here.” They both stop short.

“Why?”

“I have always heard… a myth. That if you somehow find yourself here and you eat, you’ll become trapped, stuck here forever.” Simon chuckles, dry and warm.

“No, darling. Please, we do not wish for you to starve.”

“The legend isnae true. Only by eating whole pomegranate seeds that ye pluck from the flesh of the fruit yerself, can ye become bound to the land. And we dinnae serve those.” He winks, stepping a little closer. “Ye can eat, little goddess. Please. Join us for dinner, we insist.”

“Okay.”

Simon is not at dinner.

John makes no mention of it, and only when you’re halfway done does he offer an explanation, something important that needed to be tended to.

“Ye look stunning.” He hums, and you have half the decency to smile. You chose a dress from the never-ending closet, black to match their suits, for fun. Its back is open, and the front offers a generous view of your breasts, but not quite enough.

You felt like sin. Johnny has been staring like you are. And maybe, you didn’t want sex, but you did want to punish them for their treachery. If only a little bit.

For making you a fool.

“So, no Simon?” He swallows a mouthful of red wine.

“He apologizes. Somethin’ came up.”

“That’s alright.” You shift, legs crossing. The transition is unintentional, but it draws Johnny’s eyes to your knees, and up. You lift your glass, the largest goblet of red wine you’ve seen, and allow a small river of red to run from the corner of your mouth to your neck. It traces the valley between your breasts, and Johnny growls.

“Persephone.”

“What?” You ask, innocently.

“Ye’re playing with fire.” He grits, the gleam in his eyes one of a predator.

“I’m not playing with anything,” you hiss, slamming the glass down. It shatters, it sloshes, it spills onto the table and into your lap. “You’re the ones playing with me. Kidnapping me, holding me hostage.” Your anger builds, overflowing inside your soul, clawing at the locked box of your magic. Cerberus whines, galloping across the floor and out the main door, but you hardly notice, too focused on spitting as much fire and venom at your captor as you can. “Touring me around the Underworld, making yourselves look like some benevolent, beloved rulers when really all you are… are gods of death and decay.” John stares at you, wild eyed. Your chair clatters to the ground as you stand, fury rocketing through every vein in your body, ichor pulsing beneath your skin. You’re so, so close to your power; you can taste it. Can feel the way it screams, how it howls to you, churning in the depths of your being, rattling the cage it’s trapped inside.

Trapped. You’re trapped. Like always.

Your vision blurs, and you take a step towards John. It all happens so fast, so lightning quick that it doesn’t even register until your hand is swinging through the air and across his face.

He does nothing. You feel the rumble of his power, pushing and pulling at the seams of your very being, waiting to tear your apart, but he holds himself at bay.

Only watches you with cold, wrathful eyes.

The air chills.

“That’s enough.” Simon stands between your bodies. Power, so potent, so strong, wraps tight, shoving your wrists together, Golden cuffs immobilizing you, holding you still. “You want to be a disobedient little brat, is that it?”

“YOU STOLE ME!” You scream it, raw and agonized. It tries to burst through your skin. Tries to explode your vessels. Your very heart. Your chest heaves, eyes wide, and John flanks you, coming closer and closer until you can feel his heat against your side.

He’s hard.

“What did ye think ye were doin, sweet Persephone? Did ye really think you could strike me?”

You don’t have an answer. Words die on your tongue. Guilt burns. Did you want to hurt him?

Did you?

The cuffs yank you forward. They singe your skin, dragging you to the table. “What’re you doing?” They drag you across the food until you're climbing on top, until your whole body is prone, feet dangling above the floor, bent at the waist.

“Is this what you wanted?” Simon mocks. Hands grip your hips, and your traitorous body clenches. “This what you need, little goddess? Need to be punished?” Your dress is shoved up around your waist, exposing your skin to the frigid air, and you force away a small moan. “You need your pain, darling?” Yes. Fingers pinch the back of your neck. “Answer me.”

“Yes.” You snap, darting daggers with your eyes over your shoulder. His answer is a chuckle.

“Turn your head.” He hisses, hand on the back of your skull. When you do, you come face to face with Johnny’s hips, the length of his cock freed from his suit pants and bobbing right in front of your mouth.

Oh, gods.

He strokes it slowly, the pink- nearly red tip oozing pre-cum, long and thick in his fist, his size enough to make your thighs press together, cunt throbbing with delight. Traitor.

“Open, darling.” He smears it against your lips. You tuck them in tight, trying to keep them closed, and he looks over, to the god who stands at the curve of your ass.

Simon takes a handful each of your cheeks, spreading you wide. He kicks your feet too, knocking your legs into an A-frame, fully exposing your weeping cunt.

“She’s dripping.” He announces, a finger sliding through your folds, body jolting with his touch. He circles your clit, barely, not enough, and you whine indignantly. It’s enough to loosen your lips, enough for Johnny to grasp your jaw, shove the tip of his thumb between your teeth, and then pry you open.

Once he gets the tip of his cock against your tongue, it’s over. Salt and earth dab along your tastebuds, and you drool on the table, trying to breathe through his rhythm, trying to focus as Simon tucks a finger into your hole, slowly pumping in and out, occasionally pulling free to swirl it around your untouched rim.

One finger inside you is enough to burn, heat rising through your belly, walls clenching tight, and John groans, pressing into the back of your throat, cutting off your airway.

“So good, all day.” Simon grits, stroking your clit in tiny circles. “Sweet Persephone, and now,” he’s building you closer, so close to the precipice, to the top of the mountain where you’ll hope he’ll throw you off.

But it’s not enough.

“I know darling, don’t worry. I’ll give you your pain.” He croons. John thrusts hard, drives into you vigorously, head thrown back. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, and you watch a slow rivulet dip beneath his collar. He’s so… they’re so…

A hand cracks across the tender skin of your ass, rippling out like a shockwave. You choke.

You clench. The tide rises.

“Fuck. There you go.” Light dances in front of your eyes, small pinpricks of stars, and you gurgle on the dick that shoves down your throat. Another strike, the same side, and you cry out, gasping for air. The tip of his finger gently pushes against your rim, and then it’s replaced with a mouth, a hot, intrepid tongue, swirling around as your hips buck and he plays with your clit.

You’re going to die. You’re going to explode. You need more.

You try to tell him, try to choke it out around John’s shaft, but it’s like he knows, like he’s reading your mind, and he pulls away to dig his teeth into the plump swell of your ass, biting down so hard you think you’re bleeding.

No. You are.

You scream.

Rivers of ichor paint your skin. The next spank comes directly over the puncture wounds, and instead of screaming in pain, you moan in pleasure, head held in Johnny’s hands, your face a tool for him to fuck, your pussy squeezing down around the single finger stroking in and out of your body. He swings again, and again, fire lighting behind your eyes, explosions going off one by one, your orgasm cresting, rising in the swell of an enormous wave, and just as you’re about to come, Simon plunges a finger deep into your ass, shoving you off the mountain.

To where they catch you below.

The rest is a blur. John finishes down your throat, salt and sweat and tears all mixing in your mouth, and he moans your name as he gives you a belly full of seed.

You’re limp, floating, drifting higher and farther than you ever have before, not in your body, not even in your own mind. Hardly cognizant when you’re picked up, tucked away in the shelter of a chest and carried down the hall. You close your eyes.

You come back a little bit when you’re placed in shallow hot water, a steaming, rocky pool, your face settled in Johnny’s neck. Cloth and deft fingers rub your shoulders, your waist, anywhere you might feel sore, even the bottoms of your feet.

All the while, they talk.

It starts simply, sweet words that fills you up until you can’t take anymore. “Did so well, darling. So good for us.” John murmurs in hushed tones as Simon shifts you, turning you on your belly to run the cloth between your legs and over your ass. It stings, and you hiss, but you’re soothed with an apology, gentle kisses down your spine, each one pressed with praise.

It’s not long before you’re tucked into bed, turned over on your side, some sort of magic and salve being applied to the bite in your skin. You’re gone now, barely aware, barely awake, but with it enough to catch the little bits here and there.

“-talk about it tomorrow.”

“If they’re from Demeter, I’ll-“ No. Not this. Anything but this. Distress catches in your chest, and fingers stroke your cheek.

“Shhh, sweet one. Rest now.” There’s a little touch of magic, a barely there pulse of power, and you let it take you into the soft comfort of sleep, bedded down like a fawn, cradled between two Kings.

*Hymn 2 to Demeter, line 347

#writing this from beyond the grave btw because it killed me #my final will and testament is to have this masterpiece etched into my tombstone #ghoap x reader #fic rec #cod #call of duty

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midniqhtt · 1 month ago

Text

james buchanan ‘bucky’ barnes

masterlist • marvel • 04/25/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs four

one two three five

𑣲 light I @sun-kissy

bucky meets you, his bright, new neighbour, and is instantly endeared

𑣲 bucky hcs I @/sun-kissy

𑣲 people pleaser!reader I @winterarmyy

𑣲 must be fate pt2 pt3 pt4 I @/winterarmyy

Y/N has been crossing paths with this particularly sweet alpha all day long; this must be fate right?

𑣲 sleepy heads I @/winterarmyy

That time when the reader accidentally fell asleep on a stranger’s shoulder in the subway ride home. The stranger in question, however, is none other than the former Winter Soldier, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

𑣲 valley-girl charm I @rainydayathogwarts

In which reader from the 1940s knows just how to play the damsel in distress to get exactly what she wants in the modern age after coming out of the ice.

𑣲 starry eyed I @flowersforbucky

reader gets a special gift from her secret santa

𑣲 alls well that ends well to end up with you I @/flowersforbucky

bucky isn't going to let an extended mission, a severe thunderstorm, and a delayed flight ruin your first valentine's day together.

𑣲 no one does it better I @/flowersforbucky

sent on a mission with the man you never intended to fall for, you run into someone from your past who your heart has never been able to fully let go of.

𑣲 love language I @/flowersforbucky

snapshots of your relationship with bucky told through the five love languages.

𑣲 moth to a flame I @/flowersforbucky

bucky is triggered into the winter soldier during a mission and then goes MIA, until he seeks you out in the middle of the night.

𑣲 rule number one I @mrs-elsie-barnes

Bucky is happy to find you still in his bed the morning after the night before, but Steve isn't impressed.

𑣲 never again I deactivated account

natasha likes to touch bucky's dog tags and bucky, well, he just wants to know why his favorite girl isn't talking to him.

𑣲 the other guy I @seventven

pietro proves to y/n that bucky is into her by doing everything in his power to make him jealous

𑣲 voicemails to an unmanned inbox I @pellucid-constellations

When Bucky takes an argument a little too far, you take off. All he wants is for you to come back home.

𑣲 flashing lights pt2 I @/pellucid-constellations

Bucky’s worst fears come true when he’s called to a scene. If he’s the one with the dangerous job, then why is it your life that’s hanging in the balance?

𑣲 jealous I @/pellucid-constellations

You keep talking about the owner of that new bakery and it’s rubbing Bucky the wrong way.

𑣲 five moments in time I @/pellucid-constellations

All of the moments in which Sergeant Barnes let the nurse on his unit know he’s not gonna stop trying to win her over. Even from beyond the grave.

𑣲 stay still pt 2 I @buckysknifecollection

What if your soulmate was the one person you had hurt the most?

𑣲 dog tags I @/buckysknifecollection

You are a kept prisoner by Hydra, your role is to fix Soldat’s metal arm whenever it gets damaged in a mission. You grow fond of each other and you decide to save him.

𑣲 slipping away I @kashimos-hajime

and now, he’s not your bucky anymore.

𑣲 dr. bee I @malum-forev

Bucky has quite the reputation but all it takes for him to want to change is an hour with an outspoken little Bee.

𑣲 eyes never lie I @/malum-forev

Sam and Bucky try to recruit (Y/N), Bucky's ex and a former Avenger who has left that life behind. But they realize her life has changed completely once they meet a her daughter with striking blue eyes.

𑣲 her weakness I @buckysfaveplum

you’re an enhanced individual with strong abilities and one moral code- you only fight with them when your opponent is also enhanced. during the fight with john walker, that code gets broken when bucky is hurt

𑣲 misery loves company pt2 pt3 pt4 I @shurisneakers

grumpy x grumpy drabbles

𑣲 saturn I @/shurisneakers

you die. bucky tries to bring you back (or) close to a year after you die, bucky's desperation finally finds an answer. but it may not be the one he's hoping for.

𑣲 unsolved I @/shurisneakers

Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or any shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

𑣲 by the warmth of the oven I @elixirfromthestars

You are baking cookies for the Avengers holiday party when a certain super solider comes into the kitchen tipsy for the first time...

𑣲 boulevard confessions I @/elixirfromthestars

Being a third wheel to Peggy and Steve wasn't your ideal Thursday night fun. However, when they tell you Bucky is tagging along you eagerly decide to join them. That is until a third party makes its presence known.

𑣲 knock you down a peg or two I @navybrat817

Someone learns the hard way that it's a bad idea to upset Bucky's wife.

𑣲 stood up I @/navybrat817

Bucky asks you out on a date and doesn't show.

𑣲 sugar plums I @blythesarchives

The soldier has an attachment to you.

𑣲 Подарок I @/blythesarchives

You give the soldier a present for Christmas.

𑣲 limbo I @/blythesarchives

Not quite Bucky, not quite Soldat, but all yours.

𑣲 cut your hair I @/blythesarchives

You help Bucky cut his hair.

𑣲 fugitives I @/blythesarchives

While you and Bucky flee from captivity in Berlin, Bucky shows his thanks to you for always being by his side.

𑣲 just as you are I @/blythesarchives

He tries his best for Valentine's Day.

𑣲 some other guy I @espinosaurusrexex

Everything was finished: the buffet was ready with sweet goodies, people were wearing their ugliest Christmas sweaters, and the music spread Christmas spirit wherever it reached. But you were still not enjoying it as much as you should. Something was missing, but what could you have possibly forgotten?

𑣲 when it all falls apart I @bucky-bucket-barnes

The fate of the universe was in your hands. Bucky and you had been sent to retrieve the soul stone, a seemingly simple task. Unbeknownst to you, there was a hefty price to pay for such an exchange. You’re able to return to Earth, but it’s soon apparent part of you was left in Vormir.

𑣲 just one kiss I @sarahwroteathing

Bucky Barnes has been chasing after you since he was ten years old, but you’re determined not to give in. How long can you hold out when all he’s asking for is just one kiss?

𑣲 hair I @magicaloneandmystery

bucky doesn't let anyone touch his hair. well... anyone except you.

𑣲 the catch I @lessersole

Bucky comes to the rescue when being Yelena's roommate makes things dangerous for you.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x fem!reader #winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fic recs #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff

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shouyuus · 5 months ago

Text

to kiss the sun

violet; 5,574 words; fluff and smut, no "y/n", wlw, tribbing, oral (r!receiving), face-riding, fingering (both receiving), switch!vi supremacy, service top!vi, p0rn with feelings (many MANY feelings), morning after vibes, gratuitously fluffy sex, popstar!reader x vi au

summary: the morning after vi shows up at your penthouse, you make good on your promise to show vi a few things you picked up at the brothel; sequel to counting stars

a/n: i didn't know writing smut could make me so soft. vi is needy and we must do our duty to give her everything she wants. thanks for coming to my tedtalk.

─── Ⅵ SHE'S SO USED TO WAKING UP alone that for a second, the empty bed doesn’t feel unfamiliar. and then — flashes of the night before flicker like frames of a still-remembered dream behind her eyelids — your steady, delicate hands, the trickle of bath water like piano music against her skin, the gently perfumed mist that had hung in her chest for hours after that bath had ended.

your lips, her tongue, the promise of a morning just far away enough to forget.

vi shoots up, blinking sleep from her eyes. all her muscles feel sore, but there’s a warmth pulsing beneath her skin that she hasn’t felt in… years. her limbs are heavy, thick still with the honeyed dregs of dreams but the space next to her on the oceanic bed is vast, and the only sign that you’d been there the slightest ruffle of your silken sheets.

she wraps her arms around herself, her mind still swimming with memories of last night, even as a frown creases her forehead.

“don’t worry, i’m not going anywhere. promise.” that was what you’d said — and yet.

a hard-lined prickle works up the back of her throat and vi slumps back to bury her face in a large, fluffy pillow, letting out a groan. she feels like a child, petulant and wanting. but it doesn’t stem the clench in her stomach, the old, viperous voice in the back of her head that whispers —

see? everyone leaves you. always.

and then, from somewhere beyond the closed bedroom door, she hears… singing. and she’s tumbling out of bed before she can stop herself, her toes curling into the soft pashmina carpet, her fingers cold against the doorknob as she pushes through.

she finds you in the open kitchen, your back to her as you prod at something on the stove. the delicious smell of cooking meat hits her nose and immediately makes her mouth water. but she’s held still by the sight — you still wearing the large nightshirt from last night, your pink lace robe slipping off your shoulder as you sway back and forth on your tiptoes.

the lemon-yellow light spilling through your massive windows gilds you in morning-glory gold.

vi lets out a breath she doesn’t remember holding and pads her way towards you, looping both arms around your middle and burying her face in your neck.

“oh!” you gasp, turning slightly, your eyes wide, “i didn’t hear you —”

“i thought —” vi’s voice is cracked and gravely from sleep; she clears her throat and takes a breath, “you weren’t in bed when i woke up so —”

you let out a sound like a tiny laugh, setting down the spatula in your hand as you twist around in her arms. behind you, three fat sausages and a few eggs are cooking on a large flat pan.

“i didn’t wanna wake you up,” you say, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips, “you looked like you were sleeping so well.”

vi sighs, trailing a knuckle along your cheek, even as she tugs you back for a longer kiss, a deeper kiss. one that has you gasping against her.

you giggle as she pulls away, a bit breathless. “and… you were snoring up a storm so —”

vi leans down to bite at your neck, fingers fisting in your hair to tug your head back for more access.

“i don’t snore.”

“wanna bet?”

vi pulls back with a crooked grin before her eyes flicker back to the pan. she swallows.

you turn, reaching for the spatula again.

“how do you like your eggs?”

“uh… not raw?”

you roll your eyes, bumping her with your hip even as she settles herself against your back, her chin resting on your shoulder again.

“i like mine over-easy, but i can make them scrambled too, if you want.” you scoot the sausages towards the side and flip over one of the bubbling eggs, the sizzle of the oil making vi’s stomach grumble loudly behind you.

“i’ve…” vi pauses, ghosting her lips over your shoulder, “no one’s ever really asked me that before so… i don’t… i don’t know.”

your hand pauses as you shuffle the sausages around the edges of the pan. and then —

“okay, then i’ll make one of each, and you can try both! then maybe tomorrow, i can poach a few — those are the really good ones where the yolk is all runny —”

“hey.”

vi twists your chin towards her; the kiss is sweet, but you can taste the fluttering desperation beneath her tongue, as if she’s searching for something within the warm caverns of your mouth, and that if she can just kiss you hard enough or long enough, she might just find it. when she pulls away this time, there’s something flickering in the pre-dawn blue of her eyes.

“vi?”

she shakes her head, her gaze skating along the contours of your face as if you were a painting she’d been trying to memorize.

“i just —” she swallows again, “this… all just feels too good to be true — like… like the whole thing’s a dream and i’m gonna wake up one day alone and —”

you smile as you press a hand to her cheek. “hey, hey — none of that now. the eggs are gonna overcook —” you turn back around to tend to breakfast, even as vi groans and digs her face into the nape of your neck, her fingers biting into the plush of your hips.

“and, it’s not a dream. but even if it were, what makes you think i wouldn’t just find you again after we both wake up?”

vi frowns as she lifts her head, watching as you plate the sausages and eggs, lifting up onto tip toe for the salt and pepper shakers on the shelf. she grins, loosening her arms ever so slightly to let you grab them before she’s pulling you into her again and you’re laughing in her arms.

“ugh. i’m never gonna win with you, huh princess?”

“nope — now help me carry this to the bedroom. i’m gonna pour us some drinks.”

vi watches in muted fascination as you lay out a breakfast tray on your pristine sheets and slot two bubbling glasses of what she’s sure is champagne into the carved out glass holders, and then motions for her to put down the large plate of food. she does, her expression both reverent and amused as you flop down onto the bed and tug the blankets up around your lap, patting the spot next to you.

“c’mon — before it goes cold!”

she slips beneath the covers again, crossing her legs as she watches you reach for your glass, the liquid inside shimmering with pale gold bubbles.

“bon appetit!” you say, grinning at her as you reach for a sausage with your hands. vi’s eyebrows hike up as you bring it to your lips, taking a bite, moaning around it as hot oil slicks down the side of your hand and you lean down to lick it back, the pink flash of your tongue making her stomach twist with an entirely different kind of hunger.

but, she decides, one indulgence at a time — and reaches for a sausage of her own, foregoing the knife and fork just as you had.

it’s delicious, sweet and salty, the fat bursting in her mouth making her shiver as she swallows. she’s never had anything so delicious, anything so truly indulgent. she scarfs down one sausage, and then reaches for another, pausing only to glance up at you. she finds you watching her with a smile and a sparkle in your eyes that looks so dangerously like love it makes her gut clench.

how long has it been since someone’s looked at her like that? like she was beautiful, like she was —

“someone worth looking at?” your words from the night before echos in her ears as she takes the second sausage with a sheepish grin, licking her lips of the oil.

“i can make more if you want,” you say, leaning back and sipping at your drink, “there’s plenty in the fridge, and i’ll make as many as you want.”

vi shakes her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “no, this is —” she reaches for her own glass, gulping down half in a single swig, coughing as the bubbles fizzle up her throat, “this is good —”

by the time she finishes the second sausage, you’re splitting the eggs with a knife and fork, your movement precise, as if she hadn’t just watched you lick sausage fat from your own wrist.

“here, try the eggs. this is the over easy, and this —” you push two piles of eggs towards her, one bleeding yellow yolk over the fine white china, the other a pile of fluffy sun-colored scramble, topped off with flecks of black pepper and large flakes of white seasalt.

vi scoops up one, moaning around the runny yolk, before shoveling a bite of the scrambled egg into her mouth.

“holy shit — i mean, they’re both really good —” she leans down to scrape up some more, licking the fork clean with a happy little hum.

“is there one you like better?” you ask, and vi looks up, a final bite of egg poised halfway to her mouth. she grins as she sets down her fork and pushes the breakfast tray gently out of the way, tugging you towards her.

“yeah well, sure but… ‘s not like i can focus on that when you’re sitting right there looking like breakfast, lunch, and dinner —” she grazes her lips along the length of your neck, nuzzling into the soft spot right behind your ear, breathing you in like a woman lost. and she is — isn’t she? lost in this paradise you’ve built for her, lost in the feeling of you, the irrefutable knowledge that you’re here, and that you’re here to stay.

“y-you seemed pretty focused c-cleaning that plate just a second ago — o-oh —!”

you gasp as she pins you beneath her, your leg knocking against the breakfast tray, her mouth hot along your collarbone.

“v-vi — the china —”

“mm — fuck — fine —” she pulls away from you, keeping you pinned beneath her with her thighs, thick and strong, clamped on either side of your hips as she twists around to set the breakfast tray on the floor before turning back with a smirk. “there. happy now, princess?”

you nod, smiling up at her as she returns to her single-minded task of kissing your throat, sighing against your skin as she tugs your robe from your shoulders and inches her fingers beneath the hem of your nightshirt.

“c’mon princess — didn’t you promise me you were gonna show me all the other things you learned at the brothel, hm?”

you gasp as she tugs your nightshirt up off your torso, leaving you in nothing but your lacy pink panties, your cheeks flushed, your nipples pebbling in the sudden chill.

“mm… never gets old…” vi says, reaching down to tweak at one of them, grinning as you whine.

“vi… vi, please —” you reach out for her, fingers gentle against her tensing stomach as she groans and leans down to kiss you. but before she can, the world flips and she’s hissing out a breath, blinking in confusion as you rock your hips, sitting astride her now, one palm laid flat against her sternum, the other cupping her cheek.

vi stares up at you, her eyes wide but you can see the way her pupils dilate, her gaze going hungry.

you offer her a tiny, knife-flash grin, trailing your thumb along her skin till it grazes her bottom lip.

“there… that’s one trick they taught me… would you like to see some others?”

vi moans, her head rolling back as you rock your hips down over hers again, her hands shooting up to grasp at your waist, her eyes fluttering shut.

“holy fuck, yeah —” she helps ruck your hips down, fingers digging into your flesh as you reach down to gently tug her chin back down, whispering against her lips —

“eyes on me, violet…”

her eyes flicker open, a soft whimper curling up her throat as you shift your hips down and your clothed cores meet through the layers of fabric.

“want you to watch me when i’m making you feel good.”

“sweet jesus…” vi breathes, her brows furrowing ever so slightly as you reach down to inch her shirt up as well, tilting your head slightly as you wait for her to lift her hands. you toss the shirt off the other side of the bed, breathing out as you feast your eyes on the sight of her, splayed out beneath you, a classical artist’s dream of solid muscle and ink-kissed skin.

“you know, they used to carve statues to immortalize bodies like yours…” you say, pressing a line of unhurried kisses to her shoulder, trailing across her collarbones, down the divot of her breasts, pausing over each nipple, laving your tongue over the tiny metal rings there, warming them on your tongue before popping off and making your patient way down the length of her torso. you trace the shape of her stomach muscles with the tip of your tongue, graze your teeth against the delicate skin right above the waistband of her shorts, eyes always cast up at her face, watching for the minute reactions that she’s always been so generous to give.

“eyes, violet,” you remind her gently as you suck a hickey over her hipbone and her entire pelvis jerks up towards you. she huffs out a breath, forcing her eyes open to look down at you, a pout threatening her mouth even as she chews on her bottom lip.

“shit princess — you can’t — i — it feels too good, i —”

“i know,” you shush, holding her gaze as you shift to slip the shorts from her legs, discarding them over your shoulder with a cock of your head like a curious little bird, looking her over with bright eyes.

“but i’ll stop if you look away again, okay?” you chide, grazing a thumb along her already slickened folds, circling her clit once just to see the way her jaw drops open, her eyes rolling back. you pull your hand away and she jerks up, a hand shooting out to grab your arm.

“sweet fuck, mm — c’mere —”

you hitch an eyebrow, watching her as she tugs you towards her, melding her mouth with yours, the self-same desperation you’d tasted earlier blossoming behind the tombstones of her teeth like words she’s never had the courage to say aloud. all her needs, all her wants, pressed there like flowers between the pages of her story, and you — leaning in, opening your mouth, kissing her back like you’d love nothing more than to see them, to read them, to listen, to learn.

you let her kiss you, and you let yourself be kissed. you let her pour herself into you with her fingers in your hair, and your hands soft against her neck, running soothing circles into the pulse beneath her jaw. when she finally pulls back, your lips are wet, her chest is heaving. there’s a strange, fractured light in her eyes as she presses her forehead against yours and breathes out, long and deep.

“you okay?” you ask.

“mm. yeah… i just…” she sucks in another breath, “i — uh — i’m not the best with patience —”

you laugh, “you don’t say.”

she chuckles, allowing herself to be pressed back into the sheets. you shift your legs, hooking one of her over one of yours, shifting till your clothed cunt presses against her bare one. she hisses, her head tipping back. a second later, you roll your hips down, the friction making the coil in your stomach knot over itself, but your eyes are still fixed on vi, on the trembling expression painted across her features.

“violet… c’mon, eyes…” is all you say, your voice patient hush as you slowly work yourself against her.

she lets out a pitched whine, but she forces her eyes back onto you, the gentle curve of your body as you grind your pussy to hers. she bites her lips at the wetness she can feel collecting there — hers and yours, the way you don’t hide your pleasure from her, the little hitches in your breaths, the pink flush of color washing into your cheeks, even as you swirl your hips, your eyes never wavering from her face as her mouth falls open around a moan.

“shit — god, that’s —”

“good?” you ask, leaning over her, your hair a liquid spill across your shoulders.

she nods, her mind too blissed out to really speak as you reach down to tweak at one of her nipples, tugging lightly on the ring, your other hand splayed out on her stomach, keeping you steady.

“y-yeah — really — really fuckin’ good —” she says, nearly keening as you pull back to tug your panties from you, the sight of your wetness gleaming on the lace making her skin prickle with heat. she lets you wrap your hand around one of her wrists, pulling it up towards you, brushing your lips over her knuckles before pressing two of her fingers into your mouth.

you moan around them, even as she bites her lips, her eyes half-hooded, but she heeds your earlier warnings and doesn’t look away, doesn’t let them drop shut even as you pull her fingers from your lips with a soft pop and bring them to where your still slowly grinding against her.

“show me what makes you feel good.”

“n-ngh — fuck fuck fuck —” vi chants, canting her hips up to meet yours, even as you cup one of her hipbones in your palm to steady her, watching as she presses her fingers to her clit and draws them in small, quick circles, her thumb flicking up to graze against yours.

your hips stutter and you let out a gasp, the heat in your abdomen solid and familiar.

“look so good, princess — mm —” a tiny frown creases her forehead as she quickens her pace, but you tug her fingers away, swallowing her momentary whine with a kiss, replacing her fingers with your own. you mirror her movements, relishing in the way she works her hips up against you, her movements threaded with urgency, her tongue pressing into your mouth as you slip your fingers down the seam of her cunt to dip inside her.

immediately, she keens, jerking you down as her hips ruck up.

“mm… we’re making a mess,” you say, your voice almost teasing as you pull back to smile at her, your fingers still teasing her sodden folds, “but that’s okay — i was going to do the laundry today anyway.”

you dip down, sucking gently at the skin of her neck, slowly fucking two fingers into her, feeling her clamp down around you, her head tossing back into the pillows as you sit back up and cluck your tongue, fingers slowing ever so slightly.

she peers up at you, her gaze hazy and unfocused, her lashes fluttering.

“there’s those pretty eyes,” you say with a grin, before pushing a third finger into her and curling them up.

“f-fuck!”

you press your palm against her clit, working your fingers inside her till she’s scrabbling at your arm, pulling you down roughly to mouth at your lips, whimpering and panting, her breath fanning hot as she holds you to her by the back of your neck.

“fuck, sweetness — i’m gonna — i’m gonna cum —”

you allow yourself a soft moan, nodding, quickening your pace as you dig the fingers of your free hand into her hip, a dull ache building between your own thighs as you watch vi’s lashes flutter.

“good,” you breath, “cum for me, vi — lemme see you cum for me —”

“oh — oh fuck — princess, i — a*-ah — ah — ah!*”

you fuck her slowly through her orgasm, kissing her slow and languid, swallowing around her whimpers and moans, her hips kicking as you tease your thumb over her oversensitive clit.

“holy shit…” she laughs, letting her head thump back into the pillows as you pull your fingers from her and lick them clean. “that was —” she licks her lips, swallowing thickly.

“the girls at the brothel taught me well,” you say, giggling when she tugs you into her arms, nosing against your cheek.

“they sure did but —” her fingers trail down the length of your body to cup your cunt, “i wanna make you feel good too, pretty girl.”

your breath hitches; your lashes flicker.

“mm… so damn wet, and all for me…” she says, tugging you over her shoulders, spreading your pussy lips with two fingers, groaning at the sight of your slick folds.

“c-can you blame me?” you ask, gasping as she pulls you down over her mouth, her fingers caged around your thighs. you let out a soft whimper as you feel her lick a long strip over your cunt, her nose nudging your clit as she moans into you. “o*-oh —*” you squeak as her tongue pushes into you, and you feel her rocking you down, pressing you against her so hard you’re afraid she might suffocate.

you steady yourself against the wall, reaching down to card your fingers through her hair, the color still darker than it used to be, the roots still inked in black.

vi’s cocks an eyebrow up at you from between your legs, and you can almost feel her smirk before you feel her wrap her lips around your clit to give it a hard suck. you yelp, hips jumping even as she yanks you back against her, fucking her tongue into you so hard your stomach clenches with the pleasure.

“oh — oh — ngh — violet —”

“th-that’s it, princess — so hot riding my face — mm — mmph —”

you rock your hips over her mouth, the bright tingle of heat circling through you, coiling tighter and tighter as she eats you out with a wolfish hunger, groaning into your folds as your pace goes jerky and the pin-prick of pleasure stretches inside you, ballooning out till you’re clenching over her face, fluttering around her tongue as she licks eagerly at your wetness, pooling out of you onto her chin and cheeks.

“fuck, you taste — taste good —” she mumbles, lips chasing your cunt even as you try to lift yourself up, her arms flexing as she pulls you back down.

“w-wait — vi — it’s too — too much —”

you squeak as she sits up, flipping the pair of you to finally pin you beneath her, a lopsided grin on her face, a dark, dangerous look in her eyes as she wipes her lips on the back of her hand.

“yeah? but, i’m still hungry, princess —” she wastes no time in prying apart your legs, swearing under her breath as she sees your pussy fluttering around nothing, her fingers shoving into you a second later, “and i mean — i haven’t been trained at a brothel but — been to babette’s enough times to know a thing or two —”

her smirk is sharp, even though her eyes are soft as she watches you writhe beneath her, the remnants of her orgasm still warm in her veins. a furious, ticking urge is pressing up the back of her throat as she fucks you open on her fingers, a savage want blooming inside her chest.

she wants to see you fall apart for her, over and over and over again, wants to make you scream till your voice gives out, wants to swallow around all your pretty little noises — she wants, she wants, she wants —

and then, a softer, deeper desire creeping up, up through her ribs to pool at the base of her tongue, slick as poison —

she wants you to do the same to her, just as you’ve already done.

the want is so huge it terrifies her, makes her chest squeeze even as she leans down to kiss you again, reveling in the taste of her own name on your tongue, dripping from the corners of your mouth like a hymn or a prayer.

it’s a want so vast it won’t fit behind her ribs — that she wants you. in every single way it’s possible to want a person.

and, she wants you to want her too.

“fuck, princess —” she grits out, pulling away just far enough to watch the pleasure crease your forehead, “you want it? tell me — tell me what you want —”

you’re breathless, exhalant, your fingers curling in her hair as you jerk up against her.

“w-want — want this — want you — violet — vi — vi —!”

she groans at the way you say her name, letting her head drop into you shoulder for a second before she curls her fingers and fucks them into you so hard she feels her forearms strain.

“yeah? tell me again, pretty girl —” she lifts her head to find your eyes, and for a split second, she sees herself as you might — disheveled and wild-eyed but the softness of her features is unmistakable, the way her lips are parted, her brows furrowed as she watches you.

your eyes find hers, and your breath is trembling when you say, in a voice that’s so much sweeter than the harshness of her movements, than the toe-curling sound of your wetness as it squelches around her hand, your slick dripping down her wrist and onto the sheets.

“i — i want you, violet — a-all of you — please —”

“fuck, cum for me princess — i — i want — i need to see you cum for me — please, god —”

there’s a whine high in her voice even as you spasm around her, the feeling of your cunt milking at her fingers making her shiver. her movements slow as time itself seems to unspool around you both, your bodies so much more than the sums of their parts — so much skin and breath, so much honey and rest.

you laugh, an indulgent, tickling sound, bubbling up from you as you breathe, running your fingers through her hair as she slowly tugs her fingers from you.

“shit… you came a lot,” she says, laughing with you as you nod and reach for a tissue on the bedside table and hand it to her. she wipes at her hands first, and then her face. and then, she leans off the bed to grab the plate with the leftover eggs, shoveling them into her mouth.

you lay there, watching her with a bitten-back smile. she pauses as she catches your eye.

“sorry — oops —” a bit of scrambled egg nearly tumbles out of her mouth. she licks it back and swallows, setting the plate back down to collapse next to you. “just… didn’t wanna waste it, y’know?”

you giggle, curling onto your side and resting a hand on her chest, flicking at one of her nipple rings.

“hey. quit that.”

you grin, shifting your hand down to rest against her stomach. she reaches up to cover your hand with hers, your fingers lacing easily as she turns to face you.

“still hungry?”

vi smiles, shifting closer to you on the sheets, the pair of you lying face to face, bodies curled in towards one another like mirrored images.

“nah. think i’m good now. that was a good breakfast.”

you laugh, walking your fingers along the bend of her waist, pulling yourself forward till you’re nuzzling into her collarbone. she opens her arms and loops them around you.

“yeah? good. so, have we got a verdict on the eggs?”

vi hums, considering.

“i like the scrambled ones. but… i thought you said you were gonna make something else for breakfast tomorrow?”

she hooks an ankle over yours and you shift against her, softening into her chest.

“yeah, ‘m planning on making a few soft boiled ones, and a few poached ones. they’re kind of similar, but also super different.”

“yeah? how so?”

her fingers trace soft circles into the bare skin of your back; yours trail absently over the dark lines of her tattoo, outlining the cogs and wheels and puffs of tinted clouds.

you try your best to explain the differences between a soft boiled egg and a poached egg, and it ends with the pair of you laughing, vi shaking her head even as she edges closer to you, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“i could listen to you talk all day, princess.”

you crinkle your nose, “careful what you wish for.”

“mm,” vi hums, leaning in till your foreheads touch and her eyes flutter shut again, “thanks, though.”

“hm? for what?”

she breathes in, then out.

“for… all this. for breakfast, for…” she lets her voice trail off as her eyes blink open to find you watching her.

“you don’t need to thank me,” you say, inching ever closer, so close now that she can feel the heat of your words over her skin as you speak them, “i meant what i said last night — whatever’s mine is yours and…” you reach up to cup her cheek, “that i want all this because… i want you.”

vi closes her eyes, squeezing them shut as that soft tendril of desire once against pushes up against the back of her throat. she makes a sound caught between a sigh and whine, pulling you into her, wrapping both arms around you and burying her face in your hair.

“gods… you drive me insane.”

you chuckle against her collarbone, blowing an errant strand of pink hair from your mouth.

“if it’ll make you stay with me then…” your voice is slightly muffled, but vi hears it all the same, feels the rumble of it from your chest to hers, the honesty in them shaking her to the core.

she squeezes you once, long and hard, before letting you go.

“careful what you wish for,” she says, echoing your words back at you.

you smile, a simple thing, leaning up to brush your lips to hers. it’s a soft kiss, one that’s devoid of the pulsing, urgent want of your kisses prior, but for some reason, this one lingers like a prickle on the tongue, champagne bubbles as they filter down your throat, fizzling warmth through both your chests even after you pull away.

“didn’t i already tell you?” you say, bumping your nose to hers, “i’ve been praying for this since the day we met.”

vi lets out a small laugh, nodding, “yeah… you did, huh.”

you tangle your fingers in the long hairs skimming down her back.

“you don’t have enforcer stuff you need to report in for?”

vi groans, rolling her eyes, “i mean… i probably do but…”

you shake your head, “give them a call, ask for a few days off.”

vi’s eyebrows hitch at your words, “and… what do i tell them?”

“that you’re taking a few days off — call it a vacation if you want.”

“huh,” but her lips are already tugging into a knowing smirk, “and what do you propose we do on this so-called vacation of mine, hm?”

you shrug, giggling as she leans down to nip at your collarbones.

“mmm… how does staying here, sleeping in, and eating through my favorite recipes sound?”

vi pulls back, her expression flickering through several channels before settling on a mix of cautious and hopeful.

“are… you sure? you — you don’t have like… famous-person stuff you have to do?”

you laugh, “nope! not for a week at least. and… i’ve got a few really good bottles of wine in the cellar i’ve been meaning to try.”

“the cellar?”

you grin, “go make the call.”

vi pushes herself up, carding a hand through her hair and rubbing at her temples. but she glances back at you, her fingers still linked with yours. you glance down at your hands before giving her a squeeze.

“go on, i’ll still be here when you get back. i promise.”

vi leans back down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“promise?” she asks.

you nod, leaning up to kiss her properly, pulling away only when she tries to push you back into the mattress. you shoot her an exasperated look as she tugs on a shirt and nearly trips over the breakfast tray, glancing back at you from the bedroom door.

“go. i’ll be here,” you say again. and vi gives you one last lingering look before slipping through the door, leaving it swinging behind her.

a few seconds later, you hear her voice as she says —

“uh hey, it’s me. can you connect me to the warden?”

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