1.5k — cw : incest, dubcon. based on this request <3
Suguru is waiting in his room when you get home, knowing you'll come seek him out. Judging by the way you slammed the door shut and let out a frustrated groan, he guesses your date went poorly. Not that he feels bad for you.
You've been insufferable over the last few months. He supposes he has been too though. The two of you built up a tension that has no right to exist between a brother and a sister, and yet you both feed into it like it's your jobs.
You're always sitting on his lap when you can, distracting him while he's trying to watch a movie or play a game. But then again, when he gets irritated and you move away with a huff, he's the same one dragging you back on top of him with an apology kiss.
When he's showering, you decide that it's the perfect time to use the bathroom, pulling your pants down in front of the glass shower door when you know he's looking. He always shouts at you to get out, that you're being annoying, but then he's wrapping a hand around his stiff cock a minute later, pumping himself to the view of his little sister taking a piss.
And of course that only sends you rushing out, but not before telling him that he's gross and a pervert. You run straight from the bathroom to your bedroom where you end up with a hand stuffed down your pants, playing with your pussy while you think about your brother.
You know it's wrong, that's why you've never done anything more. Sometimes Suguru tries to push the boundaries a little, snaking a hand under your shirt or grinding your hips down when you're sitting on his lap. But then you swat him away, like you want nothing to do with him.
Which is fucking ridiculous too considering he sees the kinds of guys you're dating. Tall and lean, dark eyes and long dark hair. You really couldn't be any more transparent.
So when you barge into his room after another failed date, his patience for you has already worn away.
"Suguuu," you whine.
"Don't care," he doesn't even look up from where he's sitting at his desk with a controller in his hands.
"I haven't even said anything!"
He shoots you a deadpan look that says it doesn't matter. You roll your eyes, walking right in front of his TV before hopping on top of his desk.
Suguru groans, shutting off his game and turning to you. "What do you want?"
"I want to hang out. I just had the worst date you know." You adjust the way you're sitting, spreading your legs a tad wider, giving Suguru a clear view up your skirt.
His eyes flit down to where you're perched, lingering a moment as he stares at the glimpse of your panties that you've given him. Then his eyes are back on you, his expression unchanged. "You say that every time," he points out.
You chew on your lip, irritated that you're not getting much of a reaction out of your brother. "He was really cute though, like hot."
He glares at you for a moment before standing and stepping closer to you until you're forced to crane your neck to look up at him.
"And what does any of this have to do with me?"
Swallowing thickly, you try to find a quick reply. "I'm just sharing, that's all."
"No, you're not," he snaps. "You know, I'm pretty tired of this."
"This…?" you ask, and he scoffs.
Suguru flips your skirt up, fully revealing to him the pair of panties you chose to wear tonight.
"Hey! Don't do that—" you move to hit his hand but he just grabs your wrist, stopping you.
"I'm sick of you pretending you don't want me," he tugs you closer to him until you can feel his breath fanning against your neck. He inhales, scowling as he smells your perfume—the one you selected for your 'date.'
"We can't, Sugu," you protest weakly. You don't try to pull away.
"Mm, is that why you say my name when you touch yourself? And go on all those dates with losers who look like me?" His free hand trails down your side, giving your thigh a squeeze before pulling your legs apart. "It's just the next best thing, right?"
Your heart races, finally being confronted with what you've been dancing around for months, what you've been trying to avoid. Though, if you weren't ready to face the reality of what's going on between you two then you shouldn't have been egging it on.
You shouldn't have been dangling Suguru's doppelgängers in his face, showing off your panties and practically begging for his attention.
"It's not like that," you say, but even your tone conveys that you know that's bullshit.
Suguru laughs, slipping his hands between your thighs. You close them on instinct but he just forces them open again.
"I don't think every sister gets this wet for their brother," Suguru rubs your cunt, feeling you over the thin fabric of your underwear. It wasn't that damp when you got dropped off. "C'mon, tell your big brother how he makes you feel."
You can’t bring yourself to do it.
You can’t even when Suguru yanks your panties to the side, plunging two long fingers into your tight hole. You tell him to stop, keep pleading that it's not right even though you're holding onto his shoulder as he curls the digits perfectly inside you. Your back arching into his chest, you seek to be impossibly closer to him when his thumb finds your clit.
"Say it," he rasps, "say it's me who you want."
You still don't.
And yet you whine pathetically when Suguru pulls his hand away, leaving you soaked and desperate for the orgasm that he denied you.
But then he sinks to his knees, sliding your legs onto his shoulders as he stuffs his face into your pussy. You taste fucking incredible. The flavor of you is so addictive, only complemented by the immorality of it being on his tongue that’s buried inside his baby sister's cunt.
Suguru's frustration grows when he hears you above him, scolding him as you usually do, saying that he's being gross. Saying that you don't want to do this with him, all the while you're grinding down onto his face, smearing your slick around his mouth and nose while you greedily accept every ounce of pleasure he's offering.
Your brother pours all of his anger into ravaging you. He eats you out like a man starved, shoving his fingers back inside you while he sucks on your clit until you're trembling in his hold and cumming with a reluctant moan.
He wipes his mouth as he rises to his feet again, staring down at you with his pupils blown wide. "You think any of those guys could have made you feel that good?"
Your chest is heaving as you meet his gaze, speechless.
"They couldn't," he answers for you. "They'd never be able to satisfy a slut like you that cums in her brother's mouth."
"D-don't say that, Sugu. That's fucked."
"Oh, give me a break." He palms at the bulge in his pants, trying to relieve some of the ache. He's so hard that he's probably dripping pre in his briefs already.
And of course, you're so damn stubborn that you still try to pretend that you don't want Suguru when he sinks his cock into you, even as you're wrapping your ankles around his hips. Not to mention the fact that your pussy is sopping wet, making it so easy for him to slide in and out of you.
The desk is rocking beneath you as Suguru slams his hips into yours with a force so strong you're worried you'll break. Your brother has two fingers hooked in your mouth, using them as leverage to pound into you harder and relishing in the way you gargle and gag around him.
He'd gotten sick of hearing you still bitching and moaning about how wrong this is, deciding that he needed to shut you up. If his fingers didn't work, then his words would have when he asked you how your cum tasted on your brother's fingers.
It's only when you orgasm for the second time tonight that your brother gets what he's been asking for the whole time. He frees your mouth of his fingers when he can feel your pussy throbbing around his length, leaving you gasping for air. And the first word out of your mouth is the most perfect cry of Suguru's name as you fall apart for him.
As stubborn as you are, Suguru always knows what you need, sometimes it just takes a little effort to coax it out of you.
Like now, even after you've came on your brother's mouth, fingers, and cock, you still say he can't cum inside you. But he knows that once you realize how good it feels to have him filling you up, you'll never argue with him again.
notes fake dating (this trope was requested <33), he falls first AND harder, yearning neteyam, reader is the sweetest girl in the world, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving)
synopsis neteyam offered a proposition to the most quiet girl in the clan: pretend to be his intended to make another girl jealous... but a short time into it and the lines had blurred for him. not for you, though! you’re serious about the mission, much to his frustration.
word count 14.4k
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“The moons are ripening,” Elder Peyka remarked. “The courting season will be upon us before the next great hunt. The young warriors are already preening like forest ikrans... Oh, how nice to see.”
“And the girls are no better,” another elder chuckled, tightening a string of seed beads. She turned her clouded but sharp eyes toward you. You were sitting a few paces away, your fingers flying across a loom. “Child. Look at me.”
You paused, your heart giving a small, nervous flutter as you looked up. “Yes, elder?”
“You are of age now, are you not?”
“I am,” you replied softly, your voice barely rising above the rustle of the loom.
Peyka sighed, shaking her head. “If only you would go out there and be seen, child! You have the grace of the willow, but you hide like a yerik. You are too shy for your own good. If you do not lift your head, the season will pass you by and you might actually become a spinster, weaving alone while the rest of the clan sings of mates!”
A chorus of gentle, teasing laughter erupted from the circle. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, and you quickly ducked your head back down, focusing intensely on a loose thread. You let out a small, embarrassed chuckle of your own, a soft sound that barely escaped your lips.
You are painfully aware of that but you don’t know where to start. You have friends, yes, but they are not friends you hang out with outside of the weaving looms. You are almost always alone, and while other girls had found their places among the hunters, practicing their war cries or vying for the attention of the said men, you found yourself hidden in the looms to enjoy the repetitive routine of weaving.
It’s not like you were the best weaver, too. You are not the best, not the worst either, just a girl whose hands were often stained with berry dyes and whose eyes were usually cast downward. It was safer that way. When you didn't look up, you didn't have to see the way the world seemed to orbit around people who weren't you.
A few feet away, leaning against a sturdy root, Neteyam sat silently. An elder weaver was currently binding a new leather guard to his forearm, and while he appeared to be focused on it, his ears were swiveled toward the elders' conversation.
He watched you.
Neteyam knew everyone in the clan. It was his duty as the future Olo'eyktan, but as he looked at you now, he realized he has never even heard you speak. He knew your name, he knew your family, but he couldn't recall the sound of your voice until that very moment. Your shy, quiet laughter brought a warm feeling to his chest for some reason, making him take a deep breath.
His mind drifted to Ka’ani. She was the finest huntress among their peers, just like him. And he’s always thought of a partnership much like the one his parents have. His father is a great warrior and so is his mother. To be a great leader is to stand beside a fearsome woman as well... And he thinks it’s Ka’ani.
But right now, she was becoming a challenge. She’s making him look like a fool, flitting from warrior to warrior to test his patience. She wanted him to chase her until he was exhausted, and Neteyam, the proud, capable, and unaccustomed to losing firstborn of the clan’s pillars, was reaching his breaking point. He was never fond of playing, but some games need strategy, too.
Neteyam’s gaze lingered on you. You were still working, your movements steady and humble, completely unaware of the weight of his stare. A slow, calculated thought began to take root in his mind.
“Finished, Neteyam,” the weaver said, patting his arm.
“Thank you,” Neteyam murmured. He stood up, taller and broader than most men.
Instead of heading back to where the warriors were gathering, he turned his steps toward the shadows. He walked with deliberate strides stopping right in front of your loom until his shadow blocked your light. “You’re doing that wrong.”
The voice startled you so badly that the bone needle slipped. “I—what?” you stammered, finally looking up.
Neteyam was standing over you. In the flickering firelight, his bioluminescent freckles were glowing like stars. “The weave,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the basket in your lap. “It’s too tight. It will snap when it dries.”
“The ones I did last moon were fine,” you murmured. You tried to look back down, to disappear into your work as you always did. “Is there something you need?”
Instead of answering, he sat. The movement was fluid, but there was a heaviness to it, sitting so close to you that his knee brushed against yours.
“I have a proposition for you, Y/N,” he said. His voice was low, dropping into a register that felt dangerously intimate. He knows your name?
You blinked, your insecurity rising up like a shield. “A proposition? Do you need help with the weaving?”
“No, no, I don’t,” he answered. “The elders speak the truth, you know,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “It would be a shame for you to be hidden in the dark.”
You finally looked up, your eyes wide. Neteyam wasn't looking at the fire, he was looking directly at you, and for the first time in your life, the Golden Son was smiling as if you were the only person in the clearing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathed, your voice trembling.
He leaned in just an inch closer, his amber eyes sparking with a hidden intent. “Hear my proposition... It might just solve both our problems with the coming season.”
You swallowed hard, the dryness in your throat making it difficult to breathe. You were a weaver of threads, but sitting before you was practically the weaver of destinies in this clan. You know he could alter your life and he was looking at you with a terrifying amount of focus.
“Our... problems?“ you whispered, your fingers curling tightly around the bone needle. “I don’t have problems. And I don’t think someone like you have problems, Neteyam.”
He let out a short, huffed breath that might have been a laugh if his eyes weren't so sharp. “Everyone has a role to play. Sometimes, that role becomes... suffocating. My mother is already looking at the daughters of the council. She expects a match that strengthens the line. I’m thinking of Ka’ani. She’s the finest huntress my age.”
At the mention of her name, his jaw tightened. You remembered the last time you saw the girl. She was draped over the arm of a young warrior, her laughter loud and pointed, as if it was a performance, designed to reach the ears of a certain warrior. You remembered Neteyam standing in the training grounds then and everything clicked in your head.
“She wants a chase,” Neteyam continued, silencing your thoughts. “But I do not have the time for nonsensical games. And you... The elders say you are a shadow. That you will be left behind.”
“I am fine being a shadow,” you countered, though your voice lacked conviction. “It’s not complicated. I will have what comes and accept what doesn’t.”
“Shadows are lonely,” he said softly. “Be my partner. Not just for the ceremonies, but the communal meals as well. I will be with you. Let the clan see us, let them see you.”
Your heart gave a violent thud. You weren't a fool. You knew what this was. You were the girl no one would suspect he will actually notice, which made you the perfect weapon to make Ka’ani lose her mind with jealousy.
“You want me to be a decoy,” you said. “You want her to see you with me so she’ll get jealous. You want her to stop playing around.”
Neteyam didn't flinch at your bluntness. Instead, he reached out, his large hand covering yours where it rested on the loom. His skin was warm, his touch steady. “Correct. And in return, you will no longer be the girl the elders pity. You will be the woman everyone sees. When the season ends and the act is over, every hunter in this clan will finally know your name. You won't be a spinster, Y/N. I’ll make sure of that. You’ll have your pick of any man here.”
It was a cold, calculated trade. He will get the girl and you get a reputation and a way out of the shadows. He looked so sincere. You knew you should say no, you wouldn’t know how to act around him. But the thought of being someone for once, of walking through the village and not having people look through you, was a siren song you couldn't resist.
“What if I'm not a good actress?” you asked, your voice a mere breath.
Neteyam’s smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of a strategist who had just moved his final piece into place.
“Just sit by my side. I’ll do the rest.” he murmured, his thumb grazing your knuckles.
You took a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. I'll do it.”
Neteyam squeezed your hand once, a seal of the contract, before standing up. He offered his hand to help you up, and when you took it, the world felt like it shifted on its axis. You were stepping out of the dark, and into a fire that you knew, eventually, would burn you to ash.
Neteyam is a meticulous director and it was very hard for you as an easily embarrassed person. Being seen isn’t even enough for him, the act had to be over the top! He wanted it to be undeniable.
“Chin up,” he whispered one afternoon. You were walking to the central clearing for the communal meal, his hand hovering over your waist. “You look like you’re walking to a funeral. Look at me. Smile.”
“It’s hard to smile when I feel like a piece of bait,” you murmured, keeping your eyes down, feeling at least a hundred eyes on you.
Neteyam let out a sharp breath. He stopped walking, maneuvering you to turn and face him. To anyone watching from a distance, it looked like a tender, private moment between lovers. Up close, his eyes were scanning the crowd, pinpointing exactly where Ka’ani was sitting with her friends.
“You agreed to this,” he reminded you, his voice low and firm. He reached out, his fingers tilting your chin upward. His touch was warm, but it lacked the softness you’d imagined his touch would have. It was the grip of a hunter holding a prized bow. “If you don't look happy, she’ll know it’s a ruse. Do you want the elders to go back to pitying you by tomorrow sun-up?”
The reminder of your own invisibility stung. You forced your lips to curve, a small, shaky smile that felt brittle. “Is this better?”
He studied your face for a beat too long, his thumb grazing your jawline. For a split second, his focus shifted from the crowd to the way your eyes searched his, but he shook it off quickly. “Better. Keep it there, hm?“
He led you toward the long tables. This was the stage. He made a show of picking out the best cuts of roasted meat for you, leaning in so close that his braids brushed against your shoulder. He was performative, ensuring the warriors nearby heard him.
“And since you’re starting a new tapestry,” he said, loud enough for Ka'ani to hear from across your table. He draped an arm over the back of your seating mat, effectively fencing you in. “I’d fly to the borders to get you fibers for it.”
You pursed your lips, lowering your head down to chuckle. “Your voice is too loud, Neteyam...“ you mumbled. “I’ll end up with busted ear drums by the time this is over.“
His own head lowered and angled toward you to catch what you’re saying, but it threw back as he let out a bark of genuine and deep laughter. You startled, your hand flying to his chest unconsciously, your head swiveling to the crowd of people who are now looking at you. You caught a glimpse of Ka’ani’s sharp eyes narrowing to slits.
The mission is working. You know it is working, you’ve seen Ka’ani’s candid reactions in the past days and it was almost comical. You don’t understand how she can let other men touch her when it was Neteyam she truly wants. It’s confusing, especially because you can see how she jealous she looks.
“You can relax, Neteyam,” you whispered, leaning toward him. “She’s gone. She stomped away five minutes ago.”
Neteyam’s posture didn't soften. He didn't pull his arm back. He took a slow sip of water, his expression unreadable. “The act doesn't stop just because the primary audience leaves, Y/N. There are other eyes. Word must travel. That is how a reputation is built.” He looked at you then, and for a moment, the strategic coldness was all there was. “Eat your food. We have a walk through the groves. People need to see us.”
The following days, and weeks, was a blur of choreographed intimacy. Neteyam was serious with his acts, he was everywhere you were. If you were gathering fibers, he was there, scouting the perimeter but always staying within your line of sight. During communal meals, he always ate with you, listening to you ramble and chuckling at everything you say.
Now that he has brought you out to light, more and more men were trying to talk to you, asking you random stuff they wouldn't even bother asking before. For them, you were almost unreachable in the past. You are too shy, too aloof, to be in the selection of girls they dare to play with.
But as the days pressed on, the meticulous director started losing his grip on the script.
The script had been clear: Neteyam would bring you into the light, and the hunters of the clan would finally notice you. It was exactly what he had promised. But as he stood on a ridge overlooking the path back to Hometree, watching you walk beside a hunter who was carrying your bundle of fibers under his arm, the air in his lungs seemed to turn to ice.
The hunter was Ki’ong, a young man known for his easy smiles and a way of speaking that reminded him of the way you speak. If he saw this moons ago, the match would have made so much sense. The gentle hunter matches your gentleness. But today, he felt only bitterness. You were laughing, the sound he wanted to bottle and bring with him on patrol to help him calm down.
Now, Ki’ong is easily basking in it, his tail twitching with a rhythmic interest that Neteyam recognized all too well for he was a man, too. His hand tightened around the grip of the bow until the wood groaned. His jaw locked. This was the trade, wasn't it? He had told you that by the time the season ended, you would have your pick of any man in the clan. So why did he feel like he wanted to shoot an arrow through the dirt at Ki’ong’s feet as a warning?
His feet moved, and by the time you reached the shadow of the massive fern near the entrance, Neteyam was already there, blocking the path, calling your name in a sharp and dangerous tone that made Ki’ong stop in his tracks.
“Neteyam!“ you said, surprised. “I thought you weren’t back from the scout yet.”
Neteyam ignored you, his amber eyes fixed entirely on the other hunter. He stepped forward, entering your personal space with a possessiveness that felt far too real to be an act. You looked around. There was no crowd and no Ka’ani at all, and this confuses you. What more, Neteyam wasn’t even looking around for the audience. He was looking only at Ki’ong’s hand, which was hovering just a bit too close to your elbow.
Ki'ong blinked, his easy smile faltering under the sheer weight of Neteyam's stare. “I saw her in the forest, Neteyam, uh... What she was carrying was heavy—”
“Thank you for that, but I’ll take it from here,” Neteyam cut him off, his voice dropping into a warning growl. He reached out, not gently, and pulled your fiber basket from the hunter.
“I'll... see you later then... Y/N,” Ki’ong said before walking away.
Neteyam’s head snapped back to Ki’ong’s retreating form, his entire body coiled like a viperwolf ready to strike at the mere mention of a later. You watched him, your confusion slowly melting into a mischievous realization. You looked around one more time, and there’s still nothing but a stray woodsprite. No Ka’ani. No prying hunters. Just a very, very grumpy warrior holding a basket of fibers as if it were a thermal detonator.
A bubble of laughter escaped you, and you poked his rigid bicep.
“Wow,” you giggled, leaning in close to peer up at his stormy face. “Neteyam, that was... incredible. The growl? The death stare? You’re getting really good at this. If I didn't know better, I’d think you were actually trying to pick a fight over my honor.”
Neteyam didn't relax. His jaw remained a hard line. “He was overstepping. He was touching you.”
“He was just helping me,” you countered, your eyes dancing with amusement. You started walking, motioning for him to follow with your basket. “But honestly, I’m impressed. You’re such a perfectionist. Even with no audience, you’re still acting the territorial suitor.”
He fell into step behind you, his tail still lashing even though he’s not speaking.
“Oh, come on,” you teased, walking backward for a few steps so you could admire his scowl. “Let’s just hope Ki’ong tells everyone about your reaction. If word gets back to Ka’ani that the great Neteyam almost bared his teeth at a hunter just for carrying my basket... well, our mission is as good as won. It’s going to make it sound so real!” You turned back around, a satisfied hum leaving your throat. “But I don’t think Ki’ong is the type to talk about stuff like that. He seemed too nice to gossip.”
“How would you know? You don’t know him,” Neteyam cut you off, his voice sharp.
You laughed again, the sound light and airy. “Maybe I just know. I can sense if people have good hearts,” you said, reaching back to give his chest a playful, comforting pat. “Come on,” you smiled, oblivious to the way his hand tightened on the basket handle until his knuckles turned pale. “Let’s bring that to the looms. You can put all that 'warrior energy' into helping me sort the threads.”
You turned on your heels and skipped ahead, feeling lighter than you had in days. Behind you, Neteyam stood for a beat longer, his eyes locked on the sway of your braids.
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You two were swimming in the river, not alone anyway, because it’s just one of your many stages. His fellow hunters and warriors were swimming in the river several paces away from the two of you, but he has since swam to a secluded bend away from their prying eyes. You don’t always swim in the river. Mostly because you don’t want to swim alone, so now, you’re enjoying everything, even the reflection of the shimmering canopy above. You kept diving for as long as you could, the act momentarily paused because he had stirred you two away from the audience. You shrieked when you felt something tiny dart on your ankle. You dove your head, swimming after the tiny fish, your hand shotting forward to catch it and you bubbled a laugh underwater when you actually caught it.
You swam to the surface, holding up the fish as you laughed, the sound of your mirth echoing off the rock walls like bells. Neteyam stared at you from where he is, leaning against a mossy boulder, his chest heaving slightly, though he had been idle the entire time. You waded toward him, bringing him the fish, but he looked so serious that your lips pushed forward instead. Neteyam gritted his teeth at the sight of your smile fading.
“You looked like the sky had fallen on you. What is it?” you asked, putting the fish back in the water and watching it dart away from you with a small smile.
“Our scout yesterday everning” he said suddenly, his voice low.
You nodded. He was late to the dinner last night... You figured there was something wrong, but you heard no news about it.
“There was a near skirmish with a violent clan. They were one of those clans whose lands were spoiled by the sky people's actions. Apparently, they’ve been looking for a place to settle in, but they are also harming non-combatant clans.”
You stopped splashing, the water settling around you. You hadn't heard about this. The elders usually kept such news quiet to avoid panic, but to know this now, and to see how burdened Neteyam was by it, you couldn't help but be bothered.
“The council expects me to be like him,” he said, staring at his reflection in the water. He didn't specify who him was and he didn’t have to. You know who he was talking about. As the firstborn of Toruk Makto, Neteyam has always lived in the shadow of a legend. “Every battle, every hunt, every word I speak... it's measured against a standard I will never reach.”
You stopped creating ripples in the waters, looking up at him. “You don’t need to be your father, Neteyam,” you said softly. “Have they considered a dialogue between the people of that clan? Perhaps... The chieftains of our neighboring clans could convene in a large council and speak with their representatives. I don’t think it needs to lead to people getting hurt when speaking would reach a much better conclusion.”
Neteyam went still, his gaze snapping from the water’s surface to your face. He watched you with an intensity he had directed to no one, but you wouldn’t know that. For a moment, the weight in his shoulders seemed to flicker, unsettled by the peaceful logic of your words.
“A dialogue,” he repeated. He had been so focused on formations, weapon readiness, and the cold calculations of a warrior that the idea of a diplomatic council felt like a sudden breath of fresh air. “Why do you think I am a warrior?” he asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I am taught to protect. To fight.”
“You are taught to lead,” you corrected gently, lightly splashing a bit of water toward his chest. “And a leader’s first duty isn’t to fight, but to ensure peace. Your warriors will think of war, you will think of how to protect the people and the forest. The people of that clan is desperate, for sure... They lost their home, they are living like beggars. There is a reason they steal and harm the people who stop them. Have the clans thought of helping them?”
He blinked, his amber eyes searching yours as if he could find all the answers there now.
You smiled lopsidedly, “You can think of all that later though,” you said softly, reaching into the crevice of the rock wall and plucking a small, ripe fruit that hung low. His eyes watched you peel it with nimble fingers. “But right now? The water is cool, the fish are annoying, and you can rest your mind. Try being here for five minutes.”
You gave him the fruit and when he took it, his fingers brushed against yours, lingering in a way that wasn't for show. He ate it slowly, watching you as if you were a piece of the puzzle he found after a long search. The silence was warm, humming with a new, dangerous kind of energy.
“You think it could be that simple?” he asked, his voice a low vibration.
“I think you make it too hard,” you laughed, feeling a sudden surge of playfulness. You stepped back, the water splashing around your chest. “I’ll bet a week’s worth of weaving that I can reach the falls before you!”
Before he could answer, you dove, your body disappearing into the water.
Neteyam stood there for a heartbeat, stunned. He didn't check the treeline. He didn't look back toward the other hunters. He didn't think about his father's expectations or the violent clan at the border. He simply dove in after you.
He caught up to you just as you reached the white water of the falls. You surfaced, gasping for air and laughing, only to find him right there, his eyes bright with a genuine, carefree light you had never seen before. You panicked at the sight of him, though, shrieking and kicking the hand that held your ankle. He barked a laugh, deep and resonant, that even he knows he hasn't laughed that way before. He reached out again, his hand finding yours under the water, squeezing it before pulling you to him. For the first time, he wasn't holding you so people would notice. He was holding you so you wouldn't drift away.
That night, as you both walked back to the village, Neteyam’s hand stayed on your waist even after you had passed the last group of onlookers. When you saw Ka’ani appeared near the communal fire, looking particularly striking in her new top and loincloth that seemed to match the feathers in her hair, Neteyam didn't even turn his head even after you pointed it out. He was too busy listening to you describe the specific shade of teal the river turns into when the moons are at a particular shade. There's lightness in his chest that made him feel like he was flying.
Several nights later, Neteyam moved through the crowd with a lightness in his step that hadn't been there days prior. The communal dinner was buzzing with different conversations, but for him, it was merely a background, his eyes locked on your form, looking like a man who had finally found the trail home.
Earlier that afternoon, the Council had been tense. Jake and the elders focused on battle plans, on dispatching warriors to fight when necessary. Neteyam saw how the council, including him, lack the sight you have to see things differently. He didn't know where it was coming from, but his chest was puffing with full confidence on the idea you had given him, that when he spoke of dialogue, of the displaced clan’s desperation, and of communal aid rather than battles that would only end in loss, his voice was laced with certainty.
Jake had looked at his son with a mixture of surprise and pride. “That is a path well thought of, Neteyam,” he said.
“You think like a true leader of the people now, son,” Neytiri had added, her hand resting on his shoulder. “You have grown.”
Neteyam had offered them a small, humble smile. “I cannot take the credit, Mother. It was a good friend who gave me the perspective I needed,” he said.
Neytiri tilted her head. “Oh? Who is this friend?” she asked.
Neteyam had looked at his mother. It was the easiest question he’d been asked, but it strike him quite deeply that he didn’t know what to say. “Someone I... trust deeply.”
Now, standing in the glow of the fire, Neteyam didn't even pause to greet the other hunters who called out to him. He made a beeline for the corner where you sat, tucked away with your latest weaving. When you looked up, your eyes widened at the sight of the massive, genuine grin splitting his face.
“They accepted it,“ he said, dropping down beside you, his presence instantly making your corner feel warmer. “The envoys will be sent at first light. My father and the elders... actually listened. We’re calling a council of all the neighboring clans to help the displaced.”
You felt a swell of pride in your chest, your grin matching his. “See? Sometimes, you need to rest your mind and your soul, clear it until it is still water,“ you gestured in the air and be watched you with a lazy smile. “Only then can you see the path clearly.“
Neteyam’s gaze was soft, lingering on your face in a way that made your heart skip a beat. It was no longer the calculated look of someone directing a performance, it was the look of someone truly seeing you. You tear your gaze away, picking at the nuts on your leaf plate.
“I have something for you,” he murmured, reaching into the small pouch at his waist. He held out his hand, palm up, revealing a mountain of perfectly ripe berries, the kind that only grow on the highest, most dangerous ledges.
You gasped, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached out for one. “Neteyam, these are rare. How did you—”
“I was scouting the upper ridges,” he lied effortlessly, though his eyes twinkled with the truth of the effort he’d put into finding them just for you. “They’re all yours. Take them.”
You popped one into your mouth, the burst of sweetness making you hum. Neteyam let out a low chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched you enjoy the small gift. He didn't even notice the silence that had fallen over the nearby tables as they all watched him dote on the girl whose voice they rarely heard.
From across the fire, Ka’ani felt the roasted meat in her mouth turn to ash. She couldn't even swallow. She had been so sure of what Neteyam wanted, sure that it was her in her strength and vitality. She was merely trying to break at his carefully cold facade, but he never did give her the satisfaction of seeing it.
But as she watched him now, she saw the way he leaned toward you, his body instinctively closing off the rest of the world to keep you in his private circle. She saw the way he laughed, unguarded, soft, and intimate. She had never seen that light in his eyes directed at her. She had never seen him look at anyone with such... peace.
Her fingers dug into the bark of her seating mat. This wasn't a game anymore. The challenge she thought she was winning had been forfeited by the man she wanted most, and the realization made her blood boil with a jealousy that was no longer a performance. As fot Neteyam, he has long forgotten to look if Ka’ani even had her eyes on them, and tonight, he had forgotten she was even there.
Days later, you were at the washing stream, submerging your fibers in the cool water. You were thinking too much of Neteyam and the ride you had on his ikran last night when he brought you to the Hallelujah Mountains, but your peace was disrupted with the presence of another. You stopped and turned around, your breath hitching when you saw Ka’ani step out from behind a massive fern.
“Ka’ani,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You adjusted the empty leaf plate in your hands, refusing to cower.
“How does it feel?” she sneered, pacing a slow circle around you, her tail lashing behind her. “To be the little pet? To be the girl Neteyam uses to get a reaction from me? You think those smiles of his mean anything? You think that look in his eyes is real?” She let out a mocking laugh. “He’s a warrior. The future Olo’eyktan. Do you think think I don’t know what he’s doing? He wants me, and he’s using a quiet mouse like you to punish me for playing hard to get.”
You pursed your lips to stop yourself from chuckling. This is comedy to you, but you also feel guilty that she seems to be really upset. If only she weren’t being mean, you’d have advised her to go to Neteyam and talk to him properly, so that they can fix things between them.
“If you are so certain of that, Ka’ani,” you said, your voice dropping to a calm, melodic register that seemed to grate on her nerves, “then why are you talking to me?”
Ka’ani froze, her lips pulling back in a snarl.
“If you're so sure he’s yours, go to him,” you continued, stepping closer into her space, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. “Whine to him. Demand his attention. Tell him to come back to you. Perhaps it will do you better.”
You didn't wait for her to respond, you walked past her, maintaining your composure until you were well out of her sight. You stopped when you’re well away from her, pursing your lips. “Wah... That was a good one from me. That’s literally method acting,” you chuckled to yourself.
At the same time, Neteyam was on patrol through the high canopies of the Omatikaya lands’ borders. Patrols are usually a time of hyper-vigilance for him, he was trained to scan for the unnatural glint of obsidian or the misplaced shadow of a predator. But today, his eyes kept snagging on a bright plant. He spotted a cluster of a familiar stalk, their ribbed skin a good shade of cerulean.
Moons ago, he would have seen them as a slippery obstacle on a landing branch. Now, he found himself hovering his ikran near the cliff edge, reaching out to pluck a single stem. He rubbed the surface, watching the pigment stain his thumb.
This, he thought, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips, this is the blue she said looked like the deep water in the eastern seas. He found himself wondering about every plant he passed, not for its toxicity or its strength which he is wont to do as a vigilant hunter, but for how beautiful its hidden colors would be in the eyes of a weaver he keeps thinking about. He didn’t even have names for the shades he collected, but he knew you would find them beautiful.
When he finally returned to hometree, he didn’t head for the warriors' lodge to report in. He went straight to the weaving looms. His heart doing a strange, light hop when he saw your form hunched over a weaving loom. He silently crept up behind you and leaned down to tickle the curve of your ear with the cool tip of the blue plant.
You shrieked, your shoulders jumping as you nearly dropped your bone needle. You whirled around, your eyes wide but when you saw Neteyam, standing there with that lazy, genuine grin, you glared but still laughed.
“My work will be ruined because of you,” you breathed, clutching your chest.
“I thought a weaver's hands were supposed to be steady,” he teased, his voice low, handing you the blue stalk. “I saw this on the ridge. Is it the one that turns to ink when you boil it?”
You took the plant, your fingers brushing his. “It is. I.. I'm surprised you remembered.”
“I remember everything you say,” he said, and for a second, the air between you felt thick and heavy with a truth that had nothing to do with your deal. He tore his gaze away when his cheeks burned at the realization of what he said.
Before he could lose his footing, an elder weaver called out from the circle, asking you to venture into the lower groves to find specific climbing fibers for the council’s new tapestry.
“I'll accompany you,” Neteyam said before you could even reach for your basket.
As you walked into the dappled light of the forest, your fear of the ruse ending began to fade, replaced by the sheer comfort of his presence. You started to ramble, and Neteyam, as you have discovered in the past weeks, was a good listener. He didn't interrupt, or patronize. He simply watched you with a curious, steady gaze that made you feel... heard.
“You see that?” you said one afternoon, pointing to a cluster of deep crimson berries clinging to a damp log. “Most people think they’re just for eating, but if you crush them with a bit of limestone and the sap from a yellow stalk, you get a purple that looks like the sky before the sun sets. It’s the only color that stays after the fiber is boiled.”
Neteyam leaned in, peering at the berries as if they were a new species of prey.
“And those,” you continued, stumbling over your words in your haste to explain. “If you harvest them when they’re still young, they give a gold that practically glows in the dark. I used it for the elders' ceremonial sashes last year. Everyone thought I’d traded with the reef clans for it, but it was just right here, under our feet, being stepped on.”
You laughed, a bright sound that echoed through the trees, but when you realized you were rambling, you quickly shut your mouth, touching your lips.
“Sorry. I’m talking too much,“ you gripped the basket hard.
Neteyam stopped walking. He turned to you with a genuine frown on his face. “You can talk my ears off. I’ve spent my whole life looking at the forest for threats or targets. I never realized how much I’m missing what was right in front of me.” He chuckled, a low vibration in his chest. “I found myself looking at different plants lately, wondering if it was the right kind of hue for your weaving.”
The admission was bold and he didn’t even feel shame even though he did feel his cheeks burn. He was thinking of you when you weren't together. The deal was working, but the lines were blurring so fast he doesn’t even care about the reason it began.
Weeks later, the success of the sturmbeest hunt was the reason for the thrumming of drums and chanting of the Omatikaya warriors dancing in the hometree’s communal clearing. High on the central dais, the Olo’eyktan’s voice carried over the throng as he announced the success of the council’s efforts to begin a dialogue with the displaced clan that has been disrupting the way of lives not only of the people, but that of the neighboring clans as well.
The chieftains of the other forest clans had apparently agreed to convene in a Great Council with the envoys returning with messages of unity. Neteyam stood beside you in the crowd, his shoulder brushing your arm. The rigid, perfect posture of a mighty warrior was gone, replaced by a relaxed stance he only seemed to find when he was within your orbit.
“You did it,” you whispered, grinning up at him.
Neteyam looked down at you, the firelight reflecting in his eyes. “We did it,” he corrected softly. “I was ready to lead a war party until you handed me that fruit and told me to breathe. I would have missed the obvious path if you hadn't been standing there to point it out.”
You shrugged, picking a berry out of the leaf bowl he gave you. “So, what happens now?” you asked. “Now that the chieftains have agreed?”
“The next step may be the hardest,” Neteyam said, his expression turning thoughtful. “We have to send someone to the displaced clan. Not to fight, but to invite their Olo’eyktan. Someone has to show them we aren't their enemies and that we’ll help them settle and get back to their own feet.”
You looked at him, admiring the way the light caught the beads you’d given him which he had immediately put in his braids. “You should go, Neteyam.”
He blinked, looking surprised. “Me? My father will likely send an experienced diplomat, or perhaps a senior warrior.”
“No,” you insisted, stepping closer. “You’re the one who suggested it to the council. It’s a great opportunity for you to hone your diplomatic skills. You’re going to lead this people one day, and this might not be the last time a clan is desperate or angry. If you go, you’ll learn a lot.”
Neteyam went quiet, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. He listened to you as if every word you spoke was important. “You really think I can do it?”
“I know you can,” you said firmly. “You have the heart for it.” You looked at your berries again, eating more of it.
The wind shifted then, kicking up a swirl of fine wood-dust from the dancefloor. You winced, your hand flying to your eye as you felt a sharp things.
“Ow—wait, something’s in my eye.”
“Don’t rub it,” Neteyam said immediately. His hands were suddenly on your face, his touch firm but incredibly gentle as he cupped your jaw. “Look at me. Keep it open.”
You looked up at him, your vision watering and blurred. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, and blew a soft, steady breath across your eye to clear the dust.
“Is that better?” he whispered, blowing another.
You chuckled as you blinked several times, your heart doing a frantic dance in your chest. “It’s just a bit of dust, Neteyam, you look so serious,” you said, smiling.
He stared at you, still not pulling away and when you didn’t move your head, he tilted his and pressed his lips to yours. It was deep, soft, and carried the weight of his yearning in the past moons. He didn’t know how long he had wanted to do that, but the softness of your lips is making him melt like candle wax.
In your belly, it felt like a hundred forest ikrans had suddenly taken flight. You felt giddy, almost lightheaded, but the thought of the deal flickered in your mind. When he pulled back just a fraction to let you breathe, your eyes pierced through him and spotted Ka’ani across the fire, her face fuming as she watched Neteyam’s back, specifically how he was bent at the waist just so he could kiss you.
“She’s looking...” you murmured against his lips, your voice a shaky mess.
Neteyam’s mind was hazy, drugged by the taste of your lips. His brows furrowed. “Who?” he asked, his voice a gravelly rumble as he kissed the corner of your mouth, his hands tightening on your jaw.
You closed your eyes, feeling the spark of his skin against yours. “Ka’ani...”
“And?” he responded, his nose nuzzling yours before he angled his head to kiss you more firmly. “Open up...”
“Uhm, about what? I mean, she talked to—”
Neteyam let out a low, vibrant chuckle that vibrated through your lips. “Your mouth, space cadet.”
Before you could even process what he meant, he darted his tongue out and licked at the seam of your lips. Your head reared back in genuine shock though, your eyes popping wide open.
“That was...” you sputtered, your face turning a deep, embarrassed crimson. “Why did you lick me? Neteyam!”
He barked a deep, resonant laugh, a real, belly-deep sound that made his whole frame shake. The sight of your shocked expression was too much for him. You tried to maintain your dignity, but his joy was too infectious.
“It’s a sweet gesture!” he laughed, reaching out to pull you back toward him.
“What? Like a fwampop?” you asked, but you were already giggling, the two of you leaning against each other and laughing so hard you forgot the rest of the clan was even there.
The festival fire continued to crackle, but for the rest of the night, Neteyam didn't leave your side. He followed you to the communal food pits when you offered to help the cooks, not letting you carry the heavy food trays so you just rambled about anything you could think of. Every time your hand brushed his, or you leaned in to tell him a secret about one of the dancers, he looked at you with a gaze so heavy and warm.
The next morning, the festival fog had settled over the village, but Neteyam was already awake and waiting by the weaving looms. He was standing there with a slightly large, intricately carved wooden bobbin. Something he spent days working on, but he won’t tell you that.
“Bobbin?” you asked with a huge smile when he gently handed it to you.
He shrugged nonchalantly, as if coming here early in the morning before his patrol to bring you something he had worked on for days meant nothing. “I saw you struggling with the one that kept snagging your thread,” he said. His fingers lingered on yours as you accepted it, his thumb tracing the back of your hand in a slow caress.
“Wow... This is perfect, Neteyam,” you said, beaming up at him as marveled at the craftsmanship.
He stared at you, fighting the urge to punch the air or beat up his chest as if he won a huge prize.
“You really didn't have to. Do you not have patrol?” you asked.
“I have,” he said. But he wanted to see you. Talk to you about last night, to clarify that the kiss had nothing to do with your deal.
“Alright, then. I’ll see you at lunch,” you said, your attention already focused on your new bobbin. He stood there for a few more seconds, just watching you, his ears twitching at the sound of your voice.
Later that afternoon, though, the rain began to pour while you were in the forest, the raindrops caching you near the lower groves. You tried to shield your basket of dyed fibers with your own body but just as heavy drops soaked your braids, you saw a familiar figure coming, holding a massive, broad leaf.
“Neteyam?” you uttered in surprise.
He had a boyish grin on as he held the leaf over your head. He was getting soaked, the rain slicking down his blue skin and making his muscles gleam, but he didn't seem to care. He stepped so close that his chest was almost touching your shoulder, the heat from his body acting as a shield against the chill.
“How did you even know I was here?” you asked, chuckling and pulling him close so he won’t get wet.
“I think I already know your routines,” he said, smirking playfully, though his voice was thick with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He reached out and tucked a wet strand of braid behind your ear, his touch far more lingering than it needed to be. His eyes dropped to your lips for a heartbeat before returning to yours, as though searching for something.
You tear you gaze away. “I swear, you’re going to catch a cold! And you’re all muddy. What if Ka’ani sees you? You always have to be in character, you know?” you exclaimed, trying to push the leaf more toward his side.
Neteyam’s smile faltered for a second, a flicker of frustration crossing his features before he masked it with a soft chuckle. “Right. The act.”
He guided you back toward the shelter of the Hometree, his hand resting firmly on the small of your back. As you walked, he intentionally slowed his pace, pulling you closer to avoid a puddle. When you reached the dry roots of the tree, he didn't immediately let go. He leaned down, his face close to yours.
“Do you really think I'm doing all this for the audience?” he asked, his golden eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like a plea.
Your brows furrowed, panic rising in you before laughing nervously, patting his arm and moving away into the shelter of the hometree’s canopy. “Well, you're a very dedicated actor, ‘Teyam. I have to hand it to you. Everybody believes us,” you said with a huge smile.
Neteyam went still. He stared at you, his hand still in the air, his mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he let out a long, slow sigh, his shoulders dropping just an inch. “I suppose I am dedicated,” he said quietly, a sad, lopsided smile touching his lips.
“I’m just glad I can help you with this. I’ve never had an actual friend, you know?” you said brightly, grabbing your basket from him. “See you at dinner? I heard they’re serving the smoked fish you like.”
Neteyam watched you walk away, your silhouette disappearing into the winding ramp. He looked down at the hand that had held the leaf, his fingers still tingling from the brief contact with your skin. “Damn it...” he whispered to the empty air. This isn’t an act anymore and he doesn’t know how to cross the threshold between the stage and the reality.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
“No way! You can't move there, that's against the rules!” Lo’ak barked, leaning over the board.
“You’re not one to talk about rules!” Spider countered, reaching for your game piece to help you. “Go on, girl, take his territory. Do it!”
You laughed, your face flushed with the kind of rowdy joy you usually only heard from a distance before. You slammed your piece down, successfully “capturing” Lo’ak’s base. You turned to Spider and Lo’ak, throwing up a hand for a high-four. “Did you see that?“
Spider barked a laughter. “Tell him, ‘suck it!’”
“Suck it?” you repeated with a confused smile.
The word had barely left your lips when the air in the room seemed to shift. Neteyam, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar watching you with a soft, protective smile as he sharpen his bows suddenly went rigid. He looked at Lo’ak and Spider, who were both chuckling, explaining to you what it meant.
“Hey, don't look at us,” Lo’ak muttered, though his tail was twitching with mischief. “She’s just part of the crew now, brother. One of the guys.”
Neteyam pushed off the pillar, stepping into the circle. He ignored the snickering from Lo’ak and Kiri’s knowing smirk. “She is not one of the guys,” Neteyam hissed under his breath.
You turned to him, still grinning from your victory. “Neteyam,” you called and his ears twitched at your soft voice. “Are you angry?”
He blinked, shaking his head right away. “No, no, of course not,” he told you, his eyes softening but a flitter of reprimanding gaze to Lo’ak and Spider promised later. He had just introduced you to them more than a week ago, for Eywa’s sake, and now, they are already teaching you the wrong things!
“You're teaching her the wrong things,” Neteyam told the two later that night when you left the small kelku they created for their games.
“Brother, I think she’s enjoying just fine. I’ve seen her before, she’s usually alone. I’m sure Lo’ak and Spider are just who she needs,” Kiri said,
“Right! She’s really fun. Just yesterday, we played with squid fruit by the river and she threw a mashed handful on my face. Look, I still have stains all over!“ Spider said, pointing at his pink-stained face.
“What?” Neteyam replied, horrified, remembering the stain on your temple that he saw last night. “Just what are you two—”
Lo’ak snicked. “Bro,“ he put a hand on Neteyam’s shoulder. “Don’t be too grumpy. You said you want her to have more friends and we are her friends now,“ he grinned.
Neteyam let out a huff, rolling his eyes. He understands this. You’d told him you have never had an actual friend and he thought he could remedy that. He’d give you everything, if he could.
A few days later, he insisted on coming with you to the forest and you agreeed, knowing you will have to pass by the training grounds where Ka’ani could be and she was indeed around, her eyes following Neteyam as if she’s waiting for him to spare her a glance but he was focused on the path ahead, oblivious or uncaring to her longing stares.
“Ka’ani was looking at you,“ you grinned up at him, nudging his side with your elbow.
You saw his brows furrowed for a moment and then his face hardened. You pushed your lips forward. You assumed it was because Ka’ani still didn’t go and talk to him. The woman is fierce warrior, she was probably too proud to see that as an option. She wants Neteyam to come to her. To her credit, you had not seen her in the company of man in the past weeks... You wondered if Neteyam has realized that.
“You know... I noticed Ka’ani has not been hanging out with guys lately? Have you noticed that?“ you asked, angling your head to look up at him as you rambled, “What if she’s just waiting for you to go and talk to her? I think that’s what she wants. She talked to me, you know? She was mad, so I think she was jealous, isn’t that great—”
“She talked to you? And she was mad?” he turned to you, his face etched with both anger and worry.
You grinned. “Yes. I can tell she was jealous—”
“Did she hurt you?”
“No, she didn’t...” you said. “She was just angry, because the act is working—”
You saw the bone in his jaw tick as if he was clenching his teeth. “Let’s not talk about her.”
Your lips pushed forward and you shrugged, listening instead to the soft crunch of dried leaves breaking beneath your feet. Neteyam fell quiet then, his tail twitching with a restlessness that told you something was weighing on him. You walked faster to match his face, pressing a palm on his chest which made him stop walking... and breathing, too.
“What’s bothering you?” you asked, standing in front of him and feeling his chest slowly deflate.
This is crazy. He has never noticed girls’ voices before, but now, they could probably use yours to cool him off. Your voice caresses him and your laugh sounds like bells in his ear. He wouldn’t have said a word if a different person had asked him, but you always have a way to make him open his mouth and just talk.
“The council... they are advising against it,” he said, his voice heavy. “They think sending me to the displaced clan as an envoy is too much risk, because they see me as a target, not a diplomat.”
Your eyes searched his face and he felt warm inside. “And what does your father say?”
He let out a frustrated sigh and your hand caressed his chest. His hand rose to catch your hand, pressing it against his lips. “He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just listens and only then he’ll decide. I’m worried he’ll take their advice,“ he looked at you.
You huffed a breath, patting his chest, and giving him a supportive smile. “Then remind them, Neteyam, that you are no longer a child to be shielded. At your age, your father was already Olo’eyktan. You have to learn diplomacy just as much as any other leader. It wouldn't do you any good to be a leader who is ill-equipped in the discussions of peace.”
Neteyam’s gaze softened, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders as he looked at you. You removed your hand but he caught it again. “Thank you... for always sharing my burden. I don't think I could have faced them today without hearing that.”
You chuckled, swinging your joined hands lightly. “Bro, it’s nothing! That’s what friends are for, as Spider says,” you beamed at him before turning back to the path ahead, missing the way his face completely dropped.
His smile faltered, and then it deadpanned. It was a total double-kill. Bro and friends in a single breath. You might as well have just shot him in the head and he would have taken it lighter. He huffed, his tail lashing once in irritation as he followed after you.
“I’m not your 'bro,'” he said, suddenly reaching forward to grab your basket from your arm.
Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you laughed at his sudden grumpiness. “Silly! We’re all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Great Mother,” you said, lightheartedly twirling as you walked, enjoying the dappled sunlight. You didn't even notice how his eyes narrowed as he watched you move through the forest with no care in the world, seemingly oblivious to how much Lo’ak and Spider were ruining his life with their vocabulary lessons.
He had reached his limit.
Before you could twirl again, Neteyam stepped toward you. He reached out, gently but firmly grabbing your arm. Your eyes widened in surprise as he guided you backward, gently pushing you against the trunk of a nearby tree. You looked up at him, your breath catching. His face was inches away from yours, his golden eyes burning with a sudden, fierce intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Neteyam?” you whispered, your eyes dropping to his lips before you stupidly, unconsciously licked yours.
He leaned down, and when you didn't pull away, he pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was deeper and more demanding than the one at the festival. He licked your lips again and you chuckled against his mouth but when his tongue darted inside yours, you made a sound that sounded so womanly it surprised even you. His tongue tangled with yours as his lips devoured yours.
Everything made you feel hot, and weirdly, tingly between your legs that you had to close your thighs together.
When he finally pulled back, his hands moved to cup your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “There’s something I want to talk to you about,” he said, his voice low and trembling.
You blinked. “Now?”
“There are things that needs to be dealt with first,“ he said, caressing your jaw. You nodded.
The thing that needed dealing was Ka’ani. He didn’t know the extent of the conversation you had with the huntress, but he knew how Ka’ani talks, and the fact tha you said she was mad solidified what he knew. You two walked back to Hometree, with him carrying your basket for you. The elders giggled at the sight of him following you around like a loyal pet, and when he left with a lingering brush of his thumb against your cheek, they nosed around and asked if the warrior was truly courting you like they kept hearing from the youth.
“No, he’s not... He’s a friend,” you said, noticing the arm band on your basket. You took it and thought perhaps Neteyam had left it there.
You followed after him, thinking he hasn’t gone far yet, but when as stood in the Hometree’s shadowed entrance, you saw him approach Ka’ani near the training grounds, your breath hitching. Ka’ani tilted her head and smirked at him, turning on her heels into the privacy of the deeper woods. You saw Neteyam follow and you tucked yourself behind a massive fern, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
In the dimmed bioluminescence of the forest, Neteyam stood in front of the huntress, seeing that Ka’ani was already smiling, a triumphant, sharp look. “No need to say sorry, Neteyam, if that’s how you’ll start your piece. Because I know,” she said. “I know exactly what you’ve been doing. You’ve used that weaver girl to make me jealous, to straighten me up. I get it, so you can drop the act now. I’ve learned my lesson. I know it’s me you want—”
“I do not want you, Ka’ani,” Neteyam’s voice cut through her arrogance like a blade. “I never even thought I wanted you. Yes, you are a strong and fierce warrior, and I once thought that was what I needed by my side for when I lead one day... but I didn’t realize just how much I needed to see and be seen.“
“And have I not seen you?” Ka’ani snarled, her tail lashing. “We trained together, Neteyam! We fought, we hunted! I was always here! You just spared that girl a glance literally like yesterday and you think she’s perfect for you—”
“You don’t know me in the ways that matter, Ka’ani,” he countered. “I’ve had more connection with a rock, and I don't know why I ever entertained the thought that I needed someone strong by my side when strength is not the only thing this clan needs.”
Ka’ani’s face contorted, her pride wounded in front of the man she wanted so much and thought wanted her, too. “We can get to know each other! I regret it, alright? I regret playing around. I’ll focus—”
“Don’t regret what you did,” Neteyam said. “I’m glad you did it, because not only did it prevent me from making a huge mistake, it also brought me to her. And now, I have the rest of my life in front of me, bright and clear as day.” He stepped closer to her, his voice dropping to a warning growl. “Have a good life, Ka’ani. And do not ever approach my woman to tell her nonsense again.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Ka’ani watching him in deep contempt. All those last words he said not to do? She will do it. Back at Hometree, you sat by your loom, your fingers trembling as you picked up a strand of gold thread. You forced a smile onto your face, practicing the words of congratulations you would give him, even as you felt like the sky was turning a purple far deeper and darker than any storm. That was probably what he was going to talk about with you...
Outside, Neteyam walked back to Hometree with a sense of purpose he’d never felt before. He headed straight for the weaving looms. Tonight, you will be his. He’d tell you the act ends here and you two will start something real. No act from here on end. No games. Just the two of you.
But he never made it to the looms.
A hunter intercepted him midway, out of breath and frantic. “Neteyam! The night patrol was ambushed by the violent clan. Two are wounded. Your father is calling for the council.”
The shift in his demeanor was instantaneous. The soft, yearning man disappeared, replaced by the disciplined warrior. He hurried to the council, standing before Jake with a firm resolve. “I’ll go,” Neteyam insisted. “Fighting would be the last thing I’ll do. I’ll talk to them, Dad. You call for the chieftains to convene and I’ll convince them to come.”
He left within the hour, riding on his ikran, but his heart was back at Hometree, in the weaving looms... He thought he’d be back by light, but he didn’t know he’d be gone for days.
You had been crying. You learned that Neteyam left for a mission regarding the displaced clan, so even though you were heartbroken, you went to the Tree of Souls to pray for his journey. Your vulnerability was too obvious as you walk back to Hometee, and in it, Ka’ani found her opening. You were so close to Hometree when she stepped out from the shadows, a satisfied smirk on her face.
“Hi,” she greeted. “I’m pretty sure you’d heard of Neteyam going to battle... Did he say good bye to you?”
You lowered your gaze and shook your head.
“Where do you think he was last night before he went to battle?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock pity. “He was with me... getting his strength from me.” She stepped closer to you to tilt your head up. “He apologized to me, weaver. For losing sight of what’s truly for him... which is me. He loves me, which I’m sure you know... And he did make me feel loved... see?”
She tilted her head back, exposing the dark hickeys on the side of her neck. To your untrained eyes, it simply looked like bruises, but you knew what you were talking about. Pain bloomed in your chest and you felt ashamed for feeling it. You’re not supposed to feel it. You knew where this is leading to, you knew it was all an act. This woman in front of you was the only reason he approached you.
Ka’ani giggled. “Neteyam was insatiable. He missed me, as you can see... and now, I’m still sore, honestly,” she sighed, looking at you with that mock pity again. “Do you get it? He’s back with me... After he strayed. I hope you can respect that?”
You blinked, your lungs feeling as though they had turned to stone. You didn't realize you were holding your breath until she turned and walked away, and you felt like you might collapse, but the sound of Spider’s familiar voice cut through the silence. He came running toward you, laughing, with Tuk trailing just behind him.
“Was that Ka’ani?” Spider asked, his smile faltering. “What did you two talk about?”
You forced yourself to blink, the world slowly coming back into focus. “Uh... nothing. What are you two doing?”
“Playing tag!” Tuk squealed, slamming into your waist and hugging you tight. You automatically reached down to ruffle her braids. “Tag! You’re it!” she shouted, tapping your belly with a giggle before darting away.
Your soul wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark corner and let the tears fall, but looking at Tuk’s bright face and Spider’s expectant grin, you couldn't bear to be the killjoy.
“Oh, you’re going to get it now!” you called out, forcing a smile as you chase after them.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Neteyam had done the impossible. He had returned not just with his warriors intact, but with the promise of a unified forest. The first pace of the Great Council’s efforts to help the displaced clan find a dwelling land, he had secured a future for the displaced and for that, he was their hero.
The clan had a small celebration for it, but as the smell of roasted meat filled the air, Neteyam’s eyes were only on the winding path toward your family’s hut. He hadn't seen you in the crowd. He hadn't seen you at the landing where he expected you would be. Waiting for him. Kiri did tell him you were sick, though, which had sent a cold spike of dread that halted his celebratory high.
He didn't wait for his father’s final toast before slipping away, feeling a worry he didn't even feel during his mission. He arrived at your family’s hut, breathless, practically vibrating with the need to pull you into his arms and tell you that he had thought of nothing but your face as he sat among the displaced.
When you emerged from the flap, he froze. You were pale and your eyes were swollen and bloodshot, the telltale signs of the days you spent in quiet agony. His brows furrowed, his feet moving before he could even think. He stopped when he saw you step back though.
“I... I’m sick,” you said when you saw the question in his eyes. You didn't look at him with the warmth he’d been dreaming of. You looked at him as if he were a threat.
He stepped toward the platform, his hand reaching out instinctively. “I know. Kiri told me. But what made you sick? Why are you crying?" His voice was thick with a worry so raw it made your chest ache. “I haven't even been gone for a week, and this is what I return to?”
You stepped back into the shadows of the hut, a sharp scowl flickering across your face. “I... I don't know why I got sick. But I do know I want to lay down and rest. So if there's nothing else, I’ll go do it.”
Before he could utter another word, you grabbed the woven flap and slammed it shut. Neteyam stood there in the silence, staring at the closed entrance. His brows furrowed, his head tilting in genuine, painful confusion. He had expected a hug, a laugh, perhaps even a repeat of that soul-searing kiss in the forest. Instead, he had been shut out like a stranger. The victory he had carried on his shoulders suddenly felt hollow. For this, he didn't return to the celebration at all. He walked back to the his family’s hut in a daze, laying awake for hours wondering what could have poisoned the air in his absence.
The next day was filled with council meetings. He sat through hours of strategy and relocation discussions, but his mind was in the looms which he would check every time there's a chance, ready to scold you for working while ill, but your spot was empty. It wasn't until the following morning that he found you. You were sitting at your spot, your movements stiff and mechanical. And it seemed like you were waiting, too, because you looked at him the moment he stepped into the looms.
“Let’s talk,” he said, his voice firm, trying to reclaim some shred of authority to hide how much his heart was racing.
You stood up, your face impassive. “We do need to talk.” you said, your voice cold and sharp.
He stopped in his tracks, staring at you for more than a minute. For the first time in his life, after facing predators, raids, and the weight of a legacy, Neteyam felt a genuine, cold prickle of fear. But as he looked at the fire in your eyes, a small, reckless part of him couldn't help but admire it. He feels crazy. You are so hot when you’re mad.
You walked into the forest, feeling even more slighted when you remembered him going in this same route with Ka’ani. You felt his hand on your elbow though, steering you toward a different path instead. You glared at him. “Where are we going?”
The sight of direhorses answered your question though. You saw some warriors riding their mounts and Neteyam whistled for his. You saw Ka’ani among the warriors nearby and saw how her eyes narrowed at the sight of you and Neteyam. Shame rose in you and you tried to wriggle away from Neteyam’s hold, especially when a warrior came jogging toward you.
“Brother, will you not watch the young tame their mounts?“ The warrior asked. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”
The warrior glanced at you and you took your elbow from Neteyam again, but you weren’t able to get away though, because his hand found your waist and pulled you to him.
“No. I got something more important to do,“ Neteyam said. “I’m sure they’ll do well.”
The warrior snickered, “Enjoy then,” he glanced at you meaningfully before nodding to Neteyam, and turning away.
Neteyam’s hand spanned your waist and lifted you up on his direhorse in under ten seconds, making you slightly shriek. He mounted the beast behind you, making tsaheylu with it before wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against him. You tried to move away, but the direhorse had started moving, and in a second, it was running.
The wind roared past your ears as the direhorse ate up the miles, forcing you to lean back against Neteyam’s chest just to stay balanced. You enjoyed the sight during the ride, fighting the urge to move your head away when you felt him pressung a kiss to the crown of your head. You felt sad when he pulled on the reins, already missing the exhilaration of riding and the good view.
Neteyam slid off the mount first before reaching up to lift you down, his movements fluid and sure. He didn't let go immediately, his hands lingered on your waist as he looked around the clearing. He felt a surge of triumph that you hadn't jumped off and bolted, though he felt a twinge of guilt, too, because he’d brought you this far specifically so you couldn't run away.
The glade was breathtaking and it immediately snagged your attention. Under any other circumstances, you would have danced through the high grass, but the weight in your chest kept your feet heavy.
Neteyam turned to you, the light dabbing across his face. “Alright," he whispered, his jaw tightening. “Tell me. What has changed since I left?”
You scowled, the image of Ka’ani’s smug face flashing in your mind. “Are you sure things didn’t change before you left? I’m pretty sure you made up with Ka’ani, and did more than just talking.”
The accusation hit him like a physical blow that his eyes widened, his head snapping back in shock. “I did not ‘make up’ with Ka’ani. Yes, I talked to her, but I simply told her to back off. I told her never to approach you again. Did she talk of nonsense to you again?” He was practically vibrating, his tail lashing behind him.
“Yes, she did! We talked,” you threw back at him. “She showed me the hickeys on her neck, Neteyam! She said she was so sore... because you were insatiable! Because you missed her so much that you had to get your 'strength' from her before you left!”
“What?” The word was a rasp of horror. A visceral disgust washed over his features, his body shivering at the image your words painted. “I did not lay with her. I never did and I never would. Oh, Great Mother... that woman is a huge liar!”
You searched his face. You looked for a flicker of guilt or lie, a shift in his eyes, but all you saw was a man who looked genuinely nauseated by the very idea. You believe him, despite yourself and without your consent, the suffocating clouds over your head began to lighten. He stepped toward you, his hands reaching for your arms, but you crossed them over your chest, refusing to let him in just yet.
“Believe me, please,” he pleaded, his words beginning to tumble over each other in a frantic rush. “That night after we were in the forest, all I did was find her and shut down her delusions. I was so mad that she dared to talk to you, dared to get mad at you, so I told her to back off and never approach you again. I was coming back to you, baby. I was going to tell you our ruse ends there and then. I was going to beg you for a chance to make it real.”
He palmed his face , sounding completely undone.
“But then the incident with our warriors happened and I had to go... Jesus. I was so stupid. I should have gone to you before I left, but I was thinking... I was thinking I probably wouldn't be able to leave at all if you told me you’d give me a chance.”
His heart was beating too fast and to hard against his chest, watching the fire in your eyes finally die out, replaced by a soft heat. You believed him. It wasn't in your nature to stay angry when the truth felt so solid, and you knew Neteyam well enough now to know he would never play around. The fact that Ka’ani had looked so bitter earlier suddenly made sense. She hadn't won anything, she had just tried to burn down your bridge.
You bit your lip, your shoulders finally dropping. “Alright...” you whispered.
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He stepped into your space, gently wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into the solid warmth of his chest. “That’s it? ‘Alright’?” he asked, his voice soft and breathless, his face so close yours.
You pushed your lips forward in a small pout, though you didn't pull away. “I guess I believe you... I don’t think it’s in your character to lie like that.”
A wave of shame washed over you as you realized how quickly you had let Ka’ani’s poison work. You had given him so little confidence, believing a lie over the man you know to be so genuine and kind. But then, you had been protecting yourself; you were in an act, and the lines had been so blurred you didn't know where it all ended.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured “I just... I thought it was still an act. That we were still acting to get her back...”
Neteyam tightened his grip, lowering his head to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’ve long forgotten about the deal. I think I stopped truly caring about it just a week after I started spending my days with you. I just didn't know what it was I was feeling until the thought of it ending and not being with you anymore felt more terrifying than any battle.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb caressing your cheek. “This is why you’ve been crying...”
You pushed your lips forward. You wanted to forget that part! “Let’s just forget it...”
“No, we won’t. You don’t know how much it broke me to see you cry, to see you so gray, and not know why. She hurt you, she meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice hard and his jaw tightening. “And I played a part in it. I should have talked to you, clear everything for us so you would have confidence in me. So you won’t believe her.”
You looked up at him, your hand pressing against his chest to calm him down. “It’s over and done with, Neteyam... What’s important is that we’te okay now. Right?”
He looked down at you, his head tilting. Ka’ani was lucky that you are so kind, but she wasn’t that lucky because he’s not. He leaned down to kiss you, “Right. There will be no more acts and games... Just us.”
You looked up at him, the weight finally gone, and for the first time in days, the light returned to your golden eyes. “Just us.” you beamed at him.
He sucked in a breath, pulling you and tilting your head to kiss you hard. He was a man starved and you could tell with how he's holding and kissing you. He moaned when your tongue licked his lower lip, making him pull his head back to look at you.
“It’s you I missed so much...” he mumbled, kissing you softly. “It’s you I’d be insatiable for... And you I’ll make so sore—”
“Neteyam!” your hand lifted up to clamp around his mouth and he laughed. You shrieked when you felt his warm and wet tongue lick at your palm.
“I know... I’ll court you... Then you'll accept me as your mate... And then you’re in big trouble wth me—”
You groaned, your cheeks burning purple. He kissed your cheek before angling his head to kiss you for real.
The next afternoon, the Sully siblings were in on the plan—though only Kiri truly understood the gravity of it. They had dragged you down to the river, telling you they’ll teach you how to properly splash a person without getting soaked yourself.
“Focus! You have to cup your hand like this,” Spider shouted, sending a wall of water toward a ducking Lo’ak.
You laughed, the sound genuine and bright, completely unaware that Neteyam had quietly slipped away. He had seen Ka’ani heading toward the upper trails, and he wasn't about to let another sun set without finishing this. He intercepted her near the high roots, his silhouette blocking her path. Ka’ani stopped, her smirk faltering when she saw the look on his face. He didn’t look friendly at all, not that he had look friendly the last time they talked, but the hard storm masking his face right now was the look of a man who had seen a threatening the peace.
“Neteyam,” she started, trying to reclaim her cool composure. “I thought you'd be busy with your little weaver.“
“I am busy,” Neteyam said. “I am busy realizing how wrong I was about you. I thought you were a warrior of honor, Ka’ani. I thought that even if you were proud, you were noble. But to purposely hurt a woman who did you nothing wrong? To lie about the most disgusting things just to see her cry—”
Ka’ani’s eyes narrowed, her tail lashing. “I know what I’m doing, Neteyam! You were only using her to straighten me up! I just leveled the playing field. I was reclaiming what was mine—”
“I was never yours,” he cut her off, disgust for her delusions crumpling his face. “There was nothing to reclaim, you had nothing. The life you are living is the one you actively chose. Even if we had tried before, I know I would have quickly realized it would never work, what with our lack of connection. The only thing we shared was the training grounds.”
Ka’ani winced as if he’d struck her. “I... I was just blinded, Neteyam. I was jealous! I was envious. I’m sorry, alright? I was just trying to get you back.”
Neteyam let out a sharp huff. “I wasn’t yours to get back, we had nothing to do with each other. And you’re not really sorry. At least not yet, because you didn't think of taking your words back during the days I wasn't home. You knew she was crying. You knew she was hurting from your lies, and you sat back and enjoyed it. You are only sorry now because I am standing here confronting you.”
Ka’ani opened her mouth to argue, her hands trembling, but no words came out. The truth of his gaze was too heavy to deflect.
“I hope you grow,” Neteyam said, turning on his heel.
“Neteyam, wait!” she called out, sounding frantic as he turned to walk away. “I’m sorry! I’ll go to her right now. I’ll apologize to her! Please... can we still be friends? We’ve known each other our whole lives.”
Neteyam stopped, but he didn't turn around. He looked over his shoulder, his profile sharp against the sunlight filtering through the leaves.
“We were never friends, Ka’ani. You don't see me as a friend. You see me as a prize to be won.” He took a breath, thinking of your laugh echoing by the river. “Friends don’t hurt the people you love. And that is exactly what you did to the woman I love. After that, I don’t think your wish can be possible.”
He left her standing there, the weight of her own choices finally settling on her shoulders. When he returned to the river, he saw you. You were dripping wet, laughing as Tuk tried to climb onto your back.You looked up and caught his eye, beaming at him with a warmth that made his heart feel like it was soaring home.
He didn't say a word about Ka’ani. He just waded into the water, pulled you into a lopsided embrace, and whispered into your ear, “I think it’s time I started that courting I mentioned. Properly.”
And just like that, the moons had drifted by like dust in the wind, and Neteyam had kept his word. He courted you openly and even formally asked your parents for your hand, which they initially did not want to grant him. They think your life wouldn’t be as peaceful if you mated Neteyam instead of a simple man in the clan. Honestly, your parents didn’t know what to do with him. Neteyam was so intense in his courtship to you and your family that, most times, your parents were literally hiding from him. By then, he had already brought your family the finest meat and the rarest fruits, but surprise of your parents’ lives probably came when he brought Jake and Neytiri. He wasn’t really planning to bring them along, it was just... Neytiri is apparently getting impatient over the fact that Neteyam isn’t an official suitor yet, and Jake wanted to relieve your parents of their worries over you being Neteyam’s mate.
And today, the celebration for the new village of the displaced clan felt like the culmination of everything you and Neteyam had built. It seemed so long ago when you two discussed the matter when you were swimming in the river, and now, the clan found a home by the river. The Olo’eyktan of the displaced clan stood before the grand fire. You’d met him only today, but you could already tell the respect he has for Neteyam.
“For too long, we were ghosts in this forest,” the Olo’eyktan started. “We lived like beggars, raiding for sustenance, hurting our brothers and sisters among your clans, and also fearing their spears, but a path was cleared where we saw only hopelessness. Our homes are standing here today because of Neteyam te Suli, our brother of the Omatikaya. Because of him, we have peace. Our children will know only the beauty of the forest and never the tragedy that forced us out of our lands.”
You grinned as the crowd erupted, but Neteyam tried to sink into his seat, his ears pressing back in embarrassment as his arm pulled you to him. He hated the attention, but the chieftains wouldn't have it. They pushed him to the center, where he was forced to give a piece of his mind.
He cleared his throat, his golden eyes immediately finding yours in the crowd as if to ground himself. “The peace you see today was not born in my mind,” he began, his voice steadying as he looked at you. “I am a warrior, I was ready to lead with my bow. But it was my woman who showed me the wisdom in a hand offered instead of an arrow. She gave me the strength to listen when I wanted to fight. If this land is a home today, it is because her heart guided my way.”
Neytiri turned to you and smiled as the men in the crowd roared to tease the warrior they’ve been acquainted with in the past moons. As he strode back to you, pulling you into a deep kiss of victory, a warrior from a different clan hooted from the side. “Careful, Neteyam! Keep your wits about you and don’t let her hit her head, or she might wake up and realize she could leave your ass behind!”
Neteyam let out a deep, resonant laugh, pulling you flush against his side. “I have no intention of ever letting her get far enough to find out!”
As the party reached its high, Neteyam’s eyes found yours, looking at you meaningfully, in a way that made your skin tingle. You raised a brow and he jerked his head toward the dark woods. You pushed your lips forward in a playful pout but tugged his hand anyway, leading him away from the noise and into the glowing embrace of the forest.
You skipped hand in hand, admiring the bioluminescent flora lighting your path and when you reached the secluded bend of the river, the sounds of the festival was nothing but a hum. You turned to him with a grin and, without a word, untied the ties of your beaded top. His hungry eyes followed the movement, his breath hitching as if he has not seen them for a hundred times already. You untied your loincloth next, letting it pool on the floor.
He watched you with an intensity that excited you, and when his own loincloth fell, you bit your lip, seeing of the hard-on you had become quite well-acquainted with over the past moons. The glow of the river and the forest illuminated his handsome face so perfectly your heart hammered against your chest. He is so handsome.
“Hi,” he whispered, his large arms on your waist pulling you close.
Your smile grew to a grin. “You’re silly,” you chuckled, pressing a palm against his muscled chest to gently push him back. “I’m going to swim... why are you holding me?”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed playfully, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. “Oh, I think there are other things that need swimming, too,” he teased, his voice dropping as his hand caught yours, bringing it down so you could feel his hardened cock. “Your babies want to swim in you.”
“Neteyam!“ you called, almost swiveling your head around in case someone could hear him. You’ve learned, in the past moons, how lewd he can be with his words but your habit of looking around will probably stay for a few years more.
He angled his head to press a hard kiss against your lips. “What? Don’t you want our kids to have fun time?”
You laughed, the sound like bells in his ears. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. “Am I in big trouble again?” you whispered against his ear.
He groaned. “You’re always going to be in big trouble with me if I had my way.”
You smirked, tilting your head. “I want to take care of you tonight...” you mumbled, your hand on his chest caressing his skin and pushing him back.
He raised a brow, always surprised still whenever you show him fire. You pulled him down to kiss him, your lips crashing into his with a hunger that made him vibrate in excitement. He let you push him back against the trunk of a towering tree, letting out a gravelly groan when his head thumped back against the bark.
His hands gripped your waist, pulling you so flush against him that the ridge of his hard-on felt like it was imprinting itself on your belly. With practiced ease, he reached behind himself to bring his queue forward, while his other hand found yours behind you, making you break the kiss for just a second, watching through hooded eyes as the pink tendrils of your kurus began to reach and weave together.
The familiar psychic jolt of his intense love, raw devotion and desire for you flooded your mind, feeling his heart hammering against your ears, echoing the rhythm of your own. His fingers cupped your jaw to kiss you again, ad you smiled against his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth before trailing your lips down. You licked and kiss his neck, your palms staying flat on his chest, feeling the heavy thud of his heart as you kissed your way down over the hard ridges of his stomach.
“My warrior...” you murmured, kissing his lower abdomen.
You peered up at him, seeing his head pressed against the tree, but his eyes were looking down at you. You kissed sharp V-line of his hips before your hand reached out, fisting his girth. Neteyam’s breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping his throat as your hand began to move. The bond between your queues flared, sending waves of his pleasure crashing through the both of you.
“You are celebrated tonight,” you whispered, looking up at him with your innocent doe eyes that contrasted the sinful movement of your hands on him. “I think you deserve a reward, don't you?”
“Baby...” he rasped, his hands fisting as he tried to ground himself.
You didn't give him a chance to respond. You lowered your head, taking him into your mouth with a heat that made his entire body shudder. Through the bond, you felt the exact moment he weakened. His hands flew to your long braids as your mouth started sucking around his girth, your tongue playing with its underside, getting another sharp intake of his breath. You drew back slightly, then plunged deeper, taking more of him down your throat. You worked your mouth, your lips sealing around him that made him tremble. His fingers tightened in your braids in a gentle tug, guiding your movements, urging you faster.
Your tongue swirled, licked, teased, tracing the veins along his length. You felt him grow even harder in your mouth. You pulled back, then swallowed him again, your breath hitching as you felt the wide head deep inside your throat. His hips began to thrust, his hand on your jaw, meeting your eager mouth until you tasted him, the musky scent of his arousal filling your nostrils. Your throat ached, but the pleasure in his groans kept you moving.
“Oh, baby,” he gasped, his body trembling.
His hips bucked, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. You felt the first warm gush of him erupt into your mouth, hot and thick, and you swallowed as his body convulsed, still pouring into you. He groaned deeply, a powerful sound that made you shiver, his fingers digging into your hair as he emptied himself.
He slumped, his breathing ragged. “Enough, my love,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, trying to pull your head up.
But you weren’t finished. You wanted to clean him, to savor every last drop. You ignored his pleas, your tongue flicking out, licking away the remnants of his pleasure, tracing the underside of his shaft. You heard his sharp intake of breath, his abdominal muscles tensing again. He was literally fighting to hold onto his strength, and you felt his cock twitch, hardening slightly at your continued ministrations. You ran your tongue along the tip, then sucked gently, drawing out the last of his cum.
“Fuck. I regret teaching you, you know?” he said weakly, his knees buckling.
You glared at him before reluctantly releasing him, your lips glistening. He reached down, pulling you up with a sudden, fierce strength that lifted until your bodies collided. His mouth found yours in a hard, demanding kiss, his tongue plunged into your mouth, mirroring the thrusts of his shaft earlier, tangling with yours. You met him with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer still, your hips instinctively grinding against his.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your jaw and your throat in a fiery path. He lifted you, cradling you in his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist before he lowered you gently against the soft moss. He knelt above you, his golden eyes devouring your body like a man starved. His hand traced the curve of your waist, then upward, toward your breasts. His fingers brushed against your nipple and you arched your back, a soft moan escaping your lips. He leaned down, his mouth closing over one of the pebbled tips, sucking hard. You gasped and shivered, your fingers tangling in his braids, pressing him closer. His tongue swirled around your breast, while his other hand kneaded the other, his thumb circling the aroused tip.
“What a great reward,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your flesh. He suckled hard that it made you arch your back both in ache and pleasure. He moved to the other breast, giving it the same intense attention until you cried out, your body writhing for more.
He pulled away, his eyes hot with a familiar predatory hunger in them. He shifted, kneeling between your legs, which had instinctively parted for him. He leaned down, his mouth moving lower. You moaned, knowing what was coming, your hips lifting in anticipation. His tongue flicked out, tracing the velvety folds of your pussy, already wet with anticipation,
He spread your lips, his tongue plunging directly into your clit, making you arch your back, your fingers scratching at his back. He licked, sucked, and torment, his mouth relentlessly sucking and his tongue playing more than it licks. He used his fingers, too, parting your lips to allowing his tongue full access on you. He tasted you, the salty-sweet essence, a taste that always drove him wild.
“So sweet,” he murmured against your folds his voice a low growl, his tongue flicking faster, harder.
Your breath came in ragged gasps, your legs trembling, wrapping around his head, pressing him deeper into your pussy. You felt the suction of his mouth and the relentless assault of his tongue on your clit, and your orgasm coiled in your belly. You whimpered, unable to form words, only sounds of pure pleasure, your hips bucking as your body shivered with release, leaving you gasping. You felt the soft shudders of your pussy, contracting around his tongue.
He pulled away, moving above you, his hard cock pressing against your folds. You whimpered, still quivering from your orgasm that your pussy was still throbbing and incredibly sensitive. He still pushed though, the head of his cock sliding inside. You moaned and he pushed deeper, stretching you, and filling you completely.
You wrapped your arms around his body that hovered above yours, his eyes locked with yours. He began to move, a slow thrust, then another, pulling almost completely out before plunging back in deep and hard. The sounds of him sliding in and out of your wetness filled the air, mingling with your gasps and his grunts. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, urging him deeper and faster.
He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, lifting you slightly to control the angle, to thrust even deeper. “Harder,” you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your hips bucking to meet his.
He responded instantly, his thrusts becoming a furious assault. He pounded into you, deep and relentless, filling you with every thrust. You felt yourself tightening around him, your muscles clenching. Your breath hitched, your vision blurring. You cried out his name, again and again, as your body convulsed, leaving you gasping, clinging to him.
He groaned, his body trembling above you as he thrusted a few more times, deep, desperate strokes. His body tensed, his seed erupting inside you, hot and thick, filling your womb with your babies that needed swimming. He collapsed onto you, heaving, his breath ragged against your neck. You lay there, your entwined bodies both slick with sweat and release.
He let out a long, shaky exhale, his tail giving one final, exhausted twitch against your leg. With a groan that sounded sated and delirious, he pulled out of you, watching the gush of his heavy and thick cum dripping out of you. “You emptied me,” he mumbled, his voice thick.
You chuckled, breathless. “Complaining, are we? You’re the one who started talking about ‘swimmers’ in the middle of our conversation,” you smirked.
Neteyam let out a dry, boyish laugh, propping himself up on one elbow. He looked down at your stomach, then back at your face, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believe in my warriors. They’re fast.”
You groaned, reaching up to swat his chest, but he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. “Neteyam, if my mother sees me walking back looking like this, I’m going to receive a scolding.”
“Tell her you are a mated woman,” he suggested shamelessly, pulling you closer until your head was resting on his chest.
“Neteyam... They don’t know that yet. We are following the traditions!” you whisper-shouted playfully. “Beside, what happened to being modest for my parents?” you narrowed your eyes at him.
He laughed, a genuine, chest-shaking sound that made you feel warm all over again. He rolled to his side, his hand grabbing your waist with a renewed look of heat in his eyes that made you groan. You sat up and his head angled to catch the pebbled tip of your breast into his mouth.
“‘Teyam...” your hand clutched at his shoulder.
“Just one more...” he said, his words muffled because he had your flesh in his mouth.
You bit you lip and laid back on the soft moss, spreading your thighs as your hand caressed the soft skin on his back. You watched his large, formidable form hover over you, his thick and long cock already pointing at your pussy as if it knows its target. You shivered at the sight of it, your excitement vibrating in your body. His hand clasped under your knee and pushed your leg back, stretching you before his cock nudged your entrance.
His other hand moved over your pussy, his thumb rubbing your sensitive nub as his length disappeared in you. You moaned a long one, arching your back, offering your rounded breasts to him and he lowered his head to take one into his mouth, his tongue immediately swirling on your nipple. In a sudden, hard movement, his hand on your hips pulled you to him, burying himself to the hilt inside you.
“Ah!” you moaned, your thighs quivering to close around him but he kept them open, restraining both of them tightly befote delivering a series of hard and intense pounding.
You held onto him, your eyes flying open and meeting his. You probably looked so aroused and fucked, because his pupils blew even wider, almost swallowing the gold. Your mouth remained perpetually gaped, releasing jagged breaths and moans as he continued pumping into you. Your hand pressed against his lower abdomen and his thrusts quickened and hardened even more.
He lowered his head to kiss you, his tongue immediately plunging into your open mouth. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling his hard muscles contrasting his soft skin until all the sensations he’s giving you pushed you to the edge. He came first, shuddering above you despite his efforts to hold out longer. You hugged him tighter when you felt yourself erupt.
He kissed your neck softly, feeling your body shudder against him, you legs literally quivering as your walls clenched around him to milk him dry. He chuckled, pressing a hard kiss against your jaw. “I told you. Big trouble.”
You let your head fall on the mossy ground, feeling him lick the skin on your exposed neck. “I think I can handle the trouble,” you murmured. “As long as it’s yours.”
He squeezed your hip, giving you a lingering kiss. “I love you so much, space cadet,” he mumbled. “Now, let’s put on act that we just swam in the river and are too tired to return to the festival.”
summary: after breaking up with your boyfriend because he thought you were too “old school”, you meet an older man at a bar who seems very interested.
a/n: first rafe fic!! join the taglist <3
🏷️: @downbadwellread
the breakup should have hurt more than it did.
instead, you mostly just felt annoyed.
you sat alone in your favorite little diner the morning after, stirring cream into your coffee while replaying the argument over and over again. your ex had spent nearly twenty minutes listing all the reasons you were “too much.” apparently liking handwritten letters instead of texts was too much. wearing dresses instead of leggings was too much. wanting flowers for no reason other than the fact they were pretty was too much. wanting a man to actually plan dates instead of asking what you wanted to do every single weekend was too much.
“you’re like a fifty-year-old woman trapped in a twenty-something’s body,” he’d snapped.
and honestly?
good.
if having standards made you old-fashioned, then so be it.
the problem was that hearing it from someone you’d spent nearly two years loving still left an ugly ache in your chest. it followed you through the rest of the week until friday night found you sitting at a dimly lit bar downtown, nursing a cocktail you barely touched while a jazz record crackled softly through the speakers overhead. the place was exactly your style. dark wood, amber lighting, old music, actual conversation instead of people screaming over club music. most people your age hated it.
you loved it.
which was why you didn’t immediately notice the man watching you.
he was sitting several stools away at first, broad shoulders filling out a navy button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. older. definitely older. not old, but mature in a way that made every man in their twenties suddenly seem unfinished. his dark blond hair was slightly messy, a few strands falling across his forehead, and there was something effortlessly confident about him. no peacocking. no trying too hard. just the quiet certainty of a man comfortable in his own skin.
you caught him looking and quickly glanced away.
then looked back.
he was still looking.
and smiling.
heat crawled up your neck.
a few minutes later, he appeared beside you.
“you’ve been staring into that drink for fifteen minutes,” he said, his voice deep and warm. “starting to think you don’t actually like it.”
you laughed before you could stop yourself.
“maybe i don’t.”
“then why keep drinking it?”
“because i paid fourteen dollars for it.”
his grin widened immediately.
“that’s a fair answer.”
you found yourself smiling too.
the conversation came easier than it should have. his name was rafe. he was older than you by more than a decade, owned several businesses, had a daughter who apparently thought she ran his entire life, and possessed the kind of confidence that made you want to keep listening whenever he spoke. unlike every guy you’d dated recently, he didn’t spend the entire conversation talking about himself. he asked questions. remembered your answers. actually listened.
and when you casually mentioned your breakup, his eyebrow lifted.
“let me guess,” he said.
you laughed. “go ahead.”
“he thought you expected too much.”
your eyes widened.
“how did you know that?”
“because you’re sitting in a dress from another decade drinking a cocktail in a jazz bar.” amusement danced across his face. “a man would’ve had to be blind not to realize you appreciate effort.”
the simple statement hit harder than it should have.
you stared at him for a moment.
rafe noticed.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“that’s a lie.”
you rolled your eyes.
“it’s just…” you hesitated. “he used to call me high maintenance.”
rafe’s expression changed immediately.
not angry.
not shocked.
just confused.
“wanting effort isn’t high maintenance.”
your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“apparently it is.”
he shook his head.
“no. wanting expensive gifts for no reason is high maintenance. wanting a man to respect you enough to open a door isn’t.” his gaze softened slightly. “sounds like he was lazy.”
you laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
“you don’t even know him.”
“don’t need to.”
for the first time all week, the ache in your chest eased.
the night stretched on around you. people came and went. glasses clinked. music drifted through the room. somehow neither of you noticed how much time had passed until the bartender announced last call.
rafe glanced at his watch and winced.
“well.”
“well.”
neither of you moved.
which made both of you laugh.
when you finally stood, he was already reaching for your coat before you could grab it yourself.
another small thing.
another thing nobody your age ever seemed to do anymore.
outside, the summer air was warm and heavy. city lights reflected off the pavement from an earlier rainstorm, and for a moment neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.
“can i ask you something?” rafe said.
you nodded.
“how old are you?”
“21.” you told him.
his eyebrows rose slightly.
“and you really like all that old-fashioned stuff?”
“i really do.”
a slow smile spread across his face.
“good.”
“good?”
“because i do too.”
your heart betrayed you by fluttering immediately.
rafe noticed.
of course he noticed.
he stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you could smell his cologne.
clean. expensive. comforting.
“i know we just met,” he said quietly, “but i’d like to take you to dinner.”
your breath caught.
“like a date?”
“yes, sweetheart.” his smile turned softer. “like a date.”
the nickname should have felt presumptuous.
instead it made your stomach flip.
you smiled before you could stop yourself.
“you know, most people ask for my number first.”
“i’m old school.”
that made you laugh again.
and when he offered his arm for you to take as he walked you toward your car, you slipped your hand through it without hesitation, realizing that maybe your ex had been right about one thing.
you were old-fashioned.
you just hadn’t been waiting for a younger man to appreciate it.
SYNOPSIS: Your childhood best friend, Rin, can’t cum without hearing your voice.
WARNINGS: nsfw, smut, masturbation, dubcon (?), aged up characters, unknowing reader, mentions of virginity, reader is discussed to have female anatomy, dirty talk
AUTHORS NOTE: first time writing smut, kinda nervous (this is definitely ooc mb guys ☹️)
You and Rin have been friends since childhood, attached by the hip. He only ever confided in you. Seeking you out after anything happened, if he lost or won a game, if someone was pissing him off on the team, how big his ego has become. And you were always there, ready to support him through any of it.
He had liked you for years now. Ever since you showed up to his first football game holding a giant banner you made for him.
Rin told himself that he would never act on those feelings, especially considering the fact you didn’t share them.
But here he found himself, laying on his bed, pent up at 2:34 am, with no sign of release.
It was embarrassing, but Rin only ever masturbated to scenarios of you.
You bent over, wearing one of those short skirts you seemed to like so much. Or you helping him with all of his football frustrations.
He groaned, and inched his hand down to his boxers, cupping his half-hard cock. Rin wanted so badly to know what you sounded like, what your sweet pussy would feel like around him.
He moved his hand to pull his erection out, rubbing the leaky tip gently. Rin let out a whimper due to the feeling.
Slowly, he began to slip his hand up and down his cock, trying to imagine it was your hand instead. Oh how sweet you’d be to him, telling him how proud you were and how good he was being.
The thought alone has Rin curling his toes.
But no matter how many times he pictures you, it doesn’t work. He’s been at it for thirty minutes now, coming up with different scenarios.
You sneaking into the locker room after a game, rewarding rin for all of his hard work. He’d drop to his knees and lift up your skirt, admiring how wet you already were from just the thought of him.
Then, he’d use two fingers to slide your panties to the side, licking a long stripe across your folds. You’d shove your fingers in his hair, trying to hold onto anything for stability as he ate you out like a starved man.
After making you cum all over his tongue, he’d let you paw at his pants, trying to get his cock out. You’d moan at the pure sight of it, and try to pleasure him with your hands, but he wouldn’t let you. He’d pin you to the wall, and shove the whole thing into you at once, watching your face as he splits you open. He’d thrust into you at an inhuman pace, making you beg for more.
Normally, he would’ve already been done jacking off at the thought of eating you out, but for some reason he couldn’t reach his climax.
His thoughts are interrupted by the buzz of his phone.
“Fuck.”
Rin keeps one hand stroking his cock, and used the other one to answer the incoming call without bothering to look at the caller id.
“Hello?”
“Rinnie! I’ve been calling you for ages!”
At the sound of your voice his cock pulses, forcing him to bite back a moan.
“Mhm, what do you need so late?” he asks trying to fighting back any sounds, putting your voice on speaker as he throws his phone somewhere in the sheets.
“What’s with the attitude? Someone’s oughta put you in your place!”
Rin’s hips buckled up to meet his hand at the thought of you putting him in his place. Spitting in his face and being rough with him.
All that can be heard through the call is the sound of Rin’s hand moving up and down his fully hardened cock.
“What are you doing? There’s like a weird wet sound.”
“N-nothing—ngh,” Rin can barely contain himself as he comes closer and closer to his release. As he approaches it, he also becomes more bold.
“Have you—shit—ever uhm masturbated?”
You gasp on the other end of the phone, “why are you asking that!” You can feel your face flush.
The smacking sound from Rin’s end only gets louder.
“Do you touch yourself—t-thinking about me?”
“Rin! What are you saying?”
You can really feel the flush now, but not only on your face. You begin to feeling the tingling sensation inbetween your thighs, squeezing them together to get some comfort.
Rin almost laughs at the way your voice cracks with nerves. “Are you—hah—still a virgin?”
“y-yeah, but there’s nothing wrong with that! I’m saving myself.”
Rin could’ve came right there. Picturing himself to be the one to ruin you, making you a cock-drunk whore for him.
He feels his climax coming, the wet sound becoming more intense as his moans become harder to fight back.
“T-tell me, ah—what do you think about when you rub that pretty clit”
You squeeze your thighs harder together, “I think of you..”
“me doing what, sweet girl? use that voice”
You try to ignore the embarrassment coming over you. “You making me take the whole thing, pounding into me without a break”
“w-what whole thing?”
“Uhm—your”
“cmon, I know you can say it”
“your cock..”
And with that, Rin finally meets his release. Cumming all over his chest and hand, he lets out a loud moan.
“Rinnie? Were you.. um”
Catching his breath, Rin grabbed the phone. “Mhm, do you want to see the mess you made me?”
“Y-yeah”
Rin facetimes you and turns on his camera. Flipping to the back one, he reveals his predicament. His cock was still half hard, and the tip was flushed red. Streaks of cum were left all over his chest, thighs, and hand.
“All that for you,” he says with a groggy voice.
“It’s pretty,” you murmur
Rin lets out an exhausted laugh, “hm, you should see it in person.”
“maybe I will.”
The next morning, Rin almost tries to strangle himself out of pure embarrassment.
He was so sleep deprived that he didn’t think about what he was doing at all.
How stupid could he have been to do that to you? Oh god, you probably thought he was a creep now. And on top of it, you were coming by his house in an hour to hang out.
Would you mention it? Or maybe you just wouldn’t come.
He could only dream, because sooner rather than later, your knock could be heard at the door.
“This is either going to be the best or worst hangout of my life,” he sighs to himself one last time before opening the door.
“H-hi Rinnie!” the sound of your nervous voice hits him like a train.
Unable to control his composure, his face reddens.
“Come in, let’s go to my room.”
As he shuts his bedroom door behind you two, he expects you to shout at him, call him a pervert, anything.
But what he didn’t expect was for you to climb onto his lap and ask if you could see it in person.
Even on days where ghost can't stand the idea of taking off the mask, he doesn't let that stop him from pleasing you...
"Christ love, missed you," he grunts every time, even if you saw him that same morning. Ghost tosses a leg over his shoulder, doesn't bother to do much more before shoving his face against your cunt.
Noses at your clit through the thin fabric of his balaclava without worry, practically nuzzling into it and letting you grind against his face with a pleased groan.
He licks at you, wetting the fabric of his mask with spit and your slick. The wet slide of it against you only making you wetter. Sure, he loses some of the finer skills with the mask on, but ghost makes up for it in sheer eagerness. He knows your close when he has to hold your hips down with a thick forearm, mumbling pussy-drunk against you "give it to me, love. Wanna taste it, wanna feel you, c'mon– ahh— please–"
He buries himself into you when you cum, rutting against the matress and cum-soaked boxers. Of course he already came when he started, but he's aiming for a second.
Him coming up to kiss you, still wearing the cum soaked mask, is purely because of how dirty you look at him afterwards.
He almost likes it more than without the mask....almost.
No thoughts just ghost being wary of affection...until he's asleep.
Waking ghost is always so wary around you, his civilian partner who won't bounce back if he has an episode around you. Not like his teammates who he's forced to practice sparring with until he knew they could keep themselves safe.
Until he can get you to that point, ghost is....restrained. his affection comes with safety gaurds. He never truly sinks into your kisses, never loses himself in pleasure when he fucks you dumb. Waking ghost is a man living behind bars. You can only slip your hand through the gaps and wish they were not there at all.
But even ghost is a human, broken as he may be, he can't be vigilant forever.
At night, when you both sleep side by side in bed, all of ghosts desires come up in a sort of sleep-walking trance. He holds you tighter than he ever does when awake, entire warm body pressed to your front and his nose in your hair. You cherish these soft moments with him, wondering if he dreams of you when his muscles relax and he melts into the hug.
Of course, your boyfriend has...other needs.
Which is how ghost ends up sleepily rolling on top of you one night, all two hundred and fuck off pounds of him pinning you to the bed while his chub rubs against you.
"Fuck– again, simon?" You mumble, only half-awake when he repositions to rub right against your crotch, properly hard now. Your own cock twitches in interest, grinding up as best you can when ghost is putting his full weight on you.
Ghost mumbles something in his sleep, large hands coming down to pin your hips to the bed. You only get a moment to brace before he starts rutting against you, sleepy and desperate and so different from the ghost you know.
You're half tempted to try and fish both your cocks out and hold them together for a better slide, but then ghost begins to pant in your ear and any thoughts of risking waking him up are quickly vanished.
Ghost humps you like nothing more than an animal seeking pleasure, no sign of restraint, all groans and creaking bedframe. There's a wet patch on his boxers from where he's no doubt drooling pre.
"Mmm–...mm...love you...." ghost mumbles in his sleep just as his hips stutter, wet patch growing significantly while he rides out the pleasure and just barely pushes you over too. You bask in the feeling, mind sticky with how heavy ghosts arousal feels when it's targeted at you without a barrier.
....the afterglow is quickly cut short when ghost properly falls back in to deep sleep on top of you and you come to terms with the fact you won't be changing your boxers anytime soon...
Thinking about roomate!ghost being free use because, being legally dead, you end up paying his portion of rent too.
Except...he...doesn't really care whenever you do decide to use him.
The whole situation sprang from a joke you made after he confessed he couldn't really pay rent, and instead of laughing it off ghost nodded and said "alroight. Deal." Well...ghost is a good looking man, and you've done worse things with your money.
The whole arrangement becomes shockingly normal.
Ghost is almost always woken up by you groping him or grinding on his thigh lazily, not yet awake and enjoying the haze. Or when he's having his morning tea, you'll be under the table sucking on his tip. Whether or not he gets hard is unimportant to you, but it is fun to watch him squirm when you use him soft.
You get six feet, three hundred pounds of prime meat to play with and you are not letting it go to waste. Ghost doesn't mind so long as you don't interrupt him too much.
Riding him while he watches a documentary, fingering him when he's reading a book in bed. Groping his chest, tummy, thighs all you want. There's not a moment that goes by without ghost sporting some sort of bruise from you.
It...does make for an awkward conversation when ghost invites his captain over and completely forgets to mention said invitation on the very day you decide to test out new dildos in the living room.
Captain price, in his good graces, stands in the hallway while ghost cleans up for twenty minutes.
Something about price not showing up for his own kid's graduation, couldn't be bothered when "it's just uni, sport. I'll be there for something important, yeah?"
And you fully expect to find no one sitting in the seat you pre-emptively reserved, all too hopeful that your dad would finally see you. Except...it's not empty.
Ghost is sat in your dads seat.
Ghost, the man who practically saved your degree when you were on the verge of a breakdown and dad was on vacation. Found you crying in a gas station parking lot and recognized you from price's wallet.
And....it feels weird, ghost where price should be, almost like you're replacing your dad...but it's also nice?
Ghost has always been there when you needed him, more than your own dad ever was.
He drives you to get shitty fast food afterwards in celebration, hand heavy on your thigh and you don't try to stop him. Of course you've thought about it, but never acted on it...
Not until ghost pulls over on the back roads, parks his truck in the start of an empty field and lays you down in the dirty bed of it. Rough hands pulling your thighs open, a mouth leaving bites against skin. He makes you feel all the things you missed out on, too busy studying for your dads approval.
He groans "fuck, kid, can't believe i waited this long. Didn't want to distract you." When he ruts into you, thick and hot and too big for you to do anything other than gasp.
That night, you sleep in ghosts bed and not once does your dad call asking where you are. Seems like you made the right choice.
Thinking about koala hybrid!reader, who is constantly falling asleep, being free use for the sergeants...
Being a koala, your body just doesn't absorb much nutrients, and you naturally spend your day taking naps around the apartment. It's no issue, given kyle and johnny pay for it so long as you keep it clean while they're on leave. A nice, safe space for you to relax.
Oh, but when they're home? You can't catch a break and it's amazing.
You'll fall asleep scrolling through Instagram on the couch, and wake up to soap grinding against your face post-workout, only offering a "couldn't fuckin' concentrate, thinking o' you." When he notices your awake.
Or when you decide to lie down for your mid-morning rest, and wake up to gaz rutting between your thighs. jerking your body roughly against his hips in a way he never does when you're awake. He gentles a bit when you whine, presses a kiss to your temple "might've left some bruises, sorry love."
Of course, non of that keeps them off you when you are awake. It seems one of them always has a hand on or in you in some way.
"Christ, tight today" soap huffs behind you. two thick, hairy arms wrapped around your torso and bouncing you roughly. You rest your chin on the back of the sofa, rumbling happily.
"Can I get a turn or are you hogging it all night?" Gaz snarks, buy he still plops the bowl of popcorn onto the coffee table and starts the movie.
"Yeah, just give me a second–" soap hisses through his teeth, head tossed back as he savours the orgasm. When he finally goes to help you up, he snorts fondly "fell asleep again. You still want it?"
"And give you a cockwarmer all night? Give it to me."
Thinking about everyone on base being horrified by how secretary!reader talks to price....
How could they not? John price is a man to be respected if not feared. Even higher ranks than him know he's only still a captain because he prefers to get his hands dirty himself. No one wants to mess with a man like that.
Then there's....you. the new secretary.
"John. Your paperwork." You tell him every morning, dropping the files on the table in the mess hall without much thought. The first time you did it, people genuinely flinched.
No one calls captain price john.
You have no care or respect for his rank, treating price as a casual coworker and not the weapon he is. Always a "john. I want my vacation time approved by this weekend." Or "your breath smells like coffee, john. You want some gum?"
People are convinced price is planning to kill you. No other option when you keep blatantly disrespecting him.
Of course the team notices it too. Worse though when they notice you still call ghost "lieutenant" and kyle and soap "sergeant"
"Doesn't it bother you, sir? The blatant disrespect?" Kyle asks one night at the bar, after price had mentioned you again.
"bother me? Why the hell would it bother me?" Price snorts, takes a bite of the crisps from ghosts plate "My wife can call me whatever she wants."
Summary: losing the prison had been a punch in the tit. No, wait. Losing the farm was a punch in the tit. Losing the prison was a roundhouse kick to both boobs and the crotch, for good measure. You’d gotten comfortable there; privacy was no longer a myth there, and you fought tooth and nail for it — only to end up back on the road again, starving, filthy, exhausted, and sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder with the whole group like a traumatised family. Without privacy, there’s no way to unwind, and since you and Daryl aren’t great with words, all that frustration starts leaking out sideways. When Rick finally steps in to tell you both to sort your shit out for the group’s sake, “reckless and impulsive” barely covers it. So, you and Daryl sort it, just like God intended.
Warnings: Reader is borderline cringe but some parts are funny (to be cringe is to be free). Crack, usual TWD gore and violence, reader is a badass/dumbass (same thing) reader and Glenn are like a sibling duo lol, lil sprinkle of angst (tension between reader and Daryl in their relationship), umm what else oh yeah SMUT SMUT SMUT AND MORE SMUT!!! Smut flashback, touch of bondage, loads of egding, reader has a wet dream hehehe, they fuckin' in the dirt like God intended, they be animals, it’s sex guys you can guess the rest of the warnings cuz i already feel blasphemous for writing this ✌️
Era: this isn't really canon, but it's after the prison falls and they were never seperated so Terminus doesn't happen 😚
Author's note: This is like 6 oneshots wrapped up into one fic lol (it's long). Well, it's more like crack and smut rolled up in a ball and disguised as a fic. Idk if this is my best smut cuz I haven't written smut in sooo long, but I'm getting back into the rhythm of things 🫶. It's mostly proofread 🤷♀️ lemme know what y'all think - enjoy 🙈
The house looked promising—quiet, empty, and only slightly less moldier than the last place. It sat back in the trees with its porch listing to one side and its windows filmed over with grime, the whole thing giving off the kind of eerie, abandoned charm that made Rick say, “We clear it quick,” and everyone else say nothing because nobody had the calories left to say anything.
Walking through the front door, you were running on fumes and bad attitude. The whole group was.
Your tongue felt foreign with thirst. Your legs had crossed the line from sore to numb sometime that morning.Your stomach had given up on growling hours ago and now just sat in your middle like a stone. But none of that—not the thirst, not the dirt in your bra, not the raw blister at your heel—was the thing chewing through your nerves. That award goes to Daryl.
Well, it wasn’t Daryl himself. It was that Daryl had not touched you properly in weeks, and apparently your brain had decided to respond to that by turning every harmless interaction into a full-scale hormonal emergency. Every time he leaned too close, every time his hand brushed your back in passing, every time his voice dropped into that low gravelly register right near your ear, your body went holy shit is this finally happening? and then got violently disappointed when the answer was no.
You’d had no privacy since the prison fell. None. No walls. No curtains. No stolen ten minutes. Not even a quick makeout sesh. You hadn’t realised until it was gone just how much of your relationship functioned through touching. Without it, the two of you were like a machine missing one small but extremely important bolt—still technically working, but rattling so hard it was a miracle nobody had kicked you both into a ditch yet.
“Take the back room first,” Daryl muttered, peering down the hall with his crossbow half raised.
You cut him a look. “That was literally where I was headed.”
He grunted. “Just sayin’.”
“You’re always just sayin’.”
“Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta.”
Tara, slipping past with Glenn in tow, murmured, “Oooh, they’ve started early today.”
“Closet,” Daryl said, pointing with his chin.
“Yes, wow, thank you, I had completely forgotten closets could contain things.”
He glanced at you, tired eyes narrowing just enough to say you are being ridiculous. “Really? Actin’ like a kid.”
You smiled sweetly. “I’m gonna bite you.”
From the front room, Rick sighed. “Can y’all maybe do that after we know there ain’t dead people in here.”
“That ain’t what she meant,” Daryl muttered automatically.
You whipped your head toward him. “How do you know what I meant?”
That actually got a laugh out of Glenn, who immediately looked guilty for doing so. Daryl’s ears went a little pink. “I just—”
“You just what?”
He stared at you for one beat too long, and there it was again: that awful little pause where both your brains remembered your bodies existed.
You remembered the exact shape of him over you, his hand spread on your stomach, the heat of his mouth at your throat, and for half a second, the dim hallway and the walkers and the road all dropped away under the sheer idiocy of how much you missed climbing him like a tree.
Then a floorboard creaked, and the depressing sexless reality came back with all the tenderness of a slap. Daryl cleared his throat and looked away first. “Just clear the damn room.”
“Excellent save,” you said.
“Shut up.”
You pushed open the back bedroom door with your boot and swept inside. Empty, unless one counted a collapsed dresser and what looked like the fossilised remains of a cat as something. You moved toward the wardrobe, and Daryl moved with you.
“Are you following me,” you asked, not even bothering to turn.
“No.”
“You are literally stepping where I step.”
“That’s called watchin’ your back.”
“That’s called breathing on my neck.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d quit goin’ towards every dangerous lookin’ thing like a moth to a flame.”
You spun around, and because the room was small and the apocalypse hated you, he was right there.
Not touching. That would’ve been easier.
Just there—close enough to feel his heat, close enough that if either of you leaned an inch you’d be having a very different type of exchange, close enough that the stale air in the room had turned thick and weird around the two of you.
You looked at his mouth.
He looked at yours.
From the hall, Michonne said, with devastating calm, “If I open this door and y’all are licking each other, I’m leaving.”
Both of you jumped apart like you’d been caught stealing from church.“We ain’t—” Daryl started.
“You are so embarrassing,” you hissed at him, which would’ve landed better if you weren’t blushing so hard your face felt hot. “Me?” he shot back, offended. “You the one starin’.”
“Was not.”
“Was too.”
“You were in my personal space!”
“You got a personal space now?”
Tara’s head appeared around the doorframe for all of one second. She took one look at the two of you standing six feet apart like scandalised Victorian lovers, and lit up. “Oh, this is bad,” she said, delighted. “This is way worse than I thought.”
“Get out,” you and Daryl said together.
She vanished, snicking. For one long second, the room held.
Then Daryl scrubbed a hand over his face and muttered, “Need this house cleared before I give up n’ sleep outside.”
You let out a laugh before you could stop it, tired and real and dragged out of you against your will.
His mouth twitched.
That was the worst part, honestly. Not the hunger. Not the road. Not even the fact that your body had apparently decided to become a traitor every time he came within grabbing distance.
It was that you were both still perfectly fine—solid, yours, his—and yet somehow so badly deprived of privacy that you’d started acting like a pair of idiots in front of witnesses. And the whole group absolutely knew it.
By the time the cans were scraped clean and tipped upside down by the fire to cool, the house had settled into that uneasy version of night people on the road called rest. Rick had posted the watch. Abraham and Tara had the first shifts, then Michonne. The rest of you had been granted the luxury of horizontal misery on the warped wood floor of somebody else’s living room, every blanket and old cushion dragged into a lumpy little nest around the cold fireplace.
No one talked much once the food was gone. A few murmured goodnights drifted through the room, then the soft rustle of people turning over, finding hips and shoulders and corners of flooring they could tolerate. The whole place smelled like damp coats and candle soot. Somewhere outside, a night bird made a sound like a hinge.
Daryl dropped beside you with a grunt, back against the wall for a second before he slid down to the floorboards. You followed, settling into the blanket with the boneless heaviness of someone who had been upright for too many hours. For a while, neither of you did anything except breathe and pretend that was enough.
Then his hand found the edge of your blanket and tugged once.
It was such a small thing that nobody watching would’ve thought anything of it, just the absentminded shift of someone making room. But you knew him. You knew that little, silent come here better than your own name. You moved without looking at him, easing into the space he’d made, laying your head carefully against his chest and shoulder while he bent his arm around you like it had been waiting there all day to be useful.
The sound he made was barely there, more breath than noise, but you felt it in your hair. “Ya still grumpy at me?” he murmured.
“That makes me sound like a toddler. I wasn’t grumpy per se,” you whispered back, listening to his heartbeat under your ear. “…maybe a little vexed..”
He snorted softly. “We’ll go with that then.”
The room around you was full of sleeping people, boots lined up by the door, weapons within easy reach, everyone arranged in that strange, intimate geometry of survival, but in the little pocket beneath his arm, it almost felt private. Not fully of course. Still, enough to loosen something.
For a while, you just talked.
Not about anything useful, which was probably why it felt so nice. The house creaked around you, the others settling into uneasy sleep across the floorboards, and the two of you stayed tucked in your little corner with his shoulder under your cheek and his arm loose around your waist, pretending the warmth of him wasn’t the only soft thing you’d had all day.
You talked about the creek you’d passed that afternoon and whether it had been worth the detour. You argued, in whispers, over whether his poncho was a horse blanket he cut a hole in or something badass to wear to keep the heat in, and weaponised the fact that you constantly stole it. You told him that if civilisation ever crawled back into existence, you were never sleeping on another floor again unless there was a paralysing amount of wine involved.
Daryl gave a low snort, barely more than breath against your hair, the sound warm where it rumbled under your cheek. “You gettin’ fancy on me now?”
“I have always been fancy,” you whispered, lifting your head just enough to glare at him through the dark. The room was mostly shadow, the dying fire throwing an orange tremble up the stairwell, but you could still make out the stubborn line of his mouth and the glint of one eye watching you. “I’ve simply been humbled by circumstance.”
“You ate cold pasta with your fingers yesterday.”
“Gracefully.”
“Licked the can.”
“I was conserving resources.”
His mouth twitched, small and traitorous, and you felt absurdly victorious for pulling it out of him. His hand, the one that had been moving in slow, absent circles against your arm like he didn’t even know he was doing it, slid higher to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The touch was so ordinary it hurt worse than something dramatic would have. There was no urgency in it, no survival reason, no wound to check, no danger to steady you through. Just him touching you because he wanted to, because your hair was in your face and his fingers knew where to go.
For a few breaths, the two of you lay there listening to the house complain around you: the old boards sighing under sleeping bodies, Glenn shifting somewhere near the fireplace, someone coughing once and going quiet again. Daryl’s thumb lingered near your temple, then drifted down the side of your face as if he’d forgotten he was allowed to stop.
“’Member back at the quarry,” he murmured after a while, voice lower now, roughened by exhaustion and the kind of memory that snuck up soft, “when you tried to make coffee in that little dented pot Dale had?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the gentleness in it. “Tried? I made coffee.”
“Ya made dirt water.”
“You drank two cups.”
His eyes flicked away, but not fast enough to hide the soft little crease at the corner of them. “Didn’t wanna hurt your feelings,” he said, almost tentatively, like the admission embarrassed him more than any confession had a right to. Then, quieter, “Probably coulda served me up grass and I woulda ate it.”
You pushed up onto one elbow, chin hovering near his chest, delight spreading through you despite the chill and the hard floor and the hunger that never really left. “Dixon,” you whispered, scandalised, “were you being nice to me?”
His gaze cut hard toward the ceiling. That was answer enough.
“Oh, my God.” Your grin widened until your cheeks hurt - you were so gonna tease him. “You had a crush on me,” you singsonged.
“Shut up.”
“You did.” You poked him in the side through his shirt, delighted when he jerked under you and caught your wrist, not to stop you so much as to pretend he had control over the situation. “You drank my terrible coffee because you were sweet on me.”
“Wasn’t terrible.”
“You just said dirt water.”
He stared at the dark like it might save him. “Flavoured dirt water.”
You had to bite down on your smile so you wouldn’t laugh loud enough to wake half the room. He was still looking away, jaw working, but there was a quiet warmth in his face now, something almost boyish under the grime and the hollows tiredness had carved beneath his eyes. For a second, you could see him back then so clearly it felt like the room around you changed shape: younger, sharper, all shoulders and suspicion, standing at the edge of the quarry camp like he’d been invited to a party by mistake and planned to leave before anyone noticed.
“I remember that,” you whispered, softer now. “You wouldn’t sit with me.”
He frowned faintly. “Sat near ya.”
“You sat on a log ten feet away,” you said, laughing under your breath. “For a while I thought I stank or something.”
His ears, even in the dark, seemed to go a shade warmer. “Didn’t know what to do with ya.”
The joke softened in your mouth before it could become another tease. You settled back against him, cheek to his chest, listening to the steady thump beneath his ribs. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged, but it didn’t work with you lying half on top of him. His shoulder shifted under you, awkward and too honest, and his hand found the edge of your sleeve again like he needed something to do. “I mean…” He cleared his throat, eyes still on the ceiling. “Was terrified of ya.”
You lifted your head. “Of me?”
“Talkin’ to ya,” he muttered. “Felt like I was gonna throw up. Was hopeless.”
A laugh slipped out of you, small and helpless, because the idea of Daryl Dixon—knife on his belt, crossbow on his shoulder, temper always two inches from the surface—feeling physically ill because you smiled at him was too sweet and too ridiculous to survive silently. “No way.”
“Was awful,” he insisted, and the way he said it made your heart fold in on itself. His thumb moved over your sleeve, slow again, grounding himself in the fabric. “You’d come over with that damn coffee, lookin’ like… I dunno. Like I made you up in my head.”
Your smile faded into something softer.
He swallowed, still not quite looking at you. “You’d be talkin’ like ya knew me already. Actin’ like ya gave a damn. Ask me stuff. Didn’t look at me like everybody else did.” His mouth pulled to one side, almost amused now, though there was a tender ache under it. “And you were still the meanest person I ever met. Didn’t take shit from nobody. Couldn’t figure out why the hell you’d give me the time’a day.”
Your chest tightened until it was hard to breathe around it.
The quarry rose up in your mind, bright and dusty and impossible: sun burning over tent canvas, smoke from the fire catching in your throat, Dale’s RV gleaming like an old white beetle in the distance, Andrea laughing at something, Shane shouting as always, little Carl running somewhere he probably wasn’t meant to be so he wouldnt have to get his hair cut my his mom. People alive who were no longer alive. Problems that had felt huge then and almost gentle now. You remembered Daryl, too—quieter in a different way, all sharp edges and defensive eyes, watching everyone from a distance like he expected kindness to bear its teeth if he stood too close.
“I liked you too,” you admitted, soft enough that it felt like a secret all over again. “Even then.”
His arm tightened around you.
“Yeah?”
“Are you kidding?” You let out a quiet laugh and tipped your chin up so you could see him properly. “The way you threw squirrels at people like you were saying hi, mouthing off every chance you got, shoulders all tense and flexed, southern accent, shiny muscles, and you rode a bike?” You shook your head gravely. “I had no chance.”
His breath hitched with a silent laugh, and this time he couldn’t hide the blush. Not completely. His face turned away into the dark, but you caught enough of it to make your whole night.
“Makin’ me sound like some rabid animal,” he muttered.
“No,” you said, pressing a quick kiss to the edge of his jaw because you couldn’t help yourself, his skin hot, rough with stubble, familiar enough to ache. “You just got better at letting me pet you.”
He huffed like he was offended, but his hand came up to the back of your head and held you there for half a second longer than necessary. “Go to sleep.”
“Lemme ask you this.” You poked his chest once because he should have known better than to think you could be redirected that easily. “Who do you think fell first?”
“Me.” He answered so quickly that you stilled.
“Really?” you whispered, craning your neck to look at him. “I thought it would be me for sure. I mean, by the time we reached the farm, I was pretty hooked.”
He stayed quiet, eyes fixed somewhere above you. The silence changed. Not heavy exactly. Just full of something older than the two of you were now, something that had been sitting quietly beneath years of blood and loss and road dust, waiting for a night still enough to be named.
You nudged him gently. “Was it before the farm?”
Still quiet. Your smile faded at the edges, not disappearing, just softening into wonder. “Daryl.”
His throat bobbed.
“C’mon,” you whispered. “Tell me.”
For a long second, the whole house seemed to hold its breath with him. Then, so quiet you almost felt it more than heard it, he said, “Pretty much… first time I saw ya.”
Oh. It landed in you like something delicate being placed carefully in your hands, impossibly soft.
You didn’t know what to do with it at first, and for once, your mouth had no smart thing ready, no joke sharp enough to cover the tremble in your chest. You only looked at him in the dark, at the man who had spent half your lives together pretending not to need anything, and realised he had been carrying that first moment all this time like a match cupped from the wind.
“The first time?” you breathed. He shrugged again, smaller now.
“What was I doing?”
“Yellin’ at Shane.” That startled a laugh out of you, quiet and bright.
His mouth curved faintly, relieved by the sound. “He was runnin’ his mouth about somethin’. You told him if he wanted to act like everybody’s daddy, he could start by washin’ the dishes after supper.”
You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, muffling your laugh into his shirt. “That sounds about.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, and his hand smoothed once over your hair, slow and fond. “Never came across anyone like you.”
“That a good thing or a bad thing?.”
“Thought you were badass,” he corrected, quieter. “Mean, smart. Smokin’ hot.”
You lifted your head again, eyes stinging in a way you refused to acknowledge. “Oh yeah?”
“Don’t make me say it again.”
“Oh, I absolutely will at some point.”
“Course you will.”
You smiled at him, but it wobbled at the edges. “All that time?”
He didn’t answer with words. He didn’t need to. His hand slid from your hair to the side of your face, thumb brushing once beneath your eye with a care that felt almost reverent in the dark.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of everything you’d lost between the quarry and here—the farm, the prison, all those people and places and versions of yourselves that existed now only in memory. But it was also full of what had survived. His arm around you. Your cheek against his chest. The ridiculous fact that after everything, after all that distance and fear and hunger and grief, you could still lie here and tease him about dirt-water coffee until he admitted he’d loved you before he knew how.
You smiled into the dark, then lifted yourself just enough to press your mouth to the corner of his. It was quick, almost routine now, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything but still said plenty. Goodnight. I’m here. Don’t go too far, even if you’re only turning over.
“Night,” you whispered.
“Night.”
You turned carefully in the cramped space, settling with your back against him, his arm finding your waist by habit before either of you had to think about it. Behind you, he went still in that wakeful way of his, not quite ready to surrender to sleep.
For a while, Daryl only listened to the house. The floorboards settling. Glenn’s breathing from somewhere near the fireplace. Rick shifting in his sleep. The woods pressing close outside.
And you, warm under his hand.
That was the part that made his chest feel strange. Not sad, exactly. Not the kind of hurt that had teeth. Just a dull, blue ache at the thought of all the roads between that quarry and this floor, all the people missing from the spaces around you, all the walls you’d had and lost, all the times he’d thought he had nothing worth keeping until you proved him wrong by staying.
Back then, he hadn’t known what to do with wanting you.
Now he knew exactly what to do with it, and still couldn’t, not here, not with the whole group asleep around you and the road waiting to swallow everyone again at morning.
His fingers curled lightly in the fabric at your stomach. You sighed in your sleep, or close enough to it, and shifted back into him by instinct. Lowering his face to your hair, he breathed you in once, and closed his eyes with that old quarry memory still flickering behind them: you holding out a tin cup of terrible coffee, smiling like you already knew he was worth the trouble, even if he didn’t think the same.
He shifted a little then, rolling just enough onto his side to face the room, and his back turned toward you beneath the blanket. The movement left you tucked up behind him, your arm draped over his waist. It was an unspoken rule for him to put himself between you and wherever the door was when bunking down. At first you thought it was just a coincidence he did that, but then you realised, he was putting himself in harm's way in case the unthinkable came through the door. That meant you were in your own little pod in the corner with a Daryl-shaped barrier boxing you in like a hug. Without thinking, you lifted your hand and traced a line down the centre of his back through the thin fabric of his shirt
Your fingertip drifted again, lower this time, drawing nonsense shapes between his shoulders, little idle lines that didn’t mean anything and meant everything. His skin moved under the shirt with each breath. You could feel the hard pull of muscle and the familiar shape of him beneath your hand, and it made longing rise in you so fast and sharp it was almost funny.
He was right there.
That was the worst part.
Right there under your fingers, under your breath if you leaned one inch closer. You could smell him. Feel his warmth. Hear the scrape of his swallow when your nail caught lightly at his spine.
And you missed him.
Missed him like he was gone.
It was absurd. Cruel, even. To have him this close and still feel the distance. To know exactly how he sounded when he laughed against your neck, how heavy his body got after, how his hand spread over your hip in sleep like it belonged there, and have none of that now except these careful scraps. It was like being starving and made to sit with your face over the pot.
Your hand kept moving of its own accord, tracing him slowly, and you let your mind slip back to the prison the way a hand slips under a pillow, searching for the cool side. You thought of the cellblock at dusk, all honeyed light through bars and the familiar clatter of people settling in for the night. You thought of your old curtain, half-drawn and crooked because Daryl always tugged it too hard, the whole place smelling faintly of sun-baked concrete, tobacco and sex. You thought of the cot that had complained under both of you, the scratchy blanket you used to pretend to hate, the little stolen privacy of walls and routine and knowing where you’d wake up.
You thought of Daryl there, stretched out in your cell with one boot still on because he’d sworn he wasn’t staying and then stayed anyway. His hair mussed from your fingers.
Your shirt was somewhere on the floor, and his head was pillowed heavily on your stomach while you drew idle circles over his shoulder, kind of like how you were doing now.He’d be stretched out on his front, one arm thrown across your thighs, the other dangling off the side of the bed, half-dozing after sex with his face turned into your skin like he’d intended to stay there forever. The prison had been loud in the distance—someone shouting in the yard, metal clanging, a laugh from down the cellblock—but your little haven had held - all yours.
You could see it all, so clearly, it hurt.
“Move,” you’d murmured, half-laughing, because he was crushing your legs. His answer had been a grumble into your stomach and a tighter squeeze with the arm over your thighs. “Nah.”
“You’re heavy.”
When he’d said tough shit, you’d just smiled and gone back to drawing useless little lines over his back, tracing the ridge of his spine, the slope of his shoulders, the ribbons of scars dorned across his back. He’d shivered once under your fingers and turned his head just enough to press a lazy kiss to your hip.
“Should get up,” you’d said eventually, though you’d made no move to actually do it.
“Nuh-huh.”
“We’ve been in here forever.”
“Good.”
There had been no urgency in him. No panic. No rationing of touch. Just that lazy, unreasonable confidence that the hour belonged to you because there would be another after it, and another after that, and the world outside the curtain could wait. You had taken it for granted in the way people only realise too late that they were rich.
You remembered looking down at him then—hair a mess, eyes half-shut, skin warm and loose with sleep and satisfaction—and thinking, with a kind of stupid fondness, we’ll always have this.
You blinked in the dark of the abandoned house and found the prison gone, the bars replaced by wallpaper curling off rotten walls, the mattress by splintered floorboards, that easy golden stillness by the raw thin edge of the road. Daryl was still in your arms, but only barely, and all at once you wanted that old afternoon back so violently it made your chest ache. You wanted it back so bad; the sadness of it rose so suddenly your eyes burned. You don’t realise those are the good old days until they’re gone.’ Fuck whoever said that.
The memory hit so hard now it was almost physical, and the ache of it should have kept you awake.
Instead, it softened you.
Your body loosened by degrees, melting back into his warmth, the present blurring at the edges until the hard floor became a mattress, the draft became summer heat, the dark house became concrete walls holding the day outside. Daryl shifted his sleep and made an unconscious jerk that used to startle you awake but was now so natural to you it was a comfort, and in your half-dreaming mind it was the prison again—his hand on your hip, his mouth near your skin, the curtain keeping the world out.
You followed the memory down.
Down into heat, and quiet, and the old impossible luxury of time...
-------------
The heat in the cell sits on your skin like a second blanket.
Summer in the prison always settles heavy, thick and damp and a little stale, like the concrete itself has started to sweat. The little fan somebody rigged up three doors down is useless here. The curtain is half-drawn, but it does nothing except trap the warmth inside with you. Your back is slick against the mattress. His hair is damp. The sheet twisted around one ankle is soaked through where it’s bunched at the foot of the bed.
And Daryl is between your legs like he’s got nowhere else on earth to be.
Your wrists are cuffed to the iron bars of the headboard, the metal warm from the room and rubbing just enough to keep you aware of it every time you pull. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel how trapped you are; how much you are at his mercy.
He’s been there forever. That’s what it feels like. Nearing on an hour, maybe more, spread open beneath him in your tiny prison cell while the world beyond the curtain keeps moving on without you, while his mouth and hands and the slow drag of his body keep proving that time is not a real thing in here.
You’re sweating. He’s sweating. It’s almost ridiculous how gross the two of you are in the trapped summer heat, his shoulders shining, your hair damp at the nape, his chain sticking to the hollow of his throat when he lifts his head to look at you. There’s no elegance left in it. No room for elegance. Just heat and skin and the rust-smell of the handcuffs and the little breathless sounds he keeps dragging out of you like he’s collecting them.
“Daryl,” you whisper, which would sound like a plea even if you didn’t mean it that way.
He looks up from where he’s pressing kisses to the inside of your thigh, eyes darker than the dim cell deserves, one hand still spread hard over your hip to keep you from twisting away from the overload. He’s got that look on his face—the one that means he knows exactly what he’s doing and intends to keep doing it.
“What,” he askssays, low and rough, though you both know he heard the tremble in it.
You tug uselessly at the cuffs. The bed rattles, old iron whining in protest. “You know what.”
His mouth twitches.
That smug little almost-smile should not be legal on him.
“I don’t know nothin’,” he lies, and then he kisses your inner thigh again, slower this time, closer, his stubble scraping the sensitive skin there in a way that makes your stomach jump. “Think you oughta explainn it.”
You let out a helpless little sound that only encourages him. He’s cocky today. Worse than usual. Maybe it’s the cuffs. Maybe it’s because you’re completely on display for him. Maybe it’s because you are completely on display for him and at his diposal. Maybe it’s because there’s finally time, because you don’t have to rush, because for once nobody is pounding on the curtain and nobody is calling either of your nameshis name from the yard and nobody needs either of you for the next hour except the two of you. Whatever it is, he’s leaning into it with quiet, infuriating confidence.
You’re squirming so much that the whole bed keeps squeaking; squeaking; shifting in little jerks across the floor.
His forearm snakes around your stomach,forearm snakes around your stomach pinning you more firmly, rough palm hot and damp. “Hold still.”
“You are a cruel cruel man,’ you gasped.
That earns you a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. “This was your idea.”
“The torturing part was not my idea,” you mutter, then gasp because his fingers drag through the wet mess between your legs like he’s never felt anything he liked better. “The hand cuffs are on me, sure. And I wish i never found them.”
In your defence, you wanted to handcuff him to the bedpost - but he won rock, paper, scissors, you wanted to handcuff him to the bedpost - but he won rock paper scissors so he got his way.
“Guess you shoulda went with paper,” he mumbled against you, sending vibrations through” he muffled against you - causing vibrations against your core. You choke on a laugh that turns into a moan before it’s halfway out. He takes advantage immediately, shifting up over you in one smooth movement until his chest is over yours, one knee forcing your legs wider, his mouth at your throat, then your jaw, then your mouth. Sure, yYou can’t pull him down because your hands are trapped above your head, but you don’t need to. He’s all over you already, the full weight of his attention almost worse than his body.
Your knees are useless. Your wrists are warm and slick inside the cuffs. Every inch of you feels overworked, wrung out, and somehow still starving.
He kisses you the way he does when he knows you’re close again—deep and heavy and a little mean, like he’s trying to swallow the panic before it turns into begging.
It doesn’t work.
“More,” you breathe against his mouth anyway, already embarrassed by how desperate you sound and too far gone to care. “Please—”
His hand slides between you, lining himself up, the blunt heat of him dragging through your slick with a maddening patience that makes you arch hard enough to rattle the headboard. There smile is in his voice when he says, “Ya really want it huh?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, because there is no dignity left in this cell, and both of you buried it a long time ago. “Daryl—”
“Shh.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the shell of your ear, his voice dropping rough and low where it goes straight through you. “Gotcha.”
And then he pushes in.
Slow - so slow you could scream.
You feel every inch of him, every unbearable second of it, your body trying to climb away from the sensation and chase it deeper at the same time. You’re so oversensitive it borders on agony, his pace deliberate enough to make the whole thing feel impossible. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your breath catches. You hear yourself making broken little sounds into his shoulder, and his hand leaves your thigh just long enough to grip your jaw and turn your face back to him.
“Look at me.”
You try. Fail. Try again.
His forehead presses to yours as he sinks deeper, deeper, until your whole body goes tight and startled around him. You genuinely don’t know where all of him is supposed to fit. He’s talking now, half under his breath, half into your mouth, and the words are pure Daryl—gravelly, blunt, unfairly filthy in how matter-of-fact he makes them. “That’s it,” he says. “Take it. C’mon. Easy. Yeou’re alright.”
You are not alright. You are dying. You are transcending. You are very possibly seeing God. “Oh my god—”
“I know.”
“No, it’s, I—” Your voice breaks clean in half when he finally bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and stays there for one devastating second like he wants you to understand exactly what he’s doing to you. “Daryl.”
His mouth brushes yours, softer now. “Yeah? That good huh?”
Does he even have to ask? You’re shaking. Fully shaking. Your legs are spread useless and numb beneath him, your wrists straining in the cuffs every time your body jerks on instinct. He reaches up,, hips not faltering for one second, fingers wrapping around the chain between the cuffs, and tugs—not hard, just enough to remind you that there’s nowhere to goo. The sound that falls out of you at that is humiliating.
His eyes darken further.
“You really — fffuck - like seeing m-me tied up huh?” You manage to get out on the third try.
“Not the worst sight,” he murmurs, glancing up at your hands, then back down at your face so he could see the whole array of precious expressions on your face.
He gives it to you in slow, deep strokes that drag all the way out and then back in with enough force to make the bed frame protest against the wall. Every thrust lands in the same devastating place, e. Every one leavinges you more gone than the last. He’s manhandling you without rushing it, one hand on your hip, the other around your back, using his weight and the angle and the cuffs and your own helpless body against you until your brain is nothing but white heat and his name.
“So much,” you hear yourself say, though your hips lift to meet him anyway, chasing more. “S’too much, I can’t—”
“Yeah, you can.”
There’s that quiet cockiness again, that infuriating certainty in his voice like he knows your body better than your mind does. Right now he probably does.
Your orgasm is coming way too fast. You can feel it, huge and bright and terrifying, climbing through you in violent little pulses. It doesn’t even feel good anymore, not in a simple way. It feels like standing too close to the edge of something enormous.
“Baby I’m not gonna last,” you squeaak, and this time there’s real panic in it.
He hears the difference immediately. His mouth finds yours, steadier now, his hand sliding down between your bodies to hold you through the rising shock of it. “Hey,” he murmurs, rough and low and all Daryl. “Just stay with me. C’mon. Breathe.”
Your wrists pull against the cuffs. Your thighs shake around him. His pace doesn’t break, doesn’t hurry, doesn’t falter. He’s all over you, exactly where you need him, too much and perfect and impossible, and your whole body goes tight under the pressure of it.
“C’mon,” he murmurs, mouth hot at your cheek, his voice roughened into something that feels like a hand inside your chest. “Wake up.”
Huh?
You blink at him, breathless, disoriented. The prison cell swims around the edges. The bars are hazy. The curtain stirs in a heat that suddenly doesn’t feel right. “Daryl—”
“Wake up.”
His hand leaves the chain between the cuffs and rises to your face, thumb brushing your cheek. No, not brushing - patting. Coaxing you awake...
You jerk awake all at once to cold dawn and damp earth and the awful, immediate absence of him.
For one second, you just lie there staring into the washed-out grey of morning, your body still trying to catch up with a world that has changed under it. Then the disappointment hits so hard and stupid it actually makes you angry. You roll over with a wounded groan and shove your face into your rucksack, which has all the comfort and softness of a sack of rocks.
Behind you, Daryl huffs a laugh.
“Rise n shineRise and shine,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and far too amused for someone who has just ruined your entire life. A hand lands between your shoulder blades, then slides up into your hair, fingers working slow through the mess of it in that absent way he gets when he’s trying to wake you without admitting he’s being gentle. “Was startin’ to think ya died.”
You make a muffled, miserable noise into the rucksack that roughly translates to Iaei wishI wish..
“Mm.” His hand keeps moving, untangling a knot, scratching lightly at your scalp. “That bad, huh.”
You push yourself up on your elbows with all the enthusiasm of the freshly exhumed. The group is just beginning to stir around you—blankets rolling, someone coughing, low voices by the dead fire where breakfast is apparently the next tragedy on the schedule. Daryl is crouched beside your bedroll, forearms on his knees, watching you with that half-annoying, half-soft expression he always gets first thing in the morning.
“C’mon,” he says. “Needta find somethin’ to eat.”
You sit up fully—and freeze.
There’s a warm, slick heaviness between your thighs, enough to make your whole body go hot again for a completely different reason.
You suck in a breath.
Daryl’s eyebrows pull together instantly. “What.”
For one sharp, horrifying second you think, oh my god, my period, because of course that would be the final humiliation after waking up from the hottest dream of your miserable little road-life. You glance down, hand already moving under the blanket—
—and then stop.
Oh, no.
It takes exactly one second for your traitorous body to explain itself.
False alarm, no blood; just the aftermath of your own brain deciding to stage an unauthorised prison reunion with your boyfriend while you slept three feet away from the group like a complete degenerate.
Your face goes so hot it feels like you need a doctor to check you're not dying. Daryl leans in a little, suspicion deepening. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” you say way too fast; his expression says he believes exactly none of that.
You try to stand with dignity, which is impossible when your knees still feel vaguely dream-boneless and your entire lower half has decided now is a great time to remember every second of that fake prison bed. You end up half-crouching instead, clutching the blanket around your lap like a Victorian woman posing for a photo.
Daryl squints at you. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’re bein’ weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Not like this.”
You glare at him with all the fury of a woman whose subconscious should be hosed down.
“Morning,” Rick says, already halfway by, then slows just enough to take in your expression, your death-grip on the blanket, Daryl crouched there with his hand still in your hair like he forgot to remove it, and the general atmosphere of something is wrong here and I would prefer not to know what. His face does a very subtle, very tired thing. “Y’all good?”
“Uh-huh,” you say, voice embarrassingly high.
Rick’s eyes flick to Daryl.
Daryl meets them with the flattest do not poke the bear look a man can physically produce before coffee.
Rick, to his credit, reads it immediately. “Right,” he says, the word stretching thin with self-preservation. “Well. Don’t take too long.”
He keeps walking, visibly deciding he does not get paid enough for whatever this is.
Daryl waits until Rick’s out of earshot before looking back at you, the amusement still there but softened now with actual concern. His hand slides from your hair to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing once at the base of your skull.
“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on,” he says quietly, “or am I just s’posed to accept that ya woke up possessed.”
You close your eyes. There are no good answers. There are only bad ones and catastrophic ones. “Please stop being nice to me,” you mutter. “It is not helping.”
That pulls a real chuckle out of him, low and warm and sleepy enough to make your stomach dip. He studies you for a second, the puzzle pieces clearly clicking into place one by one. Not all of them, but enough to know this is not an injury, not an illness, not anything he can fix with a canteen and a pat on the shoulder. His head tilts - and then, very slowly, his eyebrow rises. Oh, absolutely not.
“No,” you say immediately.
He smiles wider, all smug corners and dangerous understanding. “Didn’t say nothin’.”
“You were about to.”
“Ain’t gotta.”
You hide your face in your hands like an ostrich burying its head in the sand. His palm smooths down your hair once more, kinder now that he’s enjoying your suffering. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Get up. You can be mad at me while we look for breakfast.”
You look up at him through your fingers, mortified beyond words. “I am not mad at you.”
“Nah,” he says, standing and offering you a hand. “Whatever this is its way wayworse.”
He hauls you gently to your feet, steadies you when your blanket tangles around your legs, and for one tiny, awful second your eyes meet and you know—just know—that if he presses even a little, if he asks the right question in that low morning voice, you are going to have to fling yourself into a lake.
Instead, he only squeezes your fingers once before letting go.
“Go wash your face,” he says, maddeningly calm. “Cool down before it gets any redder.”
You stare at him, mouth agape.
He tilts his head. “What.”
And because apparently humiliation has finally curdled into meanness, you mumble, “Nothing. Just thinking maybe I liked dream-you better.”
His grin goes crooked. “Well,” he says, stepping back, “dream-me ain’t gettin’ ya breakfast.”
Then he turns and walks off toward the fire, far too pleased with himself, leaving you standing there in the miserable dawn with damp thighs, a wrecked conscience, and the certain knowledge that this day is going to be absolutely intolerable.
--------
The warehouse sat at the edge of town like a stranded ship, square and windowless except for the high slats near the roofline, its broad metal sides painted with half-peeled community signs that had somehow survived the years better than the people who’d once followed them.
FOOD BANK SATURDAY
FREE WINTER COAT DRIVE
SPRING MARKET — LOCAL VENDORS WELCOME
The banners flapped in shreds against the chain-link fence as the four of you picked your way through waist-high weeds and old flyers melted into the mud.
Glenn squinted up at the building. “Well,” he said, trying for optimistic and landing somewhere around doomed, “it still looks… upright.”
“Mm,” Rick muttered. “That’s one word for it.”
The front entrances had been chained from the outside—heavy loops of rusted iron snared through the handles, reinforced with bent lengths of rebar someone had shoved through the links as a final, panicked stay in there. Daryl crouched, fingers brushing one of the chains, eyes narrowing at the old scrape marks on the metal doors.
“They weren’t keepin’ people out,” he said.
No one answered that, because there wasn’t much to say.
You tipped your head back and looked up at the roof. The warehouse was only one story, but it had been built high and ugly, one of those broad utility buildings with exposed support beams on the outside and enough ledges and seams to turn climbing it into a bad idea rather than an impossible one.
So, naturally, that was what you did.
By the time you hauled yourself onto the roof, your palms were black with grit and the backs of your thighs were already damp with sweat. The metal panels groaned under your weight in a way that made every muscle in your body tighten. “Jesus,” you hissed, flattening instinctively when one of the roof sheets gave a sudden little slide beneath your boot.
“Careful,” Rick said immediately from a few feet behind you, too late to be useful and exactly on time to be annoying.
“I am being careful.”
Daryl came up last and threw you a look that suggested he begged to differ. He dropped to a crouch beside a jagged break in the roofing and peered down through it.
The reaction was instant. He went still. Not tense. Not startled. Just utterly motionless in that way he had when his whole body locked.
You moved before you thought about it, dropping beside him and bracing one hand on the hot metal lip to look through the opening.
The warehouse floor below was carpeted in bodies. At first glance, Glenn made the same mistake anyone would. “Oh,” he said, relief rising too fast. “No, wait, those are just corpses—”
“No,” Daryl cut in quietly.
It wasnt just the number of them, though there were plenty—dozens scattered in collapsed rows between shelving units and overturned pallet stacks, slumped against support poles, tangled near the chained doors. It was the details. The way some of the skulls were caved in, yes, but plenty weren’t. The way some bodies looked shriveled almost to leather, clothes hanging off them in strips, while others still wore the dull slackness of a more ordinary death. One sat upright against a pillar with an empty bottle clenched in its hand and a dark stain dried down the front of its shirt. Two more were collapsed together near the back wall in a knot of limbs and torn fabric that suggested things had gotten ugly long before they got quiet. “Oh,” Glenn said again, much more softly this time.
Rick crouched beside the opening and stared down into the dim, stale dark of the warehouse. “Looks like this place fell at the start.”
“Military,” you murmured, eyes catching the old emergency signage, the barricaded exits, the awful logic of it. “Must’ve shoved people in here and locked it down.”
Daryl’s mouth flattened. “Then left ’em.”
The shelves themselves rose in long warehouse rows, most of them still standing. That was the part that made the whole thing almost unbearable. All that food still sitting there—boxes of jars, canned goods, dry goods in split sacks, packets, bottled water in shrink-wrapped towers near the middle—untouched except where some displays had toppled. It was obscene, really. All that supply left to rot while the people below it rotted first.
You scanned the floor again and felt the old cold dread of the prison halls crawl up your back.“Remember those walkers in the yard at the prison,” Rick said quietly. “Half of ’em were like mummies till they heard us. Then suddenly they were the hungriest things in the world.”
Glenn swallowed. “So we assume they’re all live.”
“We assume the ones that ain’t obviously dead enough can still get up,” Daryl said.
Below, somewhere in the belly of the building, something shifted. It was small. Maybe just settling metal. Maybe not.
You eased back from the opening, sat on your heels, and wiped your dusty palms on your jeans. “Okay,” you said. “So. We need the food. We do not need to become the food. Ideas.”
“Open the doors,” Glenn said first, because of course he did. “Make noise, flush them out, then circle back in and grab what we can.”
You stared at him. “That is a terrible idea.”
His head came up. “It’s not terrible.”
“It is if ‘flushed out’ turns into ‘wandering herd directly back to the group.”
“It wouldn’t come back to the group if we led it away.”
“Oh, amazing, great, so all we need is one neat, cooperative line of walkers who respect traffic signals.”
Glenn frowned. “That’s not what I said.”
Rick rubbed the back of his neck and kept staring down into the hole. “Could try pulling things up. Rope around a few boxes. Fish ’em out from up here.”
You looked at the gap, then at the angle, then at the rows below. “What are you gonna do cowboy, lasso a can of peaches from 20 feet up?”
Rick gave you a deeply unimpressed dad look. “You got a better idea?”
As a matter of fact, you did.
The support beams were eyeing you up like Daryl’s ass in jeans.
The roof had old metal trusses spanning the entire width of the building, thick enough to hold the weight of the panels, running wall to wall over the shelving rows below. Narrow, yes. Rusted in places, yes. Trustworthy, probably not.
You pointed. “We use those.”
Three heads turned to look at you.
You stood a little taller despite the grime and sweat itching down your spine. “They run the whole length. If someone gets down from here, climbs onto the truss, and moves across the beams, they can reach the top shelves without touching the floor. Lower a rope, tie off boxes, haul them up. It’s quieter, it doesn’t open the doors, and it doesn’t send an army of starving corpses wandering after us.”
Glenn looked back through the gap. “That’s… actually not bad.”
Rick nodded slowly. “Would work.”
Duh, of course it would, it’s your plan. Daryl, however, did not nod. His eyes had already moved on to the second part of your idea, because he knew you too well. “No.”
You blinked. “I haven’t even volunteered yet.”
“You was about to.”
“Maybe I was gathering dramatic tension.”
“You ain’t doin’ it. That’s final.”
You put your hands on your hips. “But it was my idea!”
“And it’s a bad one.”
“It was a good one two seconds ago.”
“It was good till you started thinkin’ you were the one goin’ across.”
You laughed once, short and offended. “Who else is gonna do it?”
“I will.”
You looked at him, then very deliberately looked him up and down, from the crossbow to the shoulders to the boots planted on the roof panel that had already shifted under your far lesser weight. “Baby don’t make me say it.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Say what?”
“You are built like a grudging ox.”
Glenn made a strangled sound and looked away. Rick’s mouth twitched dangerously.
Daryl stared at you in flat betrayal. “A what.”
“You heard me. Those beams are old. They’re not gonna love a full-grown angry man stomping around up there.”
“Yer talkin out yer ass.”
“There’s more of you to love, hozney.”
He leaned closer without seeming to move much at all, voice dropping. “You wanna say that one more time.”
Your pulse made an extremely unhelpful leap.
This was the problem. This exact thing. The way every stupid argument kept tipping halfway into something else before either of you could stop it. The way he got close and your brain forgot the topic. The way his attention felt like being gripped around the waist.
So naturally, you doubled down.
“You stomp like Bigfoot,” you said, slower this time, because apparently you wanted to die. “And I’m lighter, better balanced, and less likely to bring the whole roof down.”
“Your balance sucks.”
You gasped. “Fuck you, no, it doesn't!”
“Ya get dizzy when ya turn around too fast.”
“One time I slipped in mud.”
“You slipped in mud, gravel, wet grass, dry grass—”
“That was a streak of bad luck.”
“—and a flat kitchen floor.”
“What’s your point?”
Rick cleared his throat into his fist, shoulders twitching now.
Glenn gave up trying not to laugh. “She’s got a point about the weight thing.”
Daryl turned on him so fast Glenn actually put both hands up. “Don’t encourage her.”
“She always has a point,” you said, already warming to your own brilliance now that there was resistance. “I go across. You three stay up here and work the rope. If I slip, you haul me up. Safety buffer.”
Daryl made a face like the phrase offended him on principle. “Safety buffer.”
“Yes. Very technical.”
“No.”
You threw both hands up. “You always say no to my ideas!”
“Cuz ya act like ya got nine lives.”
“That is not a tactical concern.”
“It is to me.”
That actually got Rick laughing, low and tired and unable to help it.
The roof shifted softly under somebody’s boot and all four of you went still, eyes cutting back to the hole, the rows of bodies below, the heavy silence waiting under the metal. Then Rick exhaled and rubbed a hand down his beard. “It’s the best idea we’ve got.”
Daryl looked at him like he’d been personally stabbed.
“The beams probably won’t hold much extra weight,” Rick went on, practical as ever, which was how he got away with these betrayals. “She’s the lightest. We tie her off. Keep tension on the rope the whole time. Glenn hauls. You anchor. I spot.”
Daryl’s jaw worked hard enough to crack teeth.
You smiled, bright and insufferable. “Glad I got the Rick seal of approval.”
Daryl cut you a look so full of irritated, helpless heat it should’ve melted the roof clean off. “If you fall in there—”
“I won’t.”
“—I am not explainin’ to the group that we lost you because you wanted to play acrobat.”
Your grin widened. “See? You do listen to my ideas.”
He made a low sound in his throat, half threat, half something else, and turned away before it could become either. Glenn leaned over to you while Rick started sorting rope. “You know he’s gonna be unbearable about this.”
You watched Daryl yank the line harder than necessary through his hands, all bristling protectiveness and silent panic in a dirty vest, and felt something hot and stupid unfurl in your chest despite the hunger and the horror and the walkers waiting below. “Oh,” you said, sweet as poison. “I’m counting on it.”
Next thing you know, Daryl is lowering you down like he’s trying to negotiate with gravity.
The rope burns warm and rough through his palms as he feeds it out inch by inch, jaw set so hard it looks painful, eyes never leaving you as your boots search the air for the first beam. The whole roof creaks around you, old metal shifting and sighing under the weight of three men and one questionable plan, and below the hole, the warehouse waits in its awful, patient silence, a sea of dropped shoulders and slack heads and still hands that may or may not stay that way.
“Little left,” Rick mutters from the edge, one hand anchoring the rope, the other braced on the roof panel.
“I know my left,” you whisper back.
“Sure you do,” Daryl said sarcastically.
“Could we keep the chatter down to a minimum, please? I’m trying to focus.”
Your boots finally tap metal.
The beam is narrower than it looked from above, just a rusted strip of steel stretched wall to wall with twelve feet of nightmare yawning underneath it. For one incredibly stupid second, your arms pinwheel out from your sides, balancing wildly, and Daryl’s entire body jerks forward so hard the rope goes taut enough to sing.
You correct yourself with a hop and a wobble, then grin up through the hole. “Wow,” you whisper, breathless and obnoxious. “Thought I had it there.”
Rick drags a hand down his face, and Daryl looks like he may genuinely pass out. “That ain’t funny,” he hisses, voice low enough not to carry and intense enough to strip paint.
You beam up at him, all teeth. “Little funny.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“It was a kinda,” Glenn says, hanging over the edge with both elbows planted on the roof, “it was the exact amount of funny that becomes deeply unfunny if you do it again.”
“Copy that,” you say, already inching forward because if you let yourself think too hard about the drop, or the bodies, or the fact that one wrong move could turn you into a screaming can opener for the dead, you were going to freeze and embarrass yourself in front of everyone.
So you pretend.
You pretend you are not twenty feet above a warehouse floor covered in starving corpses.
You pretend this is easy.
You pretend you are traipsing across the rafters of a church play, balancing for applause, when really your throat is dry and your heart is in your throat.
“Keep your knees bent,” Rick says quietly.
“Weight over the balls of your feet,” Daryl adds at once.
“Yep,” you mutter. “Love being coached through my own stupidity.”
The first shelf is close enough that you can crouch, reach, and hook a box toward you with the length of broomstick Glenn found on the roof for exactly this purpose. It scrapes softly across the top shelf, dust puffing up into your face. You ease it to the beam, pry it open, and find—
“Canned Brussels sprouts,” you breathe. “What kind of sick bastard donates this.”
“Food is food,” Rick whispers.
“Barely.”
You toss the can up.
Glenn leans further into the hole, one arm and half his torso dangling through like a badly secured chandelier, and catches it with both hands before it can bounce off the roof and ring through the warehouse like a dinner bell. “Got it,” he mouths.
The rhythm comes after that, slow and strange and somehow almost manageable once your body stops trying to convince you that you are about to die.
Crouch. Reach. Hook. Lift. Toss.
If anything is too heavy or you don’t have enough arms to carry the load, you stuff everything into your rucksack and hurl it up to Glenn. Daryl then empties the goods and throws the empty bag back down to you. It’s like a cheap version of a dumb waiter, but way less convenient.
Glenn hangs lower and lower through the roof to catch whatever you send up—cans, pasta boxes, a dented multipack of instant noodles, some pathetic but still exciting ramen bricks that make you feel, absurdly, like a kid sneaking through the kitchen at midnight on your tiptoes for cookies when your parents told you explicitly not to. Except the kitchen is a warehouse full of sleeping dead, the cookies are your dinner for the next two weeks, and your parents are flesh-eating mummies in donated church clothes.
The beam complains under every careful step with little rusty chirps and flexes that make Daryl visibly reel from above. Every time it gives even the tiniest creak, his hands clamp harder on the rope like he could wrestle the entire building into obedience if he squeezed hard enough.
“You’re white as a sheet,” you whisper up after you just chucked the rucksack up to Glenn and caught Daryl’s line of sight. He looked like he was going into shock. “Shut up and keep movin’.”
You make it further across the room than any sane person would. The hauls get better too—good, solid stuff that feels like winning. Pasta. Canned fruit. Vacuum-packed noodles. A couple jars of sauce that make Glenn nearly weep.
Eventually, you gather enough loot for Rick to say, “That’s enough. Come on back up.”
And that should have been that.
But then something catches your eye.
A half-collapsed cardboard box on the floor near the far aisle. Not on a shelf. Not conveniently positioned. Just sitting there in a shaft of gray light, label half-torn, one corner buckled in—but unmistakable.
Beans — loads of them.
You go completely still. Above you, Daryl’s expression changes before you even point. He knows you too well. One look at your face and he’s already shaking his head. “Don’t even think about it.”
Glenn blinks. “Huh?”
“It’s beans,” you whisper, like this explains everything.
Rick’s own gaze tracks, lands on the box, and then closes in brief, pained understanding. “No.”
You glance up. “I’ll be super quick.”
Daryl actually makes a strangled sound. “Why ya always gotta make things so hard.”
“You wanna win big, you gotta risk big.” You raise your arms, shrugging. That’s why poker was always your game.
He yanks on the safety rope once, sharp and warning. “No way.”
You look down at the line tied around your waist. And then, because apparently every decent thought has left your skull to make room for legumes, you realise the problem.
You can’t get low enough with the rope on.
Even Rick, patron saint of exhausted pragmatism, is already shaking his head. “No. We’ve got enough. We head back.”
You look at the beans.
The beans look at you.
You haven’t had enough to eat in so long that your body treats the sight of them like a religious vision.
“Stop it, let’s go, cmon,” Daryl says, reading your face with horrifying accuracy.
“Would you still love me if I was beanless,” you whisper to yourself.
“What?” Daryl called back, a little too loud for comfort. The acoustics carried his voice around the warehouse, and for one terrible second, you all held your breaths to see if that had done the trick. It was pure dumb luck that it didn’t stir the walkers awake.
“Focus,” Rick hisses after a few awful seconds. “Keep your voices down. Now cmon, we’ll pull you up—“
You weren’t even listening anymore; when you set your mind on something, all bets were off. “Fuck it,” you mutter, and untie the rope around your waist.
The reaction above you is immediate, silent, and catastrophic. Daryl’s face goes blank in that way it does when he is too furious to form words. Rick hisses something that is probably a curse.
Glenn just says, very quietly, “Oh, no.”
Then you move.
You step off the beam onto the top of a shelving unit, crouch to balance, then lower yourself with every ounce of care you possess to the warehouse floor between the sleeping walkers. The landing is soft enough that only dust puffs around your boots. For one second you stand there with your heart trying to punch out through your ribs, surrounded by bodies that are way too close for comfort.
Above you, Daryl makes a sound like every vessel in his head is preparing to burst. “Glenn,” Rick snaps. “Get to the door. If this goes bad, we open it and run them out.”
Glenn is already sliding back from the hole in the roof, shoes scraping over the metal panels as he hurries for the chained entrance.
Daryl moves like he means to jump straight down after you but Rick catches him by the vest. “No. You go in there now, you get both of you killed.”
“Let go.”
“Think Daryl.”
Below, you don’t give yourself time to think at all. You step over a body with your breath locked in your throat, then another, careful not to brush torn sleeves or brittle fingers. The smell is death in itself—old poison, old rot, old clothes. The beans sit there like a miracle with terrible timing.
You reach them, and as you grip the box, you realise it’s heavier than you expected, dense with cans, the cardboard softened at the corners but still holding. Of course it is. Of course, the thing you would risk your stupid life for would also weigh as much as an anvil.
You heft it onto the top shelf with a soft grunt, wincing when the metal creaks under the shifting load.
You hear the faint, unsettling rattling from across as Glenn struggles to free the chains. At this rate, your dumb bean mission isn't what will wake up the walkers; it's Glenn’s shaking of the doors. It’s pretty ironic that he’s trying to open the doors in case you fuck up, but right now, he is about to wake them up for you before you even get the chance. Whatever happens your not gonna stay down here. So you climb.
The shelf sways under your weight, just a little, but enough to make every nerve in your body flash white. You freeze, knuckles digging into the metal, and wait.
When it finally settles, slowly but surely, you empty the cans from the box into your rucksack, each one placed and shifted to balance the weight. The bag grows heavier and heavier until it drags at your shoulder and tugs your centre of gravity meanly off true.
The chains at the entrance rattle louder now. Glenn planning for your downfall.
You straighten on the shelf top and hold the rucksack up toward the roof opening like a trophy, every inch of you smug despite the death pit all around you. “Tell Glenn not to bother,” you say up towards them. “Mama’s bringing home the goods.”
“Quit messin’ around and move!” Rick hisses.
“Buzzkills,” you mutter.
You bend your knees and jump for the beam the way you’ve done half a dozen times already.
Only this time the shelf gives first.
The metal beneath your feet folds with a horrible, rusted crunch and the whole unit collapses into itself. For one terrible second, all Daryl and Rick see is a bursting cloud of dust and a violent shudder through the racks below.
And then the warehouse wakes up.
Not all at once. That would have been kinder.
A hand twitches.
A head jerks.
A rasp drags up from the floor like somebody striking a match.
You hit the ground hard and rolling, the breath punched out of you. The rucksack slams your shoulder. Somewhere, metal crashes. Somewhere something moans, then something else answers, and suddenly the whole room is filling with the insidious, dreadful sound of sleepers pulling themselves back into hunger.
It’s Daryl’s voice yelling your name which forces you upright.
No checking bruises. No checking the damage. You scramble for the nearest standing shelf and scale it with all the grace of a panicked cat, boots slipping on dusty metal, hands burning. It’s taller than you’d like and farther from the beam than it looked from above, and when you stand on top of it and finally look down—
Stupid idea.
A sea of walkers churns beneath you, arms lifting, jaws working, all those dead faces rolling upward like a starved village. How thoughtful. They want to catch you.
“Now!” Daryl roars.
You jump before you can talk yourself out of it.
Your fingers catch the beam with a jolt that nearly peels your shoulders from their sockets, and your whole body swings out hard—ninety degrees of empty air and screaming muscles before your momentum dies. You hang there for one awful second, staring at the ground, staring at all those outstretched hands waiting politely for you to drop.
Then survival kicks you in the spine, and you must muster everything in you to haul yourself up.
Above, Rick and Daryl are shouting, Glenn is somewhere at the doors, and below the walkers are fully awake now, groans rising loud enough to rattle your teeth. Slow and steady is dead. You go fast, feet clanging over the beam, each step a bargain with physics.
Don’t look down.
Don’t look down.
Don’t look down.
The beam screams under your boots. Something metallic falls away behind you with a crash but you don’t let yourself turn to see. Your rucksack thumps against your back, heavy with the canned beans and poor life decisions.
You make it under the hole at last and thrust the bag upward with both hands.
Daryl looks personally offended by it.
“Take the damn bag,” you hiss.
He glares like you just suggested he rescue the groceries first and your stupid life second. “Get that shit away from me,” he yells.
Rick, who still possesses enough sanity for all three of you, snatches the rucksack out of your hands. “I got it.”
The second the weight is gone from your back, you jump.
Daryl catches you.
Not with any grace either. He catches you like a man grabbing the one thing in the world that matters before it can fall out of reach, hands under your arms, hauling with everything he’s got while Rick grabs your vest and Glenn—somehow back at the roof now because apparently he can teleport when panic is involved—helps drag you up the last ugly, scraping foot.
You collapse half on top of Daryl, half on the roof, both of you breathing like you’ve been gutted.
For a few seconds nobody says anything at all.
Then Glenn lies back flat on the roof beside you and wheezes, “I hope those canned beans are worth it.”
Daryl’s hand comes up hard to the back of your head, not rough, just urgent, pressing you in against his shoulder for one fierce second before he shoves you back enough to look at you. His face is a storm. His eyes are wild. His voice, when it comes, is low and vicious enough to mean more than the words themselves. “You are the dumbest, bravest, most annoying person I ever met.”
To anybody else, it would sound mean.
To you, translated from Daryl, it means: thank God you’re alive, you absolute dumbass.
You grin, still gulping air. “You forgot ‘reckless and impulsive.’”
He closes his eyes like he is asking the universe for strength.
Rick, still kneeling with one hand on the salvaged rucksack, exhales through his nose and says, “Next time, we leave the beans.”
Daryl just kept you there, breathing heavy, arms wrapping around you to keep you there longer before you try to test your luck again.
---------------------
It seems the group got over your reckless borderline suicidal stunt pretty quickly, no matter how eccentric Glenn or Rick told the story. After they were warmed and fed, the group were left stunned in a way of people who have gone too long on empty and suddenly find themselves content and blinking at one another like they’re waiting to wake up.
The beans are in one pot, the pasta in another, the salvaged jars worked into something Carol insists on calling stew and everyone else is too grateful to argue with. The smell alone is enough to make the whole house feel less haunted.
Full bellies change people.
It happens slowly at first—shoulders coming down, voices climbing, somebody laughing too loud at something that isn’t all that funny and nobody minding because laughter itself had started to feel rare enough to hoard. Glenn is nearly glowing from the praise, taking credit for the rope work with just enough modesty to make it irritating, while Tara keeps calling you “Bean Queen” with increasing reverence and zero shame. Even Rick’s face has lost some of that hard, hunted look, though the lines don’t leave him entirely.
You’re tucked into the corner of the room against Daryl, his legs spread out in front of him and your back settled against his chest like that’s where it belongs. His arm is around your middle, hand planted on your hip with the kind of absent firmness that says he’s still making sure you’re here. Every now and then his thumb drags once over the seam of your shirt, checking, counting, reassuring himself in some wordless way he’d deny under oath.
He’s been impossible ever since the warehouse. Not in a mean way — more in a Daryl way. Which is often worse.
“Coulda died over beans,” he mutters now into your hair while Glenns tells Sasha how he nearly dislocated his own shoulder trying to lean through the roof like a chandelier. “That’s a new low.”
You tip your head back just enough to look at him. “They were good beans.”
“They were beans.”
“They were many beans.”
He gives a disbelieving little huff. “You got a death wish.”
Across the room, Glenn lifts his spoon in your direction. “To be fair, it was a pretty heroic amount of beans.”
“Thank you,” you say, pointing at him. “Finally, someone with vision.”
Daryl’s hold tightens fractionally around your waist. “Maybe I oughta put you outta my misery myself.”
You gasp theatrically and grab at his forearm where it lies across you, making a strangled little performance of it. “He’s threatening me,” you croak to the room. “In front of witnesses.”
He doesn’t even try to stop the ghost of the smile that pulls at his mouth. He bends his head and grumbles near your ear, “Wouldn’t have to threaten ya if you’d quit tryin’ to swan-dive into walker pits.”
You go limp in his arms in exaggerated tragedy, one hand flopped over your chest. “Tell. my. story.”
“‘She was stupid,’” Daryl says immediately.
“‘But awsome’” Glenn adds.
“‘Led with her stomach, not her brain,’” Tara says solemnly.
That gets a genuine laugh out of the room, bigger than the joke deserves, the kind that comes from hunger easing its boot off your throat for one blessed hour. You laugh too, because how can you not, even as Daryl shakes his head against your hair and pretends not to enjoy the fact that you fit there so naturally.
Then Carol, practical saint of the damned, appears by the pot with her spoon in hand.“There’s seconds,” she announces. You’re on your feet before the sentence finishes.
Daryl catches your belt loop too late to stop you. “Of course there is,” he mutters, watching you go with the kind of tired affection he only shows when he thinks no one’s paying attention.
You drift toward the pot, bowl in hand, and nearly collide with Rick doing the exact same thing. He steps aside enough to let you in, then doesn’t move far after you’ve both filled your bowls again. The room behind you hums with easy noise. Firelight jumps warm along the walls. For once, no one is listening too hard. Rick leans one shoulder against the mantle and eyes your second helping. “You earned that.”
You grin. “Damn right.”
He nods once, but his expression doesn’t soften as much as the room has. “Today was a Hail Mary.”
The words are quiet, but they land heavier than the bowls in your hands. Your smile slips, just a little. “We made it.”
“You did,” he says. “By the skin o’ your teeth.”
You glance past him toward the others. Daryl is still where you left him, one knee up now, spoon resting in his hand, eyes on you without trying to hide it. He doesn’t know this conversation is about him too, but something in your face must’ve given it away because he sits a little straighter.
Rick sees you look, his tone staying low. “Whatever’s goin’ on, it needs sortin’.”
Your brows pull together. “What’s going on is we’re all exhausted and one bad week from losing our minds.”
“That’s true,” he says. “And still not all of it.”
You open your mouth to deny it and hate that you already know how weak the denial will sound, but Rick lifts a hand before you can try. “I’m not askin’ for details.”
“Great.”
“I’m serious.” He glances toward the room, toward your people, toward the makeshift little camp that has somehow made itself a family twice over and keeps surviving mostly on stubbornness. “I don’t care if it’s grief from the prison, or stress, or just the road gettin’ to everybody. But you’re actin’ reckless. More than usual - which says a lot.”
You shift your bowl from one hand to the other, suddenly unable to get comfortable in your own skin.
“Same goes for Daryl,” Rick continues. “He’s distracted. You’re distracted. And when the two of you start in on each other, it spreads.”
You give a short, incredulous laugh. “Me and Daryl are fine.”
Rick’s face changes in the smallest, most devastating way. It was that deeply tired deadpan of a man who didn’t actually say a name but didn’t need you to say one for him. “…I didn’t say it was about Daryl,” he says.
You close your eyes for one full second. “Great.”
“That’s on you.” He takes a bite of his food with the maddening calm of someone who has already won this exchange, chews, swallows, then says, “I don’t care how you sort it out. Talk. Fight. Go walk a perimeter and scream at each other. Just sort it out. The group needs both of you with your heads screwed on right.”
You look down into your bowl because it’s easier than looking over at Daryl and wondering just how obvious the two of you have become. Your voice comes out quieter than you want. “You really think it’s that bad?”
Rick’s expression softens then, but only by a fraction. “I think you nearly got yourself killed over a box of beans.”
Yikes - the man has a point.
“I think Daryl was ready to jump into a warehouse full of walkers after you, and the only reason he didn’t is because I grabbed him first.” He pauses, then adds in that dry, almost kindly way of his, “And I think if the two of you keep actin’ like whatever this is ain’t affectin’ you, it’s gonna get one of you hurt in a way beans can’t fix.”
The room behind you laughs at something Michonne says. Somebody bumps a chair. Daryl is still watching, and now there’s a question in his face too, because he can tell Rick’s talking to you in that leader-voice of his, the one people only get when they’re either in trouble or about to be assigned something. You swallow, nod once, and Rick seems to take that as enough. “Good.”
He pushes off the mantle, shifts past you, then pauses just long enough at your shoulder to add, “And for what it’s worth… if I had found beans like that, I’d have pulled the same thing.”
You look up so fast you nearly slosh your dinner. His mouth twitches. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” Then he’s gone, crossing back into the warm noise of the room, leaving you standing there with your second helping and a heart that suddenly feels too big and too visible.
When you turn around, Daryl is still looking at you — the second your eyes meet, one of his brows lifts just a little, asking without words. You stare back for a beat, then start toward him.
He shifts, making room before you even reach him, one hand already reaching for your bowl so you can climb back into the shelter of his body without spilling anything. His arm comes around you the moment you settle, hand warm at your waist, and he bends his head just enough for his mouth to brush your temple.“What’d he want,” he murmurs.
You take a bite first, because apparently you need courage and beans to survive this conversation. Then you mutter into your spoon, “Apparently we’re a public safety hazard.”
Against your hair, he lets out one low, deeply offended huff of laughter. “Well,” he says, voice rough with tired amusement, “he ain’t wrong.”
That should not make your face go hot. It absolutely does.
The room feels too warm suddenly, too full, too close. Full bellies may have made everyone giddy, but they’ve also made it impossible to hide behind misery anymore. Now there’s food in your stomach, a roof over your head, and Rick Grimes has all but told you to go deal with your boyfriend before your unresolved nonsense gets somebody bitten.
You lean back a little further into Daryl’s chest and stare into your bowl like there might be instructions hidden in the beans.
His mouth brushes your ear. “Public safety hazard,” he repeats, almost pleased. “S’got a ring to it.”
You elbow him lightly in the ribs.
He grunts, then kisses your hair.
And because the universe has a sick sense of humor, that tiny, stupid bit of tenderness feels more dangerous than the warehouse ever did.
⸻
Rick’s advice sits between the two of you for maybe fifteen minutes before it becomes impossible to ignore.
Not because either of you particularly wants to acknowledge that Rick Grimes has somehow become the unwilling manager of your sex life, but because now that the words are out there—sort your shit out—the tension feels louder somehow, like naming it gave it teeth.
The house settles around you in soft groans and old wood sighs. The others are still eating and talking in that warm, relieved post-meal haze that only comes after a genuinely good scavenging run. It should feel safe and easy but instead, every time Daryl’s hand drifts over your hip or his mouth brushes your ear a little to closely, it feels like a lit match dropped into dry leaves.
You last maybe five more minutes curled against him before you turn your head and murmur, very quietly, “Come upstairs with me.”
He goes still at once.
Not because he doesn’t want to. That part is so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. It lives in the way his arm tightens around your waist, the way his chest expands under your shoulder, the way his hand stops moving for one single second like his whole body is listening too hard. He tips his head just enough that his mouth is near your ear. “Don’t play with me.”
You blink, caught off guard. “I’m serious”
He sighs through his nose, rough and low and very much not immune. “We ain’t rubbin’ one out in a sleepin’ bag again.”
That drags a laugh out of you before you can stop it, all soft and scandalised. “It wasn’t that bad. And I wasn’t suggesting—”
“Were with your eyes.”
“I can’t control my eyes,” you said - squeezin your eyes shut o he couldn’t see your tell.
He scoffs which in Daryl tongue translates to bullshit, but there’s heat all through it now. He wants this. God, he wants this. He just also wants the version of it where he can actually put his hands on you properly without someoene accidentally becoming part of the experience.
You shift in his lap anyway, because your restraint has been on life support for days and you are no longer prepared to pretend otherwise. “We don’t have to go all the way.” You slide your hand up over his chest, tracing the edge of his vest, and feel the way his breathing changes under your palm. “Just… upstairs.”
The hesitation is still there, but it’s losing ground.
Because he knows you. Knows exactly what your voice sounds like when you’ve hit the end of your rope. Knows what his own body has been doing every time you get too close and then move away. Knows the road has stripped you both down to nerves and instinct and want. He mutters something low and filthy under his breath, then pushes to his feet so suddenly you almost laugh again. “Ladies first,” he says.
The room you duck into on the second floor is barely a room at all anymore—just a narrow little bedroom with peeling wallpaper, one broken chair, and a window clouded over with age. The bed frame is long gone, just a rectangle of paler dust on the floor where something once lived, the air smelling like old wood and summer rot.
You barely make it two steps.
His hands are on you so fast, not rough exactly, but urgent in a way that makes your knees soften even before he spins you around and crashes his lips to yours. You back into the wall and he follows, hands braced on either side of your head for a heartbeat before they start moving—your waist, your ribs, your throat, your hips—like he’s been starved off touch so long he no longer knows how to do it sparingly.
This is why the sleeping bag idea was doomed. Daryl doesn’t do anything halfway once he gives himself permission.
His mouth is everywhere at once — your jaw, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. He kisses like he’s making up for lost time, open-mouthed and relentless, and whatever hesitation he brought upstairs evaporates the second your fingers get in his hair and you pull him back down to you harder.
Your shirt goes first, dragged over your head in a clumsy, breathless tangle that leaves you laughing once into his mouth before he kisses the sound away. Then your bra, and the moment your chest is bare to the cool, stale air his whole expression changes.
He looks wrecked — actually wrecked. Like the sight of you has punched every coherent thought clean out of his head. “Jesus,” he mutters, and then he bends and proves that there is, in fact, no spot on your skin he intends to leave untouched.
You’re the one who shoves him back toward the floor first, guided more by desperation than grace, and he goes with you, landing hard on the old boards with a grunt while you climb over him in one smooth, greedy motion. Your thighs bracket his hips, your hands fisted in his vest, your hair a curtain around both your faces.
For one second he just stares up at you. His hands land on your waist and stay there, thumbs digging in like he’s keeping you from floating away.
The dry humping starts almost by accident. One roll of your hips just to feel him.
One rough exhale from him that says exactly how bad an idea that was.
Then another because it felt so good the first drag.
And another because it was too good to stop.
And suddenly your whole body is lit up, the friction making your thoughts come apart like torched paper. Even through too many layers, it feels devastating—his jeans, your cargos, the heavy shape of him pressing right where you need something and not enough and oh, god.
You drop your forehead to his shoulder and groan. He laughs once, wrecked and breathless, and tips his hips up to meet you.
There it is. That’s enough to make you lose all pride.
“Yeah,” he mutters against your throat, one hand spreading up your back, the other dragging you down harder against him. “That’s it.”
Your lungs abruptly stop working.
Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe it’s the lack of food over a long period of time. Maybe it’s the weeks of wanting finally finding somewhere to go. Whatever it is, you’re dizzy with it in seconds, all the blood in your body rerouted south, burning between your legs so hard it feels cruel.
Daryl’s mouth is at your collarbone now, then lower, then back up, leaving your skin wet and hot and bitten in half a dozen places. You are absolutely going to have hickeys. He seems determined on that point. His mouth keeps finding the same tender places with the concentration of a man signing paperwork.
“You wanna leave marks huh,” you gasp, though it comes out more like an accusation wrapped in a moan.
“Mm,” he says against your breast, entirely unrepentant. “Maybe.”
“You are such a freak.”
“Look who’s talkin’.”
You shove your hand down the front of his jeans and grin at the noise he makes. Not quite a moan — more like someone hit him in the chest with a bat.
There is no dignity left between either of you now. You’ve become a pair of starving animals, and Daryl—who had been trying to pretend he was somehow the composed one—immediately loses that illusion the second your fingers manage to wrap around him.
His head drops back against the floorboards. “Oh, fuck.” He grabs the back of your neck and kisses you so hard your thoughts scatter like birds.
The rhythm gets rougher after that. Needier. And somehow he starts winning, if this is a competition, because his hands are everywhere and yours can’t decide what they want more—his hair, his throat, what’s inside his jeans, under his shirt, all of it at once. You rock down against him again and he actually curses into your mouth, one of his hands gripping your hip so hard it almost hurts.
The room is too hot. Your skin feels feverish. Your breasts are aching from the scrape of his stubble and the drag of his mouth and the way he keeps licking over the marks he leaves like he’s proud of them. You’re so turned on you could combust, one long unbearable pull low in your body, and the friction is so good you can barely think around it.
Which is probably why neither of you hears Maggie the first time.
The second time, what you do hear is her voice drifting up from downstairs, faint through the floorboards. Calling your fucking name.
Your whole body locks. Daryl’s hand stills on your thigh.
You both listen.
Then, louder, Maggie calls your name again: “It’s your watch.”
You close your eyes.
From somewhere below, Rick’s voice cuts in, valiantly trying to save your lives. “Uh—don’t know where she is, I’ll just—”
And then Carl, traitor to the nation, says with perfect sincerity, “I swear I saw her and Daryl go upstairs.”
Your head falls back in pure, cosmic despair.
There is a long silence in which you can actually hear the universe laughing. Then you bury your face in your hands and groan. “Why does God punish me specifically.”
Daryl, who is still painfully, visibly hard under you, drags both hands down his face like he’s trying to peel the frustration off. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
The worst part is that Maggie, bless her, has the decency not to yell again right away. Which somehow makes it worse. Now everyone downstairs is just… aware.
You stay where you are for one extra second out of spite. Then another because your body is refusing to accept the ruling. Daryl’s hand comes up and smooths through your hair, his touch suddenly frustratingly gentle now that the moment’s dead. “You’ll live,” he grumbles.
You lift your head and glare at him. “I don’t think I will. Seriously. This is literally killing me.”
“Walk it off.”
“But I don't want to,” you pout.
He strokes your hair again, because apparently he’s decided if he can’t have you he’ll at least pet you through the disappointment. “We’ll get em’ next time.”
“Yeah, right, I have a better chance of becoming a nun… wait, technically I am a nun now, right? Because I ain't getting any?” That's the only noteworthy part of nunhood anyway.
That gets a real huff of laughter from him, but he’s just as wrecked. “That ain’t how it works.”
His jeans are doing absolutely nothing to hide the huge problem, and the second you notice him trying—badly—to angle himself into something resembling dignity, the giggle escapes you before you can stop it. “Shuddup,” he mutters.
You sit back on his thighs enough to appreciate the full extent of his misery and have to bite your lip not to laugh again.
Downstairs, Maggie calls one more time, now definitely amused. “You comin?”
“Yup!” you yell back, then mutter under your breath, “I fucking wish.”Daryl scoffs, but he definitely agrees with you in spirit.
You reach for your shirt and drag it back on, wrinkled and useless, not even bothering with the bra because what exactly had it done for you besides get removed. You grab your rifle, sling it over one shoulder, then look back at him still sprawled on the floorboards, one hand braced over his eyes, the other very obviously trying to hide the state of him.
It is almost enough to make you stay.
Almost.
You step back over him, lean down and cup his jaw with one hand. He looks up instantly. “I’ll be back later,” you say, because hope is all you’ve got left.
“You better.”
You lean down until your mouths are barely apart. “Kiss me like you’ll miss me, Dixon.”
And boy does he.
His hand comes up behind your head at once, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there while he kisses you slow and filthy enough to make your knees threaten mutiny all over again. It’s not rushed. Not sweet either. Just a deep, furious promise pressed mouth to mouth.
You pull away before you can change your mind and throw your watch shift straight into hell. Then you stand, turn, and stomp downstairs with the exact energy of a child summoned to dinner only to discover it’s mostly green vegetables.
The second you hit the ground floor, every pair of eyes pretends very hard not to be looking at you. That alone tells you everything.
Maggie takes one glance at your flushed face, your slightly wrecked shirt, the absence of Daryl, and has the nerve to look innocent.
You stop dead in front of her and flip her off.
She bites back a smirk.
“Cockblocker,” you mutter.
From across the room, Rick puts both hands over his face.
And somewhere upstairs, floorboards creak under the weight of one very frustrated man reconsidering every choice that brought him here.
—
...You last about thirty minutes.
Thirty heroic, miserable, entirely uneventful minutes of watch, sitting by the front window with your rifle across your lap and your nerves lit up like somebody had shoved a live wire under your skin. Outside, the woods are black and still, the moon caught in the high branches, the road beyond the trees pale as bone. Nothing moves. Nothing groans. Nothing snaps a twig or drags a foot or gives you a single useful excuse to focus on anything other than the fact that Daryl was probably just as frustrated, unfinished, and probably still lying there on that dusty floor with his jeans half-fastened and murder in his heart.
You try to be noble about it. You try to be a helpful asset to the group.
You try very hard not to think about his mouth on your skin, his hand in your hair, the way his eyes had gone all dark and helpless right before Maggie ruined your life.
At minute twenty-eight, you decide that being helpful is overrated.
At minute thirty, you abandon your post like a woman with a mission from God.
Glenn is asleep beside Maggie near the fireplace, his blanket pulled up to his chin, one arm tucked awkwardly under his head. Maggie is curled toward him, dead to the world, and you crouch beside him with the stealth of someone about to commit a felony for the greater good.
“Glenn,” you whisper, barely louder than breath.
Nothing. You poke his shoulder with two fingers.
“Glenn.”
He jerks awake so violently his hand shoots toward his knife, eyes wide and terrified, mouth opening around a strangled noise you smother by clapping your palm in the air like no, no, no, shut up, shut up.
“It’s me,” you hiss. “It’s me. Relax.”
He blinks at you, disoriented, hair smashed on one side and sticking straight up on the other. “What—what happened?”
“I need you to take watch.”
His face slowly empties of panic and refills with suspicion. “Why?”
“…I’m tired,” you croaked. You hadn’t really thought of the reason you were gonna tell him to switch with you. “I’m basically falling asleep over here. You really wanna put the lives of those dearest to you with someone as incompetent as me keeping watch?”
Even in the dark, even half-asleep, even with the world ending around you, Glenn manages to look offended by the quality of your lie. “You woke me up,” he whispers, “to tell me you’re tired?”
“…Yes.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You didn’t.”
“Why are you arguing with me when you could be getting up?”
His eyes narrow. Then something terrible happens: he wakes up the rest of the way. His gaze flicks over you—your flushed face, your hair still a little wild from Daryl’s hands upstairs, the way you keep glancing towards where Daryl was tossing and turning in the corner —and realization crawls over his expression with dawning horror. “Oh.”
You point at him. “Don’t.”
“Oh,” he says again, quieter, worse.
“Glenn.”
“You want me to take your watch so you can—”
“If you finish that sentence, I will wake up Maggie right now and tell her about the time i walked in on you with a porno magazine-”
“ok ok, stop!” he cuts you off. “You barely said you were coming in, and that was before I even met Maggie!”
“I'm sure she would be very interested to know what magazine you were looking at”, you said slyly. For one glorious second, you have him. His eyes widen in betrayal. “You’re bluffing.”
“Please,” you chuckle. “I have done far worse for less.”
He looks genuinely wounded now. “You’re a monster.”
“I am a woman in need of assistance.”
“You are extorting me.”
“Oh cmon -- I am negotiating.”
He drags both hands down his face, careful not to wake Maggie, and breathes out through his fingers.
You reach into your pocket with the grave solemnity of a person cutting off their own arm and pull out your final bargaining chip: three condoms, slightly battered, wrapped in hope and lint.
Glenn’s eyes go to them.
Then to you.
Then back to them.
Your voice drops. “I am willing to sweeten the pot.”
His face does an entire emotional journey in silence: shock, temptation, guilt, temptation again, then the realisation that Maggie would absolutely kill him if he passed up apocalypse contraception out of prudishness. “You’re giving me those?”
“Don’t make me say it twice. It hurts.”
He takes them like you’ve handed him state secrets. Then he immediately looks miserable about the entire arrangement. “Fine. But you owe me.”
“I am literally paying you.”
“You owe me time. Next time Maggie and I need—” He cuts himself off with a pained grimace, like the sentence has teeth. “You know.”
You raise both eyebrows. “Need what?”
His jaw clenches. “…Time alone.”
“Say it properly.”
“No.”
“Glenn.”
“I’m not saying it when you know what I’m asking.”
“If you can’t talk about it, you shouldn’t be doing it.”
He gives you the flattest look he has ever managed. “You talk about it constantly.”
“Exactly,” you whisper, delighted. “Which means I should be doing it constantly. I’m working on that tonight.”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “I hate this conversation.”
“You’re welcome for the sexual maturity seminar.”
He opens one eye. “Go. Before I change my mind.”
You grab his face and press a fat kiss to his cheek with a dramatic mwah sound as he squirms in your iron grip. “You were always my favourite Rhee.”
“Favourite what? Person to swap shifts with?”
“Love ya!”
You leave him there to gather his boots and whatever remains of his dignity, moving through the room on bare, careful feet, stepping over packs and blankets and sleeping bodies. The house has gone quiet in that deep-road way, full of heavy breaths and shifting floorboards, the kind of sleep that isn’t peaceful so much as involuntary.
Daryl is in the corner that the two of you had claimed, half-turned toward the wall, his blanket shoved down around his waist. He looks like he tried to sleep and failed out of spite. His mouth is set even unconscious, brows faintly pinched, one arm folded beneath his head.
You crouch beside him and lay your hand on his shoulder.
He comes awake like a trap snapping shut.
One second still, the next upright, hand already going for his knife, every line of him hard and ready—until his eyes find you. The fight drains out in a single breath, replaced by confusion, then heat, then the memory of you and how you left him. “Wha—”
You press a finger to your lips and nod toward the back door.
His eyes narrow.
You nod again.
And he follows after you - of course he does.
He doesn’t ask questions while you lead him through the sleeping house and out into the summer night. He doesn’t ask when he catches sight of Glenn settling miserably near the front window with your rifle across his knees. He does, however, make a face—a slow, suspicious scrunch of nose and brow that says he is beginning to understand there has been some sort of interaction between you.
You keep walking.
Around the side of the house, past the sagging porch, into the darker line of trees where the moonlight breaks into strips, and the air smells like leaves, dirt, and cooling sweat. It’s not warm exactly, not after midnight, but the chill doesn’t reach you properly. You’re too keyed up. Too alive in your skin. Too full of unfinished business.
When you’re far enough that the house is just a dim block behind the trees, you turn around.
Daryl stops a few paces away.
You kick off one boot. Then the other.
His face goes blank.
Your socks follow. Then your shirt, dragged over your head and dropped without ceremony into the grass. “Swapped shifts with Glenn,” you say, already working at your pants. “Cost me my last condoms and my dignity, but those were on the way out anyway.”
Daryl just stares.
You shove your pants down your legs, step out, and straighten in front of him wearing nothing but the silvered brush of moonlight and the goosebumps rising over your bare skin. The air pebbles your nipples instantly; you resist the instinct to cover yourself because the look on his face is worth the cold. “So,” you continue, as if you’re explaining a perfectly reasonable plan, “we are going to fuck in the dirt like God intended.”
His mouth parts. Nothing comes out. It is possible his braiun shortcircuited.
You tilt your head. “You just gonna stand there like a loser, or are you gonna take your pants off?”
That gets him moving, though he does it like the act pains him. His hands go to his belt, fingers rougher than they need to be, breath already uneven. You cross the space before he’s even got the buckle open, toes sinking into the cool dirt, and catch his mouth in something slow.
At first it’s you setting the pace—soft pressure, tongue teasing, palms sliding up the front of his vest as if you’ve got all night. Then his hand cups the back of your neck and the whole thing changes. He kisses you with a sureness that makes your knees weak, deep and controlled and hungry enough to put an end to every illusion of leadership you were carrying. His other hand slides over your waist, down your hip, shameless and familiar, then between your legs, fingers finding you already slick enough to make his breath hitch against your mouth.
You smile into the kiss, because you feel it. That little stumble in him. “There,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Knew you’d give in eventually.”
He answers by dragging his fingers through you again, slower this time, watching your face like he wants every twitch.
Your words catch, but they don’t stop. They never do when you’re like this. “God I missed your hands,” you murmur, one hand fisting in the front of his vest. “Missed you touching me like you already know what I’m gonna do before I do it.”
His eyes flick up to yours, dark and sharp.
“You do,” you whisper, and the honesty comes out filthy somehow, soft and wrecked. “You know me way too well. You know exactly where to touch, exactly how to make me stupid. Been thinking about it for days - all week, weeks maybe. God, I don’t even know anymore.”
His jaw tightens. His fingers press just right, and you gasp, hips bucking into his hand before you can stop yourself. “That,” you breathe, smiling because he felt it too. “That’s what I mean.”
“Keep talkin’,” he mutters, rough enough to barely be words.
You laugh under your breath. “really does it for you huh?”
His forehead dips to yours. “You’ve no idea.”
That should not hit you as hard as it does. You cup his jaw, kiss him once, then keep going because the way he reacts to your voice is becoming its own kind of intoxication.
“You want me to tell you how bad I’ve needed you?” you whisper. “How many times I almost grabbed you by that damn vest and dragged you behind the nearest tree? How I’ve been lying next to you every night trying not to climb on top of you in front of the whole damn group like some kind of desperate woman with no home training?”
A sound breaks out of him—half laugh, half groan—and then his hands are under your thighs.
He lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, and he carries you a few steps deeper into the trees, mouth returning to yours with enough force to swallow your next breath. Then he lowers you to the ground slowly, one arm behind your back, one hand at your hip, careful even now, even when his whole body is shaking with restraint. The grass is cool under your spine. Dirt presses against your bare shoulder blades, leaves scratching gently at your skin.
He breaks the kiss and starts moving south - and you know exactly where he’s going. “Daryl—”
He ignores the warning in your voice because his mouth is already pressing at your stomach, then your hip, then lower, dragging heat across your skin with each open-mouthed kiss. By the time he settles between your thighs, the last of your patience dies. He latches onto you like he’s doing it for himself, not for you, like this is something he’s been denied and intends to take back with interest.
The gasp that leaves you is so sudden and sharp you don’t know if it came from you or some other equally doomed woman in the woods.
It’s obscene how ready you are for him. How wet. How your body gives him everything immediately, no pride left, no delay. His mouth works you like he’s starving, and the slick sound of it in the quiet dark makes heat rush up your chest and throat. You slap a hand over your own mouth for half a second, then drag it into his hair instead because that feels more useful.
He looks up when you tap his shoulder, eyes heavy and wild, face wet, expression so open it nearly breaks something in you.
“What,” he rasps, and you swore he sounded upset.
“We don’t have time,” you whisper, breathless, already pulling at him. “And honestly, I feel like I’ve been in foreplay for weeks, so it’s not exactly a tragedy if we skip a chapter.”
His mouth twitches, a grin ghosting his face.
You grab his face and pull him up to yours, kissing him hard, tasting yourself on him, using the distraction to work him free from his pants. He lets you, though the sound he makes when your hand closes around him is enough to make your whole body clench.
You guide him between to your cunt, slicking him through the mess he’s made of you, and for one strange, suspended second, your brain expects cruelty.
This is where the dream would cut off. This is where you’d wake gasping and humiliated with nothing but cold ground and frustration.
But you don’t wake. Daryl is still over you. Real. Heavy. Breathing hard. His eyes search your face, one last check, one last silent question. You answer by wrapping your legs tighter around him and pulling him closer.
He pushes in slowly.
The stretch is a sharp, bright thing at first, a scratch of too much after too long without, but underneath it is relief so profound it almost makes your eyes sting. You cling to his huge shoulders, fingers bunching in the worn fabric of his vest, and your whole body seems to open around him in increments, remembering, accepting, aching for the rest.
He stops halfway with a ruined grunt against your neck. You can feel him holding himself back. Feel the tremor in his arms. Feel the breath trapped in his chest because he’s trying to give you time to adjust, because he knows it’s been a while, because no matter how desperate he is, he still knows how to be careful with you.
You cup his face and force him up enough to see you. “Move baby,” you whisper.
His eyes darken, but he still hesitates.
“Please,” you add, softer, but no less wrecked, hand going to his lower neck to urge him forward. “I need you to move. We both need you to move.”
The breath leaves him all at once and his hips rock.
Slow at first. Deep enough to pull a sound from you that barely qualifies as human. It is absurd, the whole scene—your bare body spread out in the dirt beneath a man still sorta-dressed, your ass probably covered in dirt, your hair full of grass, the two of you finally losing your minds in the woods at some ungodly hour because the apocalypse gave you no better bedroom. It should be funny.
It is kinda funny.
It is also the best thing you’ve felt in weeks.
You laugh once, bright and breathless, and it snaps into a squeal when he fills you again, even deeper this time. “Fuck,” you whisper, delighted, overwhelmed. “Oh my god, Daryl. That’s—yes. Jesus it’s so so much better than I remembered.”
You keep talking because you can’t help it, because the words are as much release as the movement. “Godd don’t stop, please don’t stop - just like that,” you whine.
His head drops, mouth finding your shoulder.
“There you are,” you breathe, stroking the back of his head the way you know undoes him, fingers slipping through sweaty hair. “That’s what I missed. You feeling this good. You getting all quiet n shy and serious — like you’re doing important work.”
A rough laugh shakes out of him. “Don’ worry - ain’t stoppin’ for nobody.” He huffs against your skin, but his hips aim up in answer, and the new angle steals your breath clean out of your chest. “Oh—shit—yes, that. Baby, that’s it.”
He changes pace — the hand under your head slides higher, cupping your skull, lifting you so he can watch your face. It’s devastatingly intimate in the middle of all this dirt and desperation, his thumb brushing once over your cheekbone while the rest of him drives into you with a focus that borders on feral. Your own hand drops from his hair to the back of his neck, holding him there, keeping his eyes on yours even when yours start to blur.
The tease you’ve been living in for weeks has been all sharp edges and unmet need, a painful little ache with nowhere to go. This is different. This is warm. Heavy. Eye-watering. A relief so deep it feels almost serene under the fever of it, like your body has finally stopped bracing against absence and remembered how to soften around him.
You try to press your lips together to stay quiet, and he sees it. Sees your eyes roll back, sees your face go slack with pleasure you can’t hide, and something in him visibly snaps. “Missed that,” he breathes, so low you almost don’t catch it. “Missed seein’ you like this.”
Your legs are useless around him now, loose and shaking, swaying with every powerful thrust. His grip on your hips and ass is bruising, pulling you down to meet him, making sure nothing between you is wasted. The pressure is building fast—his body grinding just right, cock bullying the same bright place over and over until your fingers claw at his vest and your breath turns ragged.
You get maybe five seconds of warning. “Darylll,” you gasp. “I think I’m—”
He hears it and groans like it hurts. “Yeah?”
“I’m—fuck, m'cumming—”
It washes over you so hard your body bows under him. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and you were no exception - fuck, you missed Daryl-induced orgasms. Your whole body lights up into fireworks like it's the Fourth of July. You swear you died and went to fucking heaven because all you remember is your vision turning to spots and hearing a muffled sound similar to your own, but also not far from a dying animal being smothered. You manage to muffle most of the sound against his mouth, but not all of it, and he swallows what he can while your whole body goes taut, then liquid, then shaking in waves. It is messy and intense and impossible to hide from, literally - it's like a waterpark between your legs and Daryl is front seat in the splash zone.
Thank god you warned him because he doesn’t last much longer after that, not with how long it’s been. Not with your legs locked around his waist and your hips still chasing him through the aftershocks like your body hasn’t had enough sense to stop. He swears he hears you whisper inside, but he can't be sure if that's you or the twisted voice in his head.
He has no zero chance of pulling out - your legs are locked and sealed around him, and from the way his breath breaks, he knows it. And secretly, he is grateful because he isn’t sure he is strong enough to leave your warmth
Brother just accepts his fate, buries his face in your neck, and lets go with a low, strangled sound that vibrates through your skin. His hips stutter once, twice, and he finally cums with balls flushed to your ass, and the next thing you feel is warmth flooding your insides. You hold him through it, grinning like an idiot, your hands gentler now, one in his hair and one between his shoulder blades, feeling the tremors move through him until his weight slumps over you.
For a while, neither of you moves.
The woods breathe around you. Bugs hum. The dirt is cool under your back. His chest is warm and solid against yours, his breath damp against your throat. Your heart slows in pieces. Your brain, which has been unavailable for several minutes, returns just enough to observe that you are naked in the grass, sticky, dirty, probably bitten by several insects (including Daryl), and happier than you have been in weeks.
Daryl shifts enough to keep from crushing you but does not pull away. One hand smooths over your hair, picking out a leaf with grave concentration. “Still mad atcha,” he mutters eventually.
You laugh weakly. “Funny way of showing it.”
He lifts his head just enough to glare at you. It is much less effective with his hair in his eyes and his body still softening inside you.
“You pull that shit again for a can of beans, I ain't gonna come getcha.” Ohh he’s so full of shit.
“The beans fed us.”
“You almost fed them.”
You smile and stroke his cheek with the backs of your fingers. “But I didn’t.”
His look says he has aged six years since sundown. “Gonna be the death’a me.”
“You keep saying that,” you murmur. “And yet, here you are. Very alive. Very accomplished.” He drops his forehead to yours and huffs a laugh despite himself.
Then a voice drifts from the direction of the house, careful and carrying through the trees with the exact tone of a man doing his absolute best not to picture anything. “Hey, guys?”
You and Daryl freeze.
Glenn clears his throat from somewhere mercifully far away. “Not looking. Not looking ok! Just, uh… just warning you, Carl’s switching over soon, and I really don’t want him to be scarred.”
You close your eyes.
Daryl groans into your shoulder like a wounded animal.
There’s a pause.
Then Glenn adds, faintly shell-shocked, “Also… wow, you guys really make alot of noise”
“Glenn!” you hiss. Daryl straightened up so he could conceal your body mody more with his. “No one asked ya ta listen man.”
“Hey Daryl — and I wasnt,” he calls back immediately. “Believe me i wish i could unhear it,”
Daryl lifts his head just enough to mutter, “I’m gonna kill him.”
“You cannot kill him, he’s keeping watch,” you whisper. “We owe him condoms.”
Daryl stills, and very slowly, he looks at you. “You owe him what.”
You smile with all the innocence left in your body, which is none. “Negotiations were fierce.”
He stares at you for one beat, two, then drops his face into your neck and starts laughing so quietly his shoulders shake. And for the first time in weeks, really and fully, you feel the road loosen its teeth.
——
Morning comes softer than it has any right to. The house still looks half-haunted in daylight, all peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards and dust lifting lazily through the beams of sun, but it smells like breakfast now, which makes even the rot in the corners feel less committed to the bit. Someone has coaxed a thin pot of oats into existence with water, a handful of salvaged raisins, and the kind of optimism only starvation can produce. It is not good, exactly, but it is hot, and hot counts for a lot.
The group moves in that sluggish, post-sleep shuffle of people who know they have to pack up but are trying to pretend the road doesn’t exist yet. Bedrolls get shaken out. Weapons are checked. Canteens are passed around and refilled from the precious little water you have left. Glenn is at the window, very determinedly looking anywhere except directly at you, which is unfortunate for him because his ears go pink every time he accidentally catches your eye.
Daryl, on the other hand, has apparently woken up possessed.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a throw you over his shoulder and announce ownership to the room way, but still. For Daryl, this is practically a parade.
He is everywhere.
Leaning into your space while you sit against the wall. Passing you a cup of water and letting his fingers linger a second too long around yours. Brushing past your shoulder even though there is plenty of room. Standing behind you with one hand braced on the wall above your head while he pretends to listen to Rick discuss the route. It’s not showy, not enough for anyone to call him on it without sounding nosy, but you feel every inch of it. The quiet gravity of him. The warmth at your back. The way his hand lands at your hip and slides just a little lower than it usually would in front of everybody before he seems to remember himself and stills there, stubbornly refusing to move it back up.
“You’re being sweet this morning,” you smile at him, voice syrupy. He tells you to shut up - true love everybody. And then ruins the denial by brushing his thumb over your lower back as he turns away.
Across the room, Carol’s mouth twitches into a smile she hides behind her cup.
Maggie drops down beside you a few minutes later with her own bowl balanced between her knees and the kind of look that says she has decided to make your morning worse. She glances over you once—your rumpled shirt, your hair still not quite free of leaves, the dirt smudged behind your knee despite your best attempt at washing up in the cold—then raises her eyebrows. “You’re a little dirtier than your usual filth.”
You nearly choke on your oats. “Good morning to you too.”
“It is.” Her eyes flick to your neck. “For some more than others, looks like.”
You slap a hand over the spot too late.
Daryl, from beside you, pretends that it’s none of his business.
Maggie bites down on a smile. “Relax. Most of us are pretending not to notice.”
“Most of you?”
She tips her head toward Glenn, who immediately busies himself with a strap on his pack as if it has become the most fascinating object in the known universe.
You narrow your eyes. “Your husband has keen ears, I’ll give him that.”
“Its a gift and a curse,” Maggie says, voice dropping into a whisper that turns wicked around the edges. “And thanks, by the way.”
Your eyes widen, and she takes a calm bite of breakfast.
You stare at her. “Did he—”
“No details,” she says at once, holding up a hand. “I accepted the goods. I did not ask about what he did to get them.”
“yeah well not that you desrve it,” you say, covering your face with one hand. “You’re still a traitor for ratting me out yesterday”
Maggie pats your knee with deep, sisterly cruelty. “You look happier.”
You peek at her through your fingers. “Do I?”
“Oh yeah. You’re practically glowing and I think I know why,” she said, looking over to Daryl who was scoffing over his porridge.
You try to glare, but it dissolves almost instantly, because she’s right and you both know it. The awful tightness that had been sitting under your ribs for weeks is gone, or at least loosened. The world is still ruined. You are still hungry. Your feet still hurt. You still have no idea what the next road will do to you.
But your skin feels like yours again.
Your breathing feels easier.
And when Daryl settles behind you, one knee bracketing your side, and silently takes your bowl from your hand to scrape another spoonful of oats into it, your chest does something painfully soft.
Maggie watches this with shining eyes and the tiniest possible smirk.
You point your spoon at her. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking too loud.”
Daryl hands the bowl back to you, fuller than before, then stays close enough that his thigh presses against your shoulder. His fingers brush your hair once, picking out a tiny piece of grass with grave concentration.
Tara, who has clearly been waiting for an opening from the other side of the room, leans over her pack with a grin. “So, since we’re all alive and emotionally renewed this morning—hypothetically—if there was a gallon of water at the bottom of a ravine, would you jump for it?”
You pause with the spoon halfway to your mouth.
“Sorry,” Tara corrects herself. “What I meant was how long would it take you to jump for it?” A couple of people in the group chuckle - we’ve got ourselves a comedian over here.
Then you squint at her as the suggestion has personally offended your new, evolved spirit.
“The fuck would i do that for?” you ask. “That sounds insane.”
The room goes quiet for one delicate second, as if the group needed time to process that it was actually you who saud that and not some clone.
"Holy shit," Tara points at you with both hands. “She’s cured.”
“I am indeed a changed woman,” you say solemnly, sitting a little straighter. “A woman of wisdom. A woman of restraint. A woman who would maybe send someone else after the water first… like Glenn.”
Glenn puts his arms out, as if saying the hell did I do?
Daryl scoffs, still fiddling with the back of your hair, which seems to have replaced his nail biting.
“Progress,” Michonne says, dry as dust, though there’s the barest curve at the corner of her mouth.
“Temporary,” Rick mutters, but there’s warmth in it now, faint and reluctant, as his gaze drifts from you to Daryl and back again.
You see the exact moment the pieces start arranging themselves behind his eyes. The second helping Daryl has silently bullied into your bowl. The way he’s settled behind you, legs bracketing your sides, one arm slung low around your waist like he’s pretending to be casual and failing with his entire body. The way you, for the first time in days, are not vibrating like a bowstring pulled too tight.
Daryl catches the change in you instantly and lifts his head. “What?”
“Nothing,” Rick says, too quickly.
Daryl narrows his eyes. “Don’t sound like nothin’.”
“I said nothing.”
Without looking up from your bowl, you point your spoon at Daryl. “Leave Rick alone. He’s respecting boundaries.”
Rick gives you the flattest look a man can give while holding porridge.
You smile sweetly back at him. “See? Growth all around. We’re sorting out a lot of things today.”
Behind you, Daryl goes very still for half a second. Then his mouth dips close to your ear, his voice low enough that it brushes right under your skin. “M’down to sort it out again.”
You elbow him lightly in the ribs, but you’re smiling too hard for it to land with any real force. “Shut up.”
“What?” His hand tightens briefly at your hip, smugness bleeding into his whisper. “Rick said we had to sort it out.”
“Pretty sure he didn’t mean traumatize Glenn.”
From across the room, Glenn says, without turning around, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Daryl calls back, deadpan.
Glenn drops his head into his hands. Maggie laughs so hard she has to set her bowl down before she spills it, and even Rick’s stern-leader face cracks around the edges.
That is, of course, the exact moment Carl wanders back in from outside, rubbing sleep from one eye, hair smashed on one side. The whole room goes abruptly, suspiciously normal in a way that is not normal at all.
Carl stops in the doorway and looks around. “Why’s everyone weird?”
“No reason,” six people say at once.
He stares at all of you for a few seconds, deeply unimpressed and far too young to be trusted with silence. Then his gaze lands on you and Daryl, still tucked together in your corner, and his brow furrows with sudden, earnest concern.
“Is it because you and Daryl went hunting in the middle of the night and didn’t get anything?”
Glenn makes a strangled noise into his sleeve.
Carl looks around, bewildered by the reaction. “There’s plenty of porridge,” he continues, like he’s trying to comfort two grieving providers. “You guys bring enough food in as it is. It’s not fair that people are upset just because you couldn’t find anything this one time.”
You stare at him. Then, very slowly, you put a hand over your heart.
“Thank you, Carl,” you say, voice trembling with false emotion. “That means more than you know.”
Daryl’s knee shifts under your hand; you can feel him trying not to laugh, which only makes you worse.
“We work night and day,” you continue, your hand sliding dramatically onto Daryl’s knee, “not afraid to get our hands dirty, not afraid to brave the woods alone, all to provide for this family. And yes, maybe in some ways last night was… fruitless.”
Glenn scoffs at that, clearly disagreeing with that statement, while Maggie buries her face in her hands. You keep going, because now that you’ve started, dignity is dead, and you are dancing on its grave. “But we gave it everything we had. Didn’t we, Daryl?”
Daryl has both hands over his face now, shoulders shaking. Whether from laughter, embarrassment, or the profound desire to sink through the floor, it’s hard to tell. You stroke his back with solemn tenderness. “Look at him. He can’t even speak, he's so broken up about it.”
“Stop,” Glenn wheezes.
“I only hope,” you say, lifting your spoon like a preacher before a ruined congregation, “that someday you can all find it in your hearts to forgive us.”
Rick finally loses the battle. A laugh slips out before he can stop it, rough and tired and real. He points his spoon at you, trying and failing to look stern. “Shut up and finish your breakfast,” he says, still laughing under his breath. “We leave in half an hour.”
The room breaks open around that—not too loud, not reckless, but real. A laugh here, a groan there, Tara clapping Glenn on the shoulder, Rick pretending not to smile and failing by a mile. It’s stupid and mortifying and warm in a way you’d forgotten mornings could be. Even the road waiting outside feels less like a punishment and more like something you might survive because you are not walking into it hollow anymore.
When breakfast is done, and the packing finally becomes unavoidable, you stand and brush dust from your jeans, only for your knees to give the tiniest, traitorous wobble. It is barely anything. Practically imaginary. Unfortunately, Daryl notices because Daryl notices everything about you when it is inconvenient. You lean close enough to murmur, "You may have slowed me down today, but honestly, I’m not even mad.”
His ears go red so fast you feel victorious for the next ten minutes.
Outside, the day waits bright and mean, the road stretching beyond the trees like it always has, indifferent and hungry. Packs go on. Weapons settle into familiar places. Rick checks the map one last time. The group begins to move in that tired, practiced formation that has kept you alive this long.
You think about the warehouse, the beans, the roof, the hunger. You think about the prison, the dream, the grass under your back, Glenn’s traumatised little voice from the dark. You think about the full bellies, softer shoulders, Daryl’s mouth at your ear, laughing against your skin, and what's to come next.
You slide your hand into his for exactly three steps, where no one can really see. His thumb strokes once over your knuckles before he lets go, because public affection still has its limits and Daryl Dixon is still Daryl Dixon, even freshly sorted out.
Whatever there is next waiting around the corner on the road, you know you'll sort that out too - one way or another.
"You are too tight", those were the first words Rin growled into your ear after he had slipped into you. "Are you even horny right now?"
You whined at his dismissive tone as if he was annoyed you weren't as much into it as he was. "Yes, Rinnie, look I am so wet" His hand went down grazing your lip with his finger and it came back dripping.
Somehow he still didn't seem happy, eyebrows furrowed into a frown. "This doesn't make any sense" "It's alright, baby, you're like really hot so I am super turned on"
You could see a blush - the perfect pink shade - appearing on his grumpy face. He eventually started moving his hips, but it were soft grinds against your twitching lower body, because everything else would've made him cum in an instant. And even the grinding had him already pathetically groaning and whimpering into your ear.
After a while he also started thrusting into you and thank god his head was buried in the crook of your neck, because Rin did not want you to see how his eyes rolled back at the sensation of you clamping down on him. He closed his eyes feeling every drag of his veins cock along your walls.
You being so damn wet, that it even coated his thighs, did not make it any better. Everything was so hot and slippery and everytime his bruised tip hit something inside you, it felt like a wave of shock through his whole body.
Rin actually lasted way longer than he had expected, now lazily thrusting into your cunt, angling his hips to hit that spot that made you whimper and dig your nails into his broad back.
"Rinnie, I am cumming" He didn't think much of it at first, you'd cum and after he'd finish as well, but holy shit.
You clamped the shit down at him, milking everything out of him so bad it had his bottom lip stuttering, his balls twitching and him subconsciously pressing his hips flush against yours not leaving any space between your cervix, feeling the cum sprut out of him into your warm womb.
cause of you I'm thinking of werewolf!husband achingly humping into reader's pillow while he waits for her to pay the delivery guy for the pizza they forgot they ordered, only for her to be fucked to oblivion when she comes back to bed because he got so pent up with jealousy from overhearing the friendly convo she and the poor minimum wage dude had
MASTERLIST(S) | WEREWOLF HUSBAND TAG | INBOX ✉
@richeeduvie <3 i hope i did you n all werewolf lovers proud. warnings include (monster) smut, fem!reader, language, possessiveness, jealousy, bodily fluids, teeny pit of ass play, panty ripping, no size indicated (werewolf is just bigger than you lol); mdni. word count is 1.9k ⋆｡°✩
forgot that you'd ordered pizza was an understatement. you blame werewolf husband's tongue. it's got superpowers.
at first he doesn't wanna let you go. there's spit all over your lips and chin from the way he's been lapping at your mouth in-between kisses. as usual, he's naked and a little sweaty, having tugged you toward where he's halfway on his side and rutting his cock into the cotton of your shirt.
"wolfie, we can't just leave them out there. we gotta pay."
the reminder means nothing to your werewolf husband, who just grinds into you harder. nudging his cock right into your clothed belly, close enough to coming to make his legs shake.
"just throw one'a our wallets out the window and tell 'em to leave it on the steps. we're busy," he grunts, swiping some of his slobber from your chin and reaching past your belly to dig his fingers inside the center of your panties and mix it with the slick. he rubs upwards, dragging the touch right over your clit before removing his hand to press and wiggle the pad of his thumb into the swollen nub from over the thin material.
that almost gets you. almost.
you distract him with a few scratches against his hairy pecs long enough to wriggle out of his unknowingly-loosened grip. he does even realize your slinking away from him until his tongue slips out of your mouth, and his cock meets cold air.
"i'll be, like, two minutes. five at most," you promise, hastily searching for a pair of shorts to throw on to the sound of a second doorbell ring. at the same time, the two of you shout:
"be right there!"
"just leave it and go!"
you throw a loose sock in the werewolf's direction, accidentally snickering when it lands right on his face. as you scurry out, your husband just sulks in his surrendered groan, stretching his entire body at an angle that takes up the entire mattress and bobs his cock helplessly in the air.
huffing, again, he yanks your pillow from behind his head and shoves it against the underside his shaft. at least it smells like you. the feel is off though. understandably so. but he only rocks his hips harder. arching from the bed and thinking about you tonguing his sack.
since when did you start liking pizza so badly? you could be up here folded up like a pretzel or riding his face sloppy style. milking loads that pulse out to the rhythm of your name. squirting squirt he would rather soon drown in then have you away from him like this. all the way at the front door.
through all the pants and rushing blood, werewolf husband hears a "thank you so much, keep the change" that makes him pause.
it's you.
giggly and… kind.
quick but in that tone that will have the wolf wrapped around your finger, the one he should be sucking on right now, for the the rest of his life.
his balls tighten at the clunk of a shutting door. listening harder, your husband sniffs past the smell of tomato and cheese. swallowing at the sound of your footsteps trailing into the kitchen, then back toward the bedroom.
your arrival snatches a rough sniff from the wolf.
no way those shorts were that tight when you left the room, he would've noticed. and you nipples, they're… they're loud. exceptionally visible through your old shirt… which also happens to be dirtied at the cropped belly with stains of smeared precum. the skin of your stomach is showing and your lips are swollen and the side of your chin is still all shiny with a spot of werewolf drool.
oh, jesus.
"fuck me," your husband mumbles, thick and from the back of his throat. he watches you peel off the shorts and messy shirt but leave on the underwear. apparently wanting him dead
"see, told you. few minutes," you breathe out, scratching at the back of your neck and dropping the clothes onto the floor. "he was nice, too."
pizza man was nice, huh? that's… nice.
the wolf hums something low, pillow forgotten to watch you crawl onto the bed and back next to him. doing a little stretch before curling toward him to press slow kisses into his jaw. the only part of him that moves is his dick. jumping a few times at the feeling of your lips on him.
"was he now?"
"mmhm," you nod, nosing at the thick hair of his beard with more kisses. your hand reaches for his ear to catch one of his ear lobes with your fingers and tug. "said they were crazy busy tonight, and how it's only him and another driver. poor things."
poor things. like that weird ass movie you made him watch.
werewolf husband finally moves. he drags his eyes to yours and doesn't stop looking, staring hard as he rolls on top of you. you're talking and talking, and he just watches. mushing you between the bed now, rubbing the side of your face with his palm.
he doesn't wait until you're done to kiss you. in the middle of your fifth sentence, he's sinking his mouth onto yours and gliding his tongue past your lips.
while you kiss, his shoulders get tight. tight enough for you to pull yourself from the snog with a pinched brow.
"wolfie?"
"hm?"
"…are you okay?"
his eyes search you face, harder this time. after a deep breath, he pecks your nose and then lulls you onto your stomach.
"budge up a bit, baby," the wolf orders in a quiet voice with a grab of your hip to lift your waist. "little more… good."
nice.
you arch until your ass is poked up and out, arms folded accordingly to squish your cheek against. a sudden pressure against your clit tumbles a broken, whining moan from you. it's his thumb mashing the material of your panties into where you're all slippery through the fabric.
"shh, shh, shh," he peppers out when you start a desperate wiggle backwards, lightening the touch of his finger enough to make you pout. "i know, sugar."
from above, he takes another second to look at you. inhale until his lungs are full of your scent, and slowly rip the last barrier between you and he. the panties tear with a loud, stretching rip that you don't get a chance to react to before the head of your husband's cock is giving heavy, wet smacks against your ass.
what? you made him wait. it's only fair considering how good he's about to fuck you. well enough to you'll forget the nice pizza man.
"wolfie." a whimper from you, plus another squirm. he sees your asshole and slit clench at the same time, and grins.
"what's all this about, hm?" he dips his tip, only a little, into your pussy. just enough to make sure you feel it. "is it really pizza that gets my sweet thing all messy like this?"
he swipes his head again, only to growl at the pool of your juices that collect on his cock.
you were damn near leaking through your short shorts down there while talking to the pizza man. getting pizza.
the slide in is purposefully sluggish. a slow push of his hips forward with his hands keeping you from shoving back like your body keeps trying to do.
"aht aht. we'll get there… soon as you gimme a good please," the wolf rumbles out, voice a little strained when he laughs at the fast begs that exit you. laced with tears, you ask and plead with your husband.
betcha said please to the pizza man, too. he's not sure when or how, but you probably found a way. you're sweet like that.
the wolf's head throws back once he's all the way inside. you're squeezing so tight. warming him up already and almost making him forget what he's dragging this out for.
oh, right.
the pizza and its man.
your husband solidifies the hands on your waist. filling his palms with the plush blowing a breath with puffed out cheeks. there's a little sweat in his eyes, cause you make him hot, but all he cares about is the noise that crawls out of you at his first thrust.
he makes sure to go deep. deep and angled so that you're already starting to cream around him by the fifth thrust.
"w-wolfie–ah, fuck. yeah," your mouth pours out, clutching the sheets around your hands you as best you can, jaw hanging at each smack of his skin against yours.
there's a bit of green in werewolf husband's stroke. it knocks his balls, heavier-looking than normal due to all this waiting, back and forth with wild, sloppy swings. the green blinds him a bit, too, tunneling his vision until all he sees is you reaching backward to feel his side–
mm-mm. no, no. all you did was reach for the guy, and he's breaking already. what've you done to him?
"stomach," werewolf husband orders. "on your tummy, baby. like before."
he doesn't pull out when giving you a long enough second to shuffle off your knees and into the bed. he's laughably quick in following your movement, sinking himself balls deep inside you and sagging until you're slurring those words. he wraps an arm around your until his bicep is close enough for you to mush you mouth into, and you shiver out a fresh string of curses.
"oh, theeere it is, that's it." the wolf purrs his victory just over your ceaseless wails. "tha's what i was lookin' for."
"s'd-deep," you wheeze, clutching the arm at your face. you can feel him everywhere. from the inside out, then back around once more. the pump of his thrusts are keeping you unable to form any true sentences. all that leaves you is drool and one-to-two word, breathless communications. "i… i… feels–oh, god."
"am i deep, baby? you feel me nice 'n deep in there?"
"mmhm," you try to bob your head but it just slicks your lips against his wet skin as your body jerks according to his bounce of his hips.
"mmhm," he echoes, lip bit in a heated concentration, other hand spreading against the bed for more leverage. his ass, built up by long nights of running after prey in his younger days, is a sight to behold from behind. in all his rutting, you husband finds another grinding pattern to fuck you with that gets you louder. earns him another polish of moisture to ring around the base of his cock. rolls his eyes and tugs out the words that have been swirling around his head. "nice 'n deep in my pussy. mine. s'just fer me t'fuck like this long as we want…"
dinner is a long lost cause. neither of you even remember how to spell the word 'pizza' after your fifth peak, his fourth. you're still oozing dollops of the wolf's thick, thick seed while you teeter between an exhausted wake and irresistible sleep.
you barely move when he hauls his weak limbs until his face is back between your legs, tugging your cheeks apart to cup his tongue and swipe wide licks all the way up to your asshole. it curls in a way you've never been able to figure out, twisting in messy slurps.
Kkovenn’s Kinktober 2025 (Ao3) - Cockwarming, Distracted Sex || Word Count: 10,540
General Masterlist | Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
TAGS: service top!frank, frank and reader are engaged to each other, mentions of wedding planning, sex as stress relief, frustration from r because of distractions, faux choking (franks hand on reader's throat without any pressure), accidental and unintentional edging, reader takes a while to come, some shame abt it but frank dispels the thought, reader throws a hissy fit but frank handles it best he can and hes a good sport abt it, 2 pussy pronouns im sorry, mating press, clean up and aftercare yay
Frank is a surprisingly active participant of wedding planning, but not necessarily for the details. He’s more of a schedule guy, the one that makes sure the two of you get to all the meetings, tastings and test runs. He’s the one that allots mental energy for remembering dates, meeting times, and the subsequent travel times it takes to get there and organizing them on a schedule.
He’s also the calmer one between the two of you when you start to get too into everything that could go wrong.
So far, it’s been tiring. Truly. Nearly half a year of your weekends and after work days being occupied with planning. Half a year and still neither of you have decided whose side Karen is going to participate in within your mixed gender bridesmaids and groomsmen because you two met her at arguably the same time in your lives.
Half a year of feeling like you’re in and out of the wringer, the only thing making it worth it being the thought of the success of the event itself, the excitement for the coffee flavored wedding cake, and the fact that you were one of the luckier ones to have your fiancé be so involved in the process of wedding preparation.
Half a year in, and you finally break.
—
Friday. Your solo drive home from work is quiet, music on low. Work had been incessantly overstimulating, so much so that even enjoyable stimuli was just too much.
You’re looking forward to getting home and being in your lover’s arms, having a nice hot shower together, good food, good company, maybe some well deserved lovemaking to get you to sleep (if you both don’t pass out first, you’ve no idea of the kind of day Frank’s had, but you’re tired for sure) and then wake up to the weekend well past noon.
Perfect. You’re desperate for a recharge. Just two days of nothing but rest and recuperation and you’ll be half ready for the week after that. It’ll be enough to get you by.
You even made sure to crunch and finish some extra deadlines at work early, just so you get to pretend to work on them when you get back in the office on Monday next week.
You get home first, Frank’s van absent from the garage. No matter. The moment you unlock the door to your shared home and lock it again (as per his insistent requests), you’re practically already stripping yourself of your work clothes, dumping them by the bathroom floor.
You shoot Frank a text that you’re in the shower and extend an invitation for him to join once he gets home. You don’t bother waiting for his reply before you jump straight in and turn on the water.
The first breath you take as the water hits your skin feels special despite the mundanity of the act. It’s the kind of shower you wish could seep into your spine, but hot water can only make you feel so warm without making you feel like you’re singeing off your skin.
You immerse yourself into the act of just standing under the spray for a long, long while, not registering the opening of the bathroom door.
“Sweetheart?”
Your eyes open. Frank’s here. You didn’t even hear the main door unlock. You see the blur of his silhouette through the shower curtain. He’s standing by the door.
“Hi, Frankie.” You smile to yourself, inching the curtain open slightly behind you, then letting yourself take a quick peek.
“I uh, got your text.” He shucks off his jacket, brows raised, waiting for more confirmation in case you’d changed your mind.
Cute. You can’t help the chuckle that leaves you. “So why are you still out there and not in here?”
He grins at your reply, lifting off his shirt and undoing his belt to take off his pants. That’s all the confirmation he needs.
—
You end up just hugging Frank in the shower once he enters, and admittedly, he may have misread the mood. (Not that shared showers without sex were uncommon for both of you, he’d just been anticipating getting on his knees to get you off, relieve some of your stress.)
Regardless, he holds you in return, content just to spend time with you in such close proximity. “Long day?” He asks.
“Yeah.” You angle your head for a kiss and he responds in kind, pressing his lips to yours. His hands move to your tailbone, pressing his fingers into the divots in small circles.
Heavenly. It’s so fucking good coming home to Frank who knows how to touch you, knows how to soothe with his gentle strength, knows how to translate how well he understands you into action. You hug him tighter and he relishes in the way you melt into him and groan.
“How about you?” You ask, cheek pressed into his chest.
“Eh, th’ usual.” He shrugs. Not being in an office made for less eventful workdays, he’s found. He might also just be lucky that this new crew at the jobsite was full of people who minded their own business most of the time.
“What’d you want f’r dinner? Meatballs or chicken alfredo?” He offers options as he continues his massage because he can tell the last thing you want is yet another decision on your mind, but he still wants your preferences considered.
You make your choice as Frank squeezes some shampoo onto his hands, massaging it into your scalp. You busy yourself with lathering soap onto his skin, which was totally not just an excuse to get your hands all over his chest.
The shower ends with the two of you towelling off each other’s hair, and you emerge from the bedroom to one of your favorite nightgowns on the bed, old and worn in, fabric softened by use. Beside it was a pair of panties as well. The garments likely placed here the moment Frank got home and before he entered the shower with you. Your lover makes no mention of the silent acts of service, instead, he’s already left the room after putting on a shirt and a pair of sweats, beelining for the kitchen to prep dinner.
You soak it all in with another deep inhale, towel still wrapped around you, alone in your shared bedroom. Just like that, the day’s pace had slowed completely from it’s earlier hectic rhythm. You didn’t have to do everything on your own anymore. Not for a long time. Not as long as Frank’s around.
Frank has a knack for calming you down like it’s as simple as breathing.
—
Your fiancé has a sauce going in a pot when you emerge from the bedroom. You go straight to making drinks.
“We don’t have anything scheduled for tomorrow, right?” You ask. If there was, Frank would’ve mentioned it by now. He manages to be more on top of the schedule than you are.
Not that you aren’t keeping track on your own calendar. Still, it doesn’t hurt to confirm.
Frank’s licking off his thumb when he turns to you, taste testing the sauce from the ladle. “Nothin’ f’r tomorrow, sweetheart. Y’can sleep in.”
You let out a faux whispered, bodily exaggerated ‘yes!’ that endears him as he works on the food on the stove.
“Try this.” He blows air gently onto a spoonful of sauce before presenting it to you.
Frank is a good cook even though he’s the kind that doesn’t measure, just trial and error, small adjustments each time until he gets it as delicious as he can manage. You hum once the flavor hits your tastebuds.
“It’s good.” You hum up at him, kissing his cheek. He receives your affection with a small grin as he turns off the stove and starts making two plates.
“Y’know…” You start. “Having nothing scheduled for tomorrow also means we can spend more time together later tonight.” You hint at him, batting your lashes when the two of you meet at the dining table.
Frank knows that look, he gets it often, and he considers himself one lucky bastard for it. “Yeah? Need a little somethin’ t’help you sleep, huh?”
He sits down beside you, and the mischief apparent on your face, coupled with the way you press your cheek into his shoulder as you nod, begets your answer.
—
Dinner passes at its regular pace even with your proposition for sex later that night. Frank isn’t really the type to horse around when the matter came to food. Meanwhile, you’re just basking in the experience of being able to express wanting sex without a man immediately wanting to rush into it like a shark smelling blood.
You’re at home here. At home with Frank. You love it.
By the time 8pm rolls around, the plates are in the dishwasher, kitchen and dining area clean. The two of you take turns brushing your teeth by the bathroom sink and freshening up.
Frank has you on his lap in bed by 8:15. He’s shirtless, gone commando in his sweats. His hands are under your nightgown, petting your thighs, lips pressing against yours in open-mouthed kisses.
“I’ve missed you all week.” You sigh, melting into the way Frank slowly locks your lips together.
“Mm, missed you too, sweetheart.” He noses along the junction of your neck, pressing his lips to your skin every once in a while. “Don’t think I’ve ever clocked out faster in my life when I saw y’r text. Needed that shower with y’real bad.” Frank chuckles.
This week was especially packed for some reason, there being genuinely no day from the past six days that didn’t entail a call or a meeting with your wedding planners and suppliers.
All that, on top of both your full time jobs, was nothing if not draining the life out of you. The two of you barely had time to indulge in each other past the usual routine of dinner together and five minutes of TV before succumbing to sleep.
It was reassuring to hear that Frank needed you the same way you needed him right now.
You smile tiredly at his words, eyes closing as Frank’s hands move back over your clothes, cupping your chest to thumb circles on your nipples. “Ah… mm—” He meets your lips in another kiss, making your body run even warmer.
A string of saliva separates you two when you part, your own hands squeezing Frank’s biceps.
“Was ready to get down on my knees in the shower and eat y’out.” He confesses. “Help my girl relax after a long week.”
You let out an amused hum, face flushed, lips bitten. That did sound amazing, but you had a different order for your mental itinerary.
“I can’t say I’m not a fan of that…” You chuckle. “But I wanted to finish everything first.” You feel Frank’s hand cup your cheek, and you respond by leaning into it and placing your own hand over the back of his. “So there won’t be anything left to interrupt us.”
“Yeah, figured.” He replies, tilting his head to the side with this tender gaze, simply admiring your features. He smiles, closes his eyes briefly when you lean in at kiss the bridge of his nose.
“Y’got any ideas, sweetheart?” He asks, looking up at you again, tone low, thumbs now circling your hips over your loose clothing. “I’ll make ‘em happen.”
Frank likes it when you get to choose how he gets to touch you.
Warmth spreads through your body at the question. Regardless, you did have a position in mind, your back to Frank’s chest, his hands all over your body, legs spread over his strong thighs while you’re impaled on his cock.
Your mouth waters at the thought.
“Yeah.” You reply.
He watches you as you turn, quick to realize the position you’re going for, hands hovering under your forearms in case you lose balance. You sit yourself on Frank’s lap in the exact way you’d imagined and he pulls you close to him.
“You like this position a lot, don’tcha?” He murmurs from behind you.
Your spine tingles from the sound of your lover’s voice. You’re flustered as you reply, as if caught doing something you shouldn’t be. “I like when you hold me.”
“That right?” He kisses along the side of your neck, humming when you tilt your head to accomodate the action. “Want me to fuck you just like this, huh?”
Your hips grind down on his lap at the thought he proposes. “Yes.” You look up at him. “Please.”
“Alright, baby.” He coos. “Relax f’me.”
He noses along the base of your neck, grunting in satisfaction when you grab him by the wrists to move his hands, one at your clothed core and the other at your chest.
“Attagirl.” He can’t help but groan. There’s nothing Frank loves more than when you tell him what you want so directly.
He hikes your nightgown up, slips his hand under the waistband of your panties, sighing contentedly at the familiar feel of coarse hair against his fingertips. He finds your clit quickly, circling it in slow, gentle nudges.
His other hand busies itself with cupping your chest, pleasuring your nipples with subtle passes of his fingers.
“Mm—” Electricity buzzes up your spine, pools at the tips of your fingers.
You try giving yourself over to Frank, breathing deep, willing your mind to stay quiet. For once in a long time, there should be no pressing matter at hand other than the sleep you’ll get later, Frank’s hands on your body, and his unspoken but mutually understood promise of multiple, deeply satisfying orgasms.
Frank makes sure of the last one every time, even at the cost of his own (not that you’d ever allow that. You’re both stubborn about each other’s pleasure—which is probably why it’s always so exciting to indulge in each other even after so long together).
But there was a little something that kept nagging at you, persistent, a thought so present in your head that it made it hard for you to empty your mind. You should’ve mentioned it to Frank earlier, but you were too wrapped up in getting to this point.
Frank’s chest is to your back, his warmth seeping into you, voice rumbling behind you as he speaks. He notices you’re still just a tad bit tenser than usual despite his usual gentle touches. “What’re y’thinkin’ about, sweetheart?”
Your shoulders roll. As much effort as you exert, you needed just a bit more help to convince yourself to truly relax. “Just… It’s just tiring. We’re doing so much but we aren’t even halfway done.” You frown.
Your lover nods behind you, knows that you’re referring to the wedding the two of you have been planning for what felt like ages. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “We’re not behind.” He reminds. He’s made sure of it, and you’re nothing but thankful. “Don’t hav’to finish it all so soon either. Just get to what w’can.”
“I know, it’s just…” You take a deep breath, thighs tensing, breath catching with Frank’s ministrations along your clit. “I’m not trying to be ungrateful. This is a great problem to have, but… it’s—” a breath— “exhausting.”
“Mhm.” He listens, lets you verbalize your frustrations as he kisses the tip of your earlobe, stops cupping your chest in favor of holding one of your hands in his own. He takes a while to reply, silently assessing the kind of comfort you need at the moment.
“We’ve got the weekend to ourselves. Sleep in t’morrow. Order out.” Frank offers a comfier perspective.
“Mhm.” You smile, squeezing his hand in slow pulses.
Frank continues speaking. “Close y’r eyes f’me. Yeah? Let me talk to my girl all nice, jus’ how she likes it.”
You sigh, shifting into a more comfortable position. You do as Frank says, closing your eyes. Deep breaths. Letting yourself sink into the feeling of being held and being close and being touched so precisely that the mere memory gets you wet.
Him acknowledging and engaging with your tired thoughts finally clicks your mood fully into a nicer place. He knows you’re exhausted, and now the two of you get to indulge in each other to soothe that tiredness, be the balm to each others sore muscles, sink into the slowness and the pleasure that comes with your personal curated brand of intimacy with Frank.
The familiar feeling of his hands under your clothing, fondling you so affectionately, goes straight to your cunt. The fingers at your mound continue to pet your clit, catching the wetness pooling at your slit to give you a smoother sensation. Frank’s other hand is at your breasts, thumbing gently along each nipple.
“My girl needs some extra lovin’ to get some good sleep, yeah?” He whispers, voice low and gravelly against your ear, setting the mood by nudging your thoughts towards less stressful matters with his choice of words. “Y’need a bit more than just one to get y’satisfied?”
Frank is so, so warm behind you. “Yeah… And you’ll give it to me, right?”
Frank practically purrs at you engaging with his sweet talk, tone low in his chest, his cock straining against his sweats. “‘Anythin’ for my sweetheart. You know that.” He kisses your cheek. “Jus’ gotta tell me.”
He allots a bit more pressure onto your clit, feeling the warmth on his fingertips. “Tell me what y’want, baby. C’mon.”
You groan, heels digging into the sheets. “I want… Want you to fuck me.”
“Yeah...” He shifts one of his thighs, inching your own apart. “I hear you. Let me make you come first, okay?”
You nod, hips bucking into his fingers. Frank keeps his gentle pressure. Slow. Tender. Insistent. The sound of your ragged breathing goes straight to Frank’s cock.
“That’s it, sweetheart…” He whispers gruffly, in that tone so kind and considerate it contrasts so nicely with how Frank initially shows up as. He keeps touching you, body warm behind yours, arms solid in the way they cage you to him.
You close your eyes and sigh.
—
Its taking a while.
Too much of a while, really.
You whine, shifting in Frank’s lap. Despite him touching you just right and talking to you the way you were craving, the ache of your joints was too apparent for you to relax, mind too full to give you enough space for respite. There was still something missing. You need more that just this.
“Frank.” Your tone shifts, less whiny and more desperate. “I need you, please.”
His brows furrow. “Don’t wanna come first, honey?”
A breath. “I can’t—”
Frank nods, knows its not him, just your mind working against you. His fingers slow in their pace at your clit before stopping, his arms move to wrap around your midsection. It was one of those days. His girl was just too restless, too active, sharp mind working overtime. That’s all.
“Want me t’finger you now?” He whispers, gaze trained onto you, trying to more accurately assess his approach.
“Please.” The desperation in your tone tugs at his chest. Frank grunts his understanding of your wishes, kissing along your neck.
“Alright, baby… I’ve got you.” He pops two of his fingers in his mouth before pressing them to your clit. His hand at your chest moves lower, gathering the slick pooled at the seam of your cunt before gently pressing one finger at your entrance.
“This okay? Deep breaths—attagirl.” He guides your body and mind to listen, to receive, never wanting to force you into anything, pacing himself so you only ever get to take what you can handle despite your frustration for more.
You feel Frank’s finger inside, and he times himself to slide in another before curling them at your sweet spot. That, coupled with his unrelenting gentleness on your clit, makes you tremble. “Ngh—”
“Hold onto me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” He whispers, rewarding you with praise when you do as he says. One of your hands rest at his bicep, the other on his forearm. His arms flex with the angle and the way they move to give you pleasure. Being wrapped up in Frank’s strength like this makes you gush all over his fingers.
“That’s my girl—” He hums when your hips start to move, chasing the tender feeling of his fingers. The motion makes you grind onto his cock, which in turn makes Frank have to close his eyes, breathing deeply to calm himself.
He’s grunting, enamoured with your squirming, with how you can’t seem to decide on arching back into him or away from him, how you’re panting too.
“Frank—” You grind a bit harder, impatience gnawing at your tired psyche. “C’mon.” Your cunt clenches around his fingers, missing the usual stretch his cock gives you.
“Shh, sh… Slow down, baby. I’ll give y’one more, yeah? Shh…” He cajoles, urging you to sit still. “Stay still.”
He takes the opportunity to slide a third finger inside you, using the hand petting your clit to distract from any discomfort.
He waits a while, inching his fingers in and out slowly, still not wanting to rush no matter how hard he is in his sweatpants.
You, on the other hand, harbored a bit less patience. “Frankie-”
“I know, baby… I know.” He consoles, kisses your temple affectionately. “Know you need me, and I need you too but it’s been a while, alright?”
You huff, unable to argue with his logic—but the sense in his answer doesn’t magically make the impatience disappear.
“Just lay back, I’ll take care o’the rest.” He tempers your whining with more promises. “When have I ever left y’hangin’, hm?”
Frank made it his mission to get you to come every time, so this was an easy question to answer. His phrasing puts it into clearer perspective. There was no doubt that Frank would deliver. Your body stops tensing, mouth agape. You shake your head no. “Never.”
“Mhm, I’ll do right by ya. Always do right by my girl.” He kisses the top of your head again. “The sooner y’relax, the sooner I can fill y’up, yeah?”
That was the little piece of logic that pierced through the tired fog in your mind. The promise of being tended to alongside the realization that Frank did understand how urgently important this felt to you finally lets your mind settle.
“Right…” Frank hums at your reply, pleased with himself when he feels your body melt against his own. He knows he’s got you where you want to be when you’re so quick to heed his request. You practically go limp on his lap.
“I want it too.” He confesses, not that it wasn’t obvious with how goddamn hard he is in his sweatpants. “I missed makin’ y’come.” He murmurs lowly. “Missed feeling you come around my cock.”
You whine, body arching, a cocktail of embarrassment and desire stirring deep in your stomach. Frank’s fingers against your sweet spot dull the mental ache. “If you missed it so much you should make it happen faster—”
He chuckles. “You’re right.” He agrees, cooing at you. Your snark contrasts against your now more relaxed body language, so he engages with you (not that he ever doesn’t). “Shh, sh…”
Frank angles a fourth finger in, taking note of the way your body tenses and your breath pauses. You grunt at the stretch—your lover was right to take his time. As much impatience as you’ve displayed about the entire ordeal, you were subconsciously appreciative of Frank’s insistence on your usual preferred slow pace in intimacy.
“Deep breaths f’r me.” His nose bumps against the side of your head as he softly bites your ear. He grunts as he feels your clit jump against his fingers. “Good girl.” He keeps up his gentle pace, coaxing you to relax, keeping track of the way the tenseness ebbs away from you bit by bit.
You try to squirm some more, but every time you do, Frank coaxes you to relax, lay back, and let him do the work.
After what feels like an eternity, Frank finally slips his fingers out of you. It’s near uncomfortable for you with how wet you are. He moves his hand away from touching your nub, whispers for you to sit up a bit, just enough so he can slip his sweats by his ankles and free his achingly hard cock out out of his sweatpants.
He groans when you reach for the back of his head as you sit back down, tugging at his hair. “Mm—”
“C’mon—” You whine, spreading your legs, heels digging into the sheets. Frank’s cock is between your thighs, tip flushed red and leaking pre.
Now that the two of you were on more of the same page, your frustration has turned into something more endearing than concerning to him. Frank can’t help having his ego fed with how much you need him.
“Alright, shh…” He coos at you as he holds himself at the base with one hand, his other arm under one of your thighs. He inches the gusset of your panties to the side.
“Easy, baby. Easy…” He whispers as he sinks you over his cock. “Oh, sweetheart.”
Your warmth envelops him so fucking nicely it makes his head spin. His breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling in deep, shaky breaths behind you as he bottoms out. He touches your nub gently, supplementing the stretch with pleasure.
“Feel okay?” Frank murmurs.
“Yes—” You pant. “Always feels good with you.”
“Yeah?” He whispers, still testing the angle. He urges you to lean back into him more so he has a better shot at rubbing up against your sweet spot. It takes a bit longer than usual, he’s more used to missionary, after all.
Still, he knows he’s got it when he feels the familiar clenching of your walls against his girth. The speedy huffed exhale that follows.
Your mouth hangs open for a moment, one of your hands grasping at his forearm.
“Here?”
“Yeah—”
Frank nods, the ghost of a smile on his face when he feels your free hand search for his own. He catches onto what you want, intertwining your fingers together.
The fingers of his other hand cup your clit in slow circles.
“Practically made f’r me. Takin’ me just right—” Frank groans, kisses your cheek in a soothing gesture, “Can’t get enough of you.”
His words make you squirm, drool pooling at your mouth. Finally. Finally. It’s so good—
You’re stuffed full of Frank’s thick cock, back to his chest. He’s petting your nub with just the right amount of pressure. You’re breathing deeply, cunt clenching around him, thighs spread across his. It’s quiet, your lovemaking is reduced to the sound of both of your ragged breaths and the quiet shifting of the sheets with how Frank’s jutting into your sweet spot in small, barely there adjustments.
“Frank—”
“I’ve got you.” He reassures. You don’t even know why you called his name just now. One of your hands reaches back to tug at his hair again and he groans. “Need me real bad, huh?”
He’s coaxing out sweet, sweet mewls from you, nudging his nose into your cheek before pressing a kiss there.
It’s perfect. You’ve turned into mush on his lap.
Frank lets go of your hand to gently tap two fingers of against your lips, you let them in and let them rest on your tongue. The rough pads of his fingers contrasting with the wetness of your tongue makes his cock throb.
“Atta fuckin’ girl… y’feel good?”
You nod, eyes closing, response muffled by Frank’s fingers as your mind starts to be submerged in that familiar deep water, drool pooling at the edge of your mouth. “Mhm.”
There’s nothing to focus on but your breathing and the pleasure pulsing throughout your body as Frank tends to you and your needs—
RING. RING.
It’s Frank’s phone. It’s his obnoxiously loud ringtone that you happily tease him about how it evokes him being an old man most days.
RRING. RRING.
It’s the one that gets louder if you leave it be. Useful, but nothing but rage inducing in the moment.
You groan, looking up at him with pleading eyes. His fingers leave your mouth, he wipes them off onto one leg of his sweatpants and he reaches for the phone.
“No—” You whine.
RRRING. RRRING.
“Don’t answer it!” You complain as he glances at the screen.
“S’the wedding planner, sweetheart.” He replies, pressing a kiss to your cheek to console you. “I’ll handle it. Shh. Jus’ relax.”
His other hand keeps petting your clit as he swipes the screen to answer his phone, pressing the device to his ear.
“H’llo?”
You try your hardest to keep quiet despite the complaints bubbling in your throat. Frank’s cock is still pressed right at your sweet spot, making you feel him with every breath. He’s still sliding his finger along the slit of your clit so, so gently and it’s so fucking sensitive. Just enough for you to handle it but too much in the way it makes your limbs all tingly.
You busy yourself with grinding your hips, trying to make the most out of the bothersome distraction. Your mind works against you though, because you can’t help but tune in intently to the conversation being had.
The faint voice on the other side of the phone call is unintelligible. You can only piece together what’s being talked about based on Frank’s replies. “Tomorrow? Yeah, s’pretty short notice.”
He presses his lips to the top of your head, fingers not letting up. The way you’re warm and heavy and squirming all over him makes his cock twitch inside you. Frank has to close his eyes and bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning, knuckles white as he grips his phone.
You can’t quite appreciate his restraint though, because did you hear that right? Tomorrow? There’s something scheduled for tomorrow? Absolutely not. You stop. You’re about to speak out, riot, curse someone whose just doing their job out—but Frank seems to already have beat you to it in a much more respectable fashion.
“Mind if we reschedule that f’r the weekday instead? We already got a family thing tomorrow. Can’t cancel.”
You’d fall in love with him all over again if the entire situation didn’t endlessly frustrate you.
“Alright, ‘ppreciate it, thanks.” Finally, the call ends with him pressing ‘end’. Frank sets his phone back on the bedside table and his attention is returned to you immediately.
“What was that about?”
“Wedding planner said she forgot to mention us havin’ a uh, meetin’ t’morrow to go over the invitation designs.” He murmurs, peppering kisses along your neck.
That explains the call way past working hours, but that doesn’t make you feel any better either. Now you’re back at square one, mind unable to resist viewing over your mental checklist of things still pending for the wedding; flowers, the theme for the venue, the centerpieces, hair and makeup tests, you haven’t even gone to pick out a dress yet—
Frank feels you tense up, the combined efforts of getting you to relax gone like the wind.
“Sweetheart.” He calls for you. “Hey—”
“Yeah.” You blink, taking a deep breath. “Sorry… just thinking.”
“S’okay.” He reassures, knows how you get, is familiar with how a big part of your relationship is him helping you understand that it’s okay to slow down, that life won’t leave you behind, that you didn’t have to do everything right now until you have to stop.
He’s stopped moving his hips a while back, one arm now wrapped around your midsection. The hand on your clit has since retreated to rest on your thigh in a grounding touch.
“Want me to keep going, sweetheart?” He asks, not an ounce of impatience in his tone. That helps. It’s okay. Things are okay.
“Yes, please.” Frank nods at your answer, lips pressed into the top of your head.
“Put my hands where you want ‘em, yeah?” He encourages you to be more present. Here. With him instead of wherever your thoughts like to take you.
His words go straight to your cunt, your eyes closing for a brief moment before you nod. You take Frank’s hands, place one back to your mound and the other at the base of your neck.
He’s quick to pet your clit again in slow, soft circles. He’s a bit surprised by the way you’ve placed his other hand on your neck, so he waits before doing anything there.
“Just hold me here.” You gulp. There’s a thrill that shoots through both of you at the way Frank can feel how you swallow against his palm. “I don’t… actually want you to squeeze.”
He nods, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Got that, sweetheart.”
Frank listens to your request. Of course he does. He whispers sweet praise to your ears as he’s canting his hips up again in barely-there increments.
Your breath catches, the head of Frank’s cock presses up against your sweet spot again, gently, so slowly that you feel every inch and nudge.
It feels so good. Everything is okay. Frank affirms that. “There’s nothin’ that needs your attention right now ‘xcept you feelin’ good.” He coos. “Breathe with me, c’mon.”
You match your breathing with the steady rise and fall of his chest behind you, rewarded with his gravelly praise. “Attagirl. Jus’ like that.”
Frank takes you both back to the earlier slow and sensual rhythm you’d been interrupted from.
Your head rests on his shoulder, eyes closed. Your lover is kissing the side of your neck every once in a while between whispers of how good you feel, how pretty you look, how nicely you’re taking his cock.
Your toes curl, heels digging into the sheets, you’re being handled so tenderly.
“S’it feel good for you?” Frank asks, steady in the manner in which he’s touching you.
“Yes—” You pant, eyes opening. You can’t see him much from where he’s seated behind you, only parts of the side of his face with the way he’s diving into your neck with kisses.
You lean your head beside his, cheek brushing up against his hair. Frank’s next words make your body tingle even more.
“Could y’tell me how good it feels, sweetheart? Yeah?”
You bite your lip for the briefest moment, a whine slipping from your throat before you speak. “Okay—”
“You’re so patient… with me.” Frank’s eyes dart towards you at your words. He’d expected the usual dirty talk, call and response, the lewd thoughts you seem to always have ready when asked.
Not this.
“Mm?” He signals he’s listening, not that he has to, he’s always been an active listener. It meshed well with how you operated, how you had a tendency to untangle your thoughts verbally because your mind is usually too full to not have to lighten the load.
“We’ve been at this f’r so long…” You lean further back into his shoulder.
“Y’r not enjoyin’ it anymore, sweetheart?”
“No, no. I am…” One of your hands reaches for the hair at the back of Frank’s hair, not really tugging, but your lover can feel the pleasurable pull regardless. “I am.”
“I’m just so moody, even here. We could’ve been finished sooner if I wasn’t so worked up all the time.” Your brows ares drawn together, eyes focusing their attention on other things in the room.
“Yeah? Well y’r workin’ yourself up thinkin’ ‘bout all this, y’know.” Frank chuckles, an amused huff heaving his chest behind you.
You laugh, the playful (but not untruthful) jab snapping some sense into you. “That’s true…”
“Mhm.” Frank kisses the side of your head, ups the ante of his hips for a more insistent grind against your walls. He gathers some more slick on his fingertips before circling your clit again.
“Let’s try again, yeah?” He coos. “Talk t’me…”
Frank continues. “How’s it feel with me touchin’ y’r pretty clit like this?”
Your face feels warm at his words, breath catching. “Good.”
Frank nods, eyes trained on the way you’re writhing and willing and mostly relaxed atop him, his cock sheathed inside your warmth, squeezing every once in a while as the pleasure he’s giving you compounds.
He licks his lips before he speaks next words. “Why’d you put my hand around y’r neck like this?” He doesn’t squeeze, he wouldn’t dare. Only ever heeding your preferences. His sweetheart.
That makes you think of (thankfully) less stressful thoughts. Why did you place Frank’s hand there?
You gulp, the calloused palm of your lover steady and grounding against the base of your throat. “I… I like feeling how big your hands are.”
“Could do that by holdin’ my hand, though.” He teases, chuckles softly.
“Shut up.” You swat lightly at his bicep. Your face flushes, and you fix him a glare to the best angle your head can manage. You barely see him and you have no idea if he can see you. But it’s there.
“M’kiddin, baby. M’kidding.” Frank laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You like havin’ it here?”
You’re a bit too frustrated and equally fucked out of your mind to articulate why you like having it there. It’s not even choking because Frank’s not squeezing, you asked him not to and he’s not tried.
Maybe its the power play of it all, the subversion. The way it seems like Frank’s overwhelmingly dominant over you right now with the way he’a holding you when it’s really you calling the shots. When he’s really the one giving you options, when he’s moreso the one curating the intimacy, servicing you with your preferences at the forefront.
Maybe its the trust, how safe you feel whenever Frank’s concerned. How overwhelmingly competent he is while being borderline overprotective of your boundaries.
Maybe it’s just that, the competence. His tendency to handle because he’s got it. He’s got you. How he finds so much fulfillment in having you fall apart just enough, using what he’s learned about you so masterfully you sometimes feel like your mind’s been read before you’re even aware of the thought forming yet.
Frank talks with his hands, in the way he serves, always so steady, making everything he touches better despite his insistence that he’s just ‘doin’ what’s right’.
The blunt head of his cock drags along your sweet spot, and Frank’s just now parted the coarse hair of your mound again so he can slide an adept finger under the hood of your clit, and in that moment, your brain turns to mush.
“I do. I like it.” You manage to utter out, before you break into a strangled moan. Your own hands move to grip at his forearms for stability, even though you could melt and still not go anywhere with how solidly Frank’s wrapped himself around you.
“Yeah? Y’like how I’m touchin’ my girl?” Frank groans, his own body overwhelmingly warm. The head of his cock is sensitive with how long he’s been grinding onto your pleasure points, but he persists. Breathes sharply out of his nose, bites with his lips at your shoulder.
“Yes, yes yes—” Your lover moans gruffly at the way your clit jumps against his fingers, your walls pulsating around the base of his cock. “I’m going to come… Frank—”
“I’ve got you… Let me have it, sweetheart. C’mon, baby…”
Close, close close— You’re so close. Your heels dig into the sheets, the involuntary writhing of your body only unintentionally amplifies the pleasure.
Your mouth hangs open, your lungs take a deep, shaky breath—
RING.
It’s your ringtone this time. Not Frank’s.
Your head falls back against your lover’s shoulder, orgasm halted. You’re thinking again. Who could be calling? Why are they calling? What time is it to warrant a call?
RING.
Your ringtone is taunting you. To say it’s infuriating is an understatement.
Tears well up in your eyes, your already overwhelming frustration from earlier has quadrupled. Frank consoles you, cooing at you that its okay. He eases the hand at your cunt onto your thigh to do some soothing, grounding motions.
RING.
He reaches over to the nightstand, seeing the caller ID listed as the wedding florist. He answers on your behalf.
“Yeah, this is a bad time.” He replies after a moment, your phone pressed to his ear. His brows are drawn, jaw clenched, frown etched deep into his features. “Listen, think this can wait ‘till next week, yeah? S’not really a good hour t’be callin’ ‘bout work. Wife’s already asleep. Long work week.”
Frank ends the call with a curt ‘thanks’. He returns your phone to the nightstand, makes sure both his and yours are on do not disturb before placing his attention back to you.
Any other time, hearing him refer to you as his wife even when you two haven’t actually gotten married yet would’ve put a smile on your face, but right now, you’re devastated. Whatever prank the universe is playing by deciding to shove two interruptions into your well deserved time of rest, you did not appreciate one bit.
You lift yourself off of Frank’s lap, laying on your side of the bed instead and tugging the blanket over your form.
Frank squints, but he makes no move to stop you. He hikes his sweats up for some decency, unminding of the tent. You’re acting out of frustration, there’s too much on your mind.
You’re well aware you’re throwing somewhat of a hissy fit, and granted it wasn’t even Frank’s fault. But this is half a year of frustration welling up. All that effort into a satisfying climax completely ruined by phone calls that weren’t even emergencies. Calls that could have genuinely waited until the next morning. Calls you would have gladly entertained had they been made a few hours later, into the next day, instead of right now.
Your mood is ruined. Tears well up in your eyes. You already harbored some deep rooted shame over taking a while to come, and now it’s only been amplified by whatever the hell just went down.
“Hey.” You feel Frank before you see him. His hands cupping your face. “How’s my sweetheart feelin’?”
He settles on hovering over your form, the blanket sandwiched between your bodies. One of his hands are beside your head, the other thumbs along your cheek.
You frown up at him, and worry colours his features. “Talk t’me.” He urges, voice gruff but navigating your mood with care. He wouldn’t dare continue if you really didn’t want to, but there was no denying that you really did want it, those two calls just seemed to complicate things.
You lean into his touch, finally meeting Frank’s gaze. A stream of complaints escape you. Those damn calls, how it’s not the callers’ faults but you can’t help but be mad, how tired you are, how much you’ve been looking forward to ending the week in a satisfying way only to be interrupted twice.
Throughout it all, Frank listens attentively, letting you get it out of your system. His thumb drags along your cheek idly as you speak.
"I’m sorry.” You hide your face behind your hands. Frank lets you, but only for the briefest of moments. “I already have it so good and I’m still being a piece of shit.”
"Shh.” You feel his hand pull yours away gently. He’s currently holding himself up on his other elbow to not crush you under his weight.
"Y’r not a piece of shit, baby.” There’s an angle of absurdity in your train of thought that makes Frank laugh just a little. “Nothin’s wrong anymore. It’s handled.”
"Right...” The weight of his patient gaze makes the ache in your chest dissipate bit by bit.
“Everythin’ else can wait.” Frank cups your cheek, thumbs near your undereye. “No more calls. Jus’ you n’ me, and me helpin’ you come, yeah?”
Your face flushes despite your own frustration. “Can you wait, still? I take so long to finish…”
“‘Course I can, sweetheart.” He chuckles. “I get to make you feel good for longer? Kinda man would I be ‘f I complained ‘bout heaven?” Frank replies, shrugs. He likes that it takes a while. Likes that intimacy with you doesn’t feel fleeting because it takes you a while to get to a climax.
His reply and him not looking like he’s ticked off in the slightest puts your mind at ease, helps you realize that your worries about Frank’s dissatisfaction with this were just you projecting your own impatience with yourself onto him.
He knows your ticks, and he’s exactly where he wants to be when they happen, he thinks to himself, his large hand thumbing at the apple of your cheek softly.
A small relieved sigh escapes you, Frank’s doting gaze never leaving you as he asks you a question. “Mind if I get under th’ blanket with you? S’chilly out here.”
“Sorry.” You laugh, realizing he’d been half laying over your blanketed form for your entire rant. You lift the blanket on one side, trying to shimmy it up over his back.
He leans down to kiss you after he maneuvers himself into the small blanket cocoon you’ve made, whispering a quiet ‘s’okay’ to your cheek. You spend a while like that, exchanging kisses, Frank’s form quite literally acting as a weighted blanket over you. The warmth seeps into your tired body, offering a moment’s respite from the outside world.
“Wanna keep goin’?” His thumb gently drags along the apple of your cheek. There’s this subtle, but very handsome smile on his face and it reminds you that everything’s okay.
You take a breath before answering. “Yes.”
He gives you two more kisses, one on each cheek. “Want me t’make you come?”
His choice of words make your body run warm. “Mhm.”
“Let me hear you say it, sweetheart.” He coos softly, hand cupping the back of your head.
You feel yourself pause at the way your face grows warm. “Please make me come, Frank.”
Frank ducks his head under the covers, whispering a hushed ‘attagirl’ against your skin. He makes his way lower, his hands warning you of the path his lips plan to kiss along.
The blanket laid over his back as he descends leaves you bare to the ceiling of your shared bedroom. Frank lifts your nightgown up to your chest, peppering kisses along the plush of your tummy until he eventually reaches the waistband of your panties.
The tip of his nose drags along the garment, hands cupping the tops of your thighs to gently spread your legs. He licks your clit through the fabric, alternating between suckling and dragging his tongue along the tip.
“Frank, don’t tease…” You truly, normally wouldn’t mind, but your impatience tonight has been testing you.
Your lover murmurs a quiet apology against your mound, huffing a mildly amused breath.
His palms gently run along your inner thighs before he moves to slip your panties off and discarding them by the bed. “‘ll make it up t’you—” He parts the hair at your mound, licking a stripe up the slit and ending to suckle at your nub.
He drinks in the long sigh you let out, groans when he feels your hips moving ever so slightly against him. He translates that as to you needing more, so he cups his tongue under the hood of your clit as he tastes you and grinds against the appendage in small increments.
“Oh—”
You feel his hands take yours, thumb running along your knuckles before maneuvering them to the top of his head.
You know what he wants, and there’s something so damn hot about how he asks you to hold onto him.
A tug at his hair makes Frank moan against your core, deep and satisfied.
You feel your clit twitch against his tongue, Frank not letting up on his movements. It felt good, but you’ve been wound up all day and you need more.
You pull one of the pillows beside your head down to the empty space on the bed beside your hips.
“Frank—” You pant, eyes watery with unshed tears. “Please—”
His eyes flick up towards you at your pained tone, noticing the pillow you’d given him.
He’s above you in an instant, one strong hand under your hip so he can slide the pillow beneath you. “S’not cuttin’ it, huh?”
You respond by wrapping your arms around the back of his neck. “Need you to fuck me.” Frank feels you punctuate your point when the back of your heels bump against his lower back, your legs wrapping around him and tugging him closer.
His own cock twitches at the obvious display of want. He loves it when you get so unashamedly needy, bordering on demanding. He wants it all, wants to be wanted in ways that match the intensity he feels inside, considers himself lucky to be craved as deeply as he craves the love of his life.
“I’m right here, sweetheart.” He coos, one hand guiding the head of his cock to notch against your entrance. “Deep breath in. Out—attagirl.”
Frank grunts as he pushes in. Breath catching at the way your warmth wraps around him, squeezing and urging him in deeper.
He takes his time bottoming out, partly wanting to reassure you that he truly didn’t mind taking his time with you, with anything to do with his sweetheart.
He tunes in to your movements, how your palms are warm against the back of his neck, how your thighs bracket his waist, the bump of your heels against his tailbone. He listens to the sound of your breath as it catches, notices nothing but silence following after.
“Don’t forget t’breathe, sweetheart. Yeah?”
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Yeah—”
Frank places his forehead against yours, one of his hands gently braced against the top of your head. He uses his other hand to support his weight against the bed as he pushes his hips into yours.
The eye contact is disarming, you’re tingly from need. You want more. You’ve been craving Frank inside you for a week at this point, and you were not going to let the night end without it.
The telltale hitch in your slow breathing, coupled with the way your walls clench around him lets Frank know he’s exactly where you need him to be.
“There she is.” He coos, “Keep breathin’, yeah? I’ll make it good f’r you.”
He tucks your hair under your head so it doesn’t get pulled when he positions himself on his elbows on the space beside you.
“Ready?” Frank presses his forehead against yours, gaze on the lookout for any sign of discomfort. Him telling you to focus on your breathing helps undo the crease between your drawn brows.
“Yeah.”
“Leave it t’me.” He presses a kiss to your forehead as he starts a slow, sensual grind.
Your jaw goes slack on a silent moan, your lover’s weight a comforting thing over you as he drags the tip of his cock right at your sweet spot.
He does small half thrusts into you, groaning in between whispered praise.
Your eyes close, toes curling, drool threatening to slip out the corner of your mouth. “Frank…”
“Yeah? You okay, sweetheart?” He’s panting a bit, muscles tense with restraint because you feel so fucking good but he knows exactly how much you need. The drag of your walls against his cock is searing hot, added to the fact that he’s been close to coming for hours.
He feels the hands on the nape of his neck pull him closer. Your eyes open, lips parted. “I love you.”
Frank will never get tired of hearing you say that. “I love you too.” He says your name, nudges his nose against yours before leaning in to kiss you. He shifts to move a bit more insistently, muffling your mewls as he does.
“Mm!”
Your legs give out, feet planting themselves on the mattress as your thighs spread, urging Frank closer.
Before he could ask, you’re already telling him. “Just like that, Frankie—”
He follows a slow but insistent rhythm, unrelenting against your pleasure points. Electricity jolts across your limbs, followed by a deep warmth.
“Yeah?” Frank groans, a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin as he continues his slow grind.
“Yeah—”
Your lovemaking continues, the only sounds in the room being the shifting of the sheets and skin against skin, moans muffled into each others flesh. It’s deceptively good, the kind that looks tender and gentle but is in no way less intense. Frank has never needed to make the bed creak to give you the orgasm of a lifetime.
He’s mindful and attentive like that. Careful but never once lacking in passion. He has a habit of taking note of how you respond to touch, etching it into his memory, refining it each time he bathes in the satisfaction of making you orgasm.
You’re moaning, Frank is so gentle but so precise it’s making your head spin. Each whimper you make against his shoulder makes Frank’s cock twitch inside you.
He’s close. Has been. You are too judging by how wet you are, the sound of your slick as he drives his cock into you quiet but consistent.
“Attagirl, sweetheart. Let me have it, yeah? Let me feel you. Let go f’r me.” He pants, voice low and breathless. Your heads are buried in each other’s shoulders, the way your bodies are pressed together makes it so warm in contrast to the AC (you’d be sleepy if not for how fucking intensely Frank’s pleasuring you).
One of Frank’s hands snakes its way to the back of your head, cupping, holding you close. He moans when he feels your nails scrape against his back.
You’re so full, its all too much and just right at the same time. Drool slips past the corner of your mouth but you’re too fucked out to care.
You didn’t even get to say you were coming before it happens. You feel your cunt clench, twitch, contract in pulses around Frank’s thick cock.
“That’s it—thas’it. Yeah. Deep breaths.” Frank grunts, kissing your shoulder briefly. “Good girl, sweetheart.”
“Frank! Mm—” You can’t help but whine, heels kicking against the sheets. Frank stays, keeps his tip right against your sweet spot as he rides his own climax.
“Oh fuck—” Frank’s breathing heavily against your shoulder. You’re still coming somehow, thighs trembling, mouth agape, eyes closed. Your hips twitch against your lovers’, his weight keeping you still, positioning him exactly where you’d feel it best.
You could cry from how satisfying the orgasm is. You probably already are, because Frank’s thumb is running along your suddenly damp cheek and he’s shushing you in that way he always does. The way you’ve come to recognize as him not actually wanting you to quiet down, but as a soothing gesture from his own vocal ticks.
“Let it out, sweetheart. So good f’r me…” Frank sounds spent. It’s equal parts comforting and arousing and honestly pride inducing. You’d have been able to savor these emotions more in the moment if you weren’t so preoccupied with the way your clit twitches and your labia flutters around the base of Frank’s cock. “Goddamn—”
You have no idea how long it’s been. All you know is your cunt is sensitive. You’re satisfied, but tired. You open your eyes and see Frank’s blurry visage looking down at you.
A hint of a smile appears on his face when you lean your cheek into his touch. His partial worries relieved.
“You okay? Want me t’pull out?” He asks. “Y’r cryin… I might’ve overdone it.”
You shake your head no. “So good…” Your blinks are slow, groggy. You mirror his touch by cupping his cheek as well, your other hand falling to lay limply on the mattress.
Your cunt throbs again, overstimulated, and your brows draw. “Okay… maybe back up a bit.”
Frank chuckles, eases himself out a few inches—
“But don’t leave—”
“Sweetheart… gotta give her a rest, y’know?” He shakes his head, leans down to kiss your forehead, idly tucking your sweaty bangs away from your face.
“Ngh.” You pout. “Do it slow.”
“Yeah.” He kisses you on the lips as he pulls out, suddenly disappearing from over you and spreading your legs to check for any damage.
Next thing you know, he’s parting the hair between your legs, nursing on your clit, swiping his tongue along your slit once, twice, before cupping his tongue under your nub and grinding slow.
“Frank!” You groan, an exasperated smile on your face. “All that talk about giving her a break.”
“Sorry—” He huffs, amused. Knows he’s a hypocrite. He leaves with one last sweet kiss to your pussy before pulling the blanket over both of your forms, letting you cuddle up into his side as he lays down for some much needed decompressing.
—
You were just about to fall asleep after answering no to Frank’s usual post-intimacy survey (“Wasn’t too rough? You sure? Hurtin’ anywhere?) when he shifts.
“Alright, c’mon” He pats your thigh affectionately, hands sliding under your hips to pull you up. “Bathroom.”
“I’m sleepy.” You clearly have this disgruntled look on your face as Frank picks you up and carries you across the room.
“Jus’ a couple more minutes, sweetheart.” He urges you to sit on the toilet to pee, leaves to give you your privacy. You vaguely hear the sound of your closet doors and drawers opening and closing.
You’re done, washed up, now standing again before he he re-enters the bathroom to start up the shower.
“We’re showering? Again?” It’s clear you’re not too excited about the prospect.
“You’ll thank y’rself t’morrow.” Frank takes off his stained sweats, helps you slip out of your nightgown, then coaxes you under the spray of the water with him. “C’mon, sweetheart.”
This is how you find yourself clinging to Frank with nearly your entire weight. The wall too cold to lean your back on. He has one hand hiking one of your thighs by his hips, the other hand busying itself between your legs, fingering his come out of you.
“You hurtin’ anywhere?” He asks, his own tired gaze trained on you, relieved when you shake your head no despite your displeased expression.
“Frank—” You whine, tired out of your mind. “Isn’t leaving your come inside me the entire point of you getting that vasectomy?”
Frank chuckles, low and deep in his chest. There’s a tiny sense of pride in him at you letting out such a crude statement around him. “Just ‘cause I got snipped don’t mean you won’t get a UTI ‘f we don’t do this.”
Point. Of course he had a point. Frank always took clean up seriously, and him being so kindly and responsibly insistent about it would’ve shot your arousal straight up had you been any less tired than you were right now. (It’s equally why you’re so excited to have sex with the man. It’s not over until he’s taken care of you the entire way and back.)
“M’tired.” You murmur again, pouting defeatedly. As nice as this all felt, you’ve been wanting good, genuine sleep since last week.
“I know, sweetheart. Y’did good…” He praises, slowly slipping his fingers out of you. “Hold on t’me.” You’re on wobbly legs, and he makes sure to steady you by the shoulders throughout the entire process of turning off the shower and towelling you and himself off.
You beeline for the bed while Frank chucks the rest of the discarded clothes from the bathroom floor into the laundry basket.
He notices, only after putting on new sweats, that the new shirt he’d left out for himself on the bed was now suspiciously absent. Meanwhile, the fresh nightgown he’d prepared for you was still there beside it.
The peek of dark fabric from under the blankets you had on you (as well as the satisfied smile on your face as you waited for his reaction) outlined the culprit to be none other than you.
He laughs quietly, shoulders shrugging, shaking his head as he returns the nightgown to your dresser, forgoing a shirt for himself. He climbs into bed with you and relishes in the way you immediately cling to him and squeeze his torso like he’s some sort of teddy bear won from the fair.
“Good night, sweetheart.”
“Mm, night Frankie.” Your head is on his chest, soothed by the thrum of your lover’s heartbeat. You feel Frank’s fingers card through your hair before he caresses your upper back. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” Frank ends his sentence with your name, punctuates it with a kiss to your forehead, enamoured when you tilt your head up after to kiss his nose.
You’re ‘fucked-out-of-your-mind’ fulfilled, while Frank’s ‘thank-you-for-letting-me-care-and-affect-you-this-deeply’ fulfilled.
It’s perfect. And now you finally, finally get to sleep with everything you’d wanted for tonight checked and accomplished despite the earlier phone call fiasco. Your eyes close. You take a deep breath.
Until Frank decides to get up out of bed. No words. So easily slipping away from your hold because you didn’t think he’d get up.
“Where are you going?” You sit up groggily, brows furrowed, frustration coming easily to you.
“Get’ya some water.”
“Oh.” Your expression returns to something less hostile. You were kind of thirsty now that you think of it, skin damp and cool but your body running warm. A little too warm.
You could’ve sworn you caught the slightest hint of a half-impish half-apologetic smile on Frank’s face as he left. If you were a bit more lucid you’d have noticed sooner that he laughed a bit at your frustrated question.
He comes back with one of your insulated tumblers and hands you the prized item.
The first sip of ice cold water that hits your tongue could rival the relief from your earlier orgasm.
The two of you take one or two turns sipping from the straw before Frank’s laying under the covers again (thanks to you practically pulling him into bed).
Settled into Frank’s bare chest once more, impressively fucked out of your wits, cared for after such a vulnerable set of hours, and hydrated with freshly prepared ice cold water, you finally close your eyes.
Frank noses along the top of your head, tucks your hair away from your forehead, leaves a kiss there once, twice, before he speaks.
“Want sausages with y’r pancakes tomorrow mornin’? Or bacon?”
No reply graces Frank’s ears save for one silent snore and the hum of the AC unit.
You’re already fast asleep.
He’s decided he’ll make both with a side of eggs—but judging by the weight of his own eyelids and how quickly you fell asleep, he wagers with a crooked smile and an amused breath that neither of you will be awake for breakfast tomorrow anyway.
pairing: jake sully/reader
tags: explicit sexual content, human/na'vi, size kink, scent kink, p in v, creampie, no use of y/n for reader insert
words: 16k
NA'VI WORDS USED
tewng - loincloth
kuru - neural queue
Late at night in Hell’s Gate, you lie with Jake Sully curled up in your cot. The both of you hardly fit onto the shitty, narrow mattress, but you don’t mind, tangling your limbs together till you’re not quite sure what’s yours and what’s his.
The sheets smell like sex and sweat, still fresh enough to be pleasant instead of musty. Jake’s chest rises and falls a little quicker than usual underneath your head, his heartbeat still coming down from the happy ending of a couple minutes prior. Being with Jake is always good, regardless of the adjustments you have to make for his wheelchair. There’s no pinning you to the wall or kneeling to take you from behind, but his fingers and tongue are more than skilled enough to make up the difference.
This, though, is probably the best part. Laying together in post-coital haze, skin sticking to each other, warm breath hushing into the quiet air. You nuzzle sleepily into Jake’s chest, content to forget where you end and he begins, just one big puddle of spent energy and lingering, fuzzy affection.
"Mmm,” Jake murmurs, shifting his head to press a kiss to the top of your head. “That was good.”
You mumble something wordless in agreement, nestling deeper into his chest. It’s one of the only times you get to feel smaller than Jake, tucked up underneath his chin. Jake likes it too, you know; you can tell by the way he’s always pulling you against his chest while you’re in bed, wrapping you up in arms kept strong by maneuvering his wheelchair around.
“Baby,” Jake speaks again, his voice dropped rough and low. “I got a question.”
You yawn, wanting to push your face back into the hollow of his throat and tell him to ask you in the morning. It’s been a long day in the labs, your eyes strained from hours of running over data screens and yesterday’s logs. Jake’s got other ideas, digging his chin into the top of your head like he knows you’re trying to slip into sleep.
“Wha’?” you grumble, rolling over a bit so you can look up at him. In the dark of the room, not much of Jake’s face is visible. Being a lab geek has its perks, but you’re still only an intern, and that guarantees your quarters will never get a window to let in the otherworldly light of Polyphemus.
“I was just wondering,” Jake starts, and you feel his swallow more than you see it, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “If you’d ever wanna do… stuff… while I’m in my avatar."
The question takes you aback for a moment, stilling whatever gripe you had planned for him. As Grace’s trainee, it’s in your job description to help monitor and care for the avatars and their drivers, so it’s not like you’re unfamiliar with Jake’s alter ego. You helped grow the damn thing, watching over the huge blue body as it developed suspended in a tank of stasis fluid.
But you hardly ever get to see him in it. Jake’s almost always out in the forest with his avatar, roaming farther than Norm and Grace ever dare. You can’t say you blame him — if you had a shot at seeing Pandora through Na’vi eyes, you’d take it too — but it makes the thought of him with you in that alien body strange. Not just with you, but on you, inside you, big blue hands and striped skin and-
Jake must take your silence for refusal, because he begins to backpedal immediately.
“Forget it,” he starts, smoothing a hand down the curve of your spine like he can wipe away the offer. “I didn’t mean… well, I know it’d be weird-”
“Jake,” you cut him off, patting his chest. “I didn’t say no, dummy. Just- what made you think of that?”
Jake shrugs, shifting a little beneath you. He blows out a breath, and for a moment, his face twists into something you can’t read in the dark. A glimpse of what might be shame flashes across his features before he turns his head, hiding his expression from you.
“I don’t really get to do everything I want in this body,” he admits, his voice quiet, almost blending into the hum of Hell’s Gate’s constantly whirring generators. “The ways I wanna touch you, hold you… I can’t. But the avatar ain’t like that.”
“Oh.” The realization knocks something in your chest loose, rattling behind your ribcage. You wouldn’t change a thing about Jake, and his performance in bed has more than lived up to your expectations. You kinda like that he takes things slow, figuring out ways to make each touch feel good for the both of you. It makes him intentional, every skim of his fingers thought out for you.
But you didn’t realize what he’s been thinking of on the other end — all the other things he wants to do, things he probably hasn’t done since his service put him in that chair. You’d never ask Jake for more than what he can give, but if he wants to try this…
“Sure.”
Jake’s head jerks back towards you, like he’s a little surprised at how quickly you’ve agreed. His hand stills for a moment on your back, then tightens, wrapping around the dip of your waist.
“I don’t want you to agree ‘cause of guilt or something,” Jake starts, though you can already hear his heart pick up pace in his chest. “Y’know I don’t need pity-”
“I know that, dickhead,” You scold, prodding at his sternum so he quits. Of course he’s putting on the heroics about alien sex. “I wanna try. Might be weird, yeah, but…”
“But?”
You flush, ducking your head back into the cover of his chest. Jake curls to meet you, not letting you hide against the coarse hair there. He wheedles, bumping his nose along your forehead. “But?”
“But you look good as a Na’vi,” you admit, grumbling into his skin. “So tall, and those big eyes… those fangs…”
Jake laughs outright, the sound bubbling up through where you lay against him. You grouse, displeased at his sniggering. How did the tables turn from him apologizing to your embarrassment, exactly?
“That right?” Jake teases, pressing a kiss to your hair, sounding altogether too pleased with himself. “Have you been crushin’ on Na’vi, honey? I’m pretty big, I dunno if you can take all that…”
You scowl, offended at the implication. Squirming under the blankets, you poke sharply at Jake’s belly, reminding him exactly who he’s talking to.
“I take you all the time,” you rebuke, digging your chin into his chest in reprimand. “I can take your stupid avatar dick.”
The moment Jake undoes his loincloth, you realize you probably cannot, in fact, take his stupid avatar dick.
It’s been a few weeks since that late night discussion, long enough that you'd started to worry that you'd never get the chance to fulfill Jake's request. After all, it’s not really convenient to fuck an avatar. Not many places in Hell’s Gate are tall enough to fit a nine-foot tall alien body, while also being private enough to avoid a run-in with HR. Bright blue and huge, Jake’s not exactly inconspicuous.
You suggested just sneaking into the outdoor bunking unit, where the rest of the avatars sleep dreamlessly when they're not being piloted from the link pods. It's fairly reasonable, given it's within the compound and easily accessible to you. Jake's presence wouldn't be questioned, either, as long as he made up some excuse about not sleeping in Hometree for the night.
But you were both a little creeped out by the idea of fucking among the silently occupied bunks, surrounding yourself with the sleeping alien counterparts of your coworkers. Besides, there's no airlock in the avatar housing, and Jake insisted that he didn't want you to wear your exopack mask; at least not this time. While a part of you thrills at the implication of there being a next time with his avatar, it does significantly limit your options to indoor spaces only.
The lab works, but you’re never alone there. Grace and her underlings practically live in the place, buzzing in and out, always piloting their own avatars or monitoring the constant streams of new data and life you pick up from Pandora. With the scientist quarters close by, it’s hard to predict your coworkers' patterns, too — they work at odd times, kept up into the wee hours by shifts in the rainforest's atmosphere or detected pollution upticks near RDA factories.
But finally, you and Jake are alone, through no small effort; you've whiled away a significant amount of the evening waiting for the place to empty out. You had to make up a good reason to occupy the lab during its few empty hours, so you stayed under the pretense of checking the vitals of Jake's avatar, which he just couldn't drag back from his training in the forest until nightfall. The last stragglers went to bed a couple of hours ago, and the bags under their eyes implied a good long quiet period.
You're more nervous than you want to admit to yourself, shifting back and forth on your feet before Jake. Energy has been building up underneath your skin all day, apprehension thrumming under your skin as you tried to stay busy at your desk. It's made you jumpy, wondering if your coworkers can tell you're about to do something far and beyond inappropriate with one of the RDA's prized specimens.
Fucking Jake as a human has already earned you some criticism in the lab. In Hell's Gate, everyone is so close together that gossip spreads within seconds, and your peers knew about your relationship with him almost before you did. But while hooking up with the unpopular, intruding grunt has garnered a couple disapproving stares, you shudder to think what would happen if you're found out for having sex with his avatar. Technically, the body isn't Jake, only a suit on loan from the program. You can't imagine your higher-ups taking very kindly to you getting your hands all over it for purposes other than strictly research.
It's not like that's going to stop you, though. Not now, with Jake in his big, blue, alien body, grinning down at you like a predator tracking prey.
You swallow thickly as Jake’s loincloth drifts to the floor. It’s not like you haven’t seen his dick before. You watched that avatar grow, including all his reproductive functions. But you haven’t seen it since Jake inhabited that body, since it became more than just a lifeless science project floating in an oversized test tube.
“I assume you’re familiar?” Jake murmurs, taking himself in hand. Christ alive, he’s so big — you forget just how big his avatar is every time you see him. His head nearly brushes the lab ceiling, his yellow eyes reflecting faintly in the blue light of the lab screens.
It’s hard to keep your focus on him when you only reach about belly-button height, his crotch at eye-level. Your breath catches as your gaze flickers up to his face, then back down to his dick like a gravitational pull.
Something about his words snaps you out of it, and your eyes skitter away, like you’ve been caught staring. Your cheeks burn with sudden heat, a flush rising to your skin as you turn your face from Jake.
“Uhm… yeah, sorta,” you mumble, staring hard at the shining silver tubes that hook up to one of the avatar pods. “Wasn’t ever really my… focus…”
Jake raises his carbon dioxide respirator as he huffs out a laugh, the sound muffled by the breather. His chuckle is familiar in its teasing, though strange to hear from the mouth of such a different body. He squats, those long, muscular thighs bending easily to bring him down to your level.
One big hand reaches out, brushing gently against your neck. You try not to shrink under the warmth and weight of it, your heart skipping a beat. Jake’s fingers close gently around your chin, long enough to wrap around your entire jaw as he turns your face back to him.
“Come on then, kid,” he murmurs, inviting you in with a tilt to his head. “Get familiar.”
You’d love to flirt back, to sass him back with all the snarky banter you usually share. But the words escape you, every tease dying on your tongue. Nerves make your mouth dry, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.
Taking one tentative step forward, then another, you edge your way towards Jake. He watches you with a twinge of amusement, the corner of his lips drawing up into a smirk. The bastard thinks it's funny how nervous his new form makes you. You resist the urge to scowl at him, bolstering your courage to reach out and touch.
Jake’s half-hard already, and your breath catches as your fingers brush against him. The skin of his dick is hot, hotter than you remember his human erections being. Before you can lose your nerve, you wrap your fingers around his base.
He’s so big in your hand, bigger than you ever pictured in your head. It makes sense, logically — Jake’s over eight feet now, of course his genitals would grow to match — but somehow your brain stutters at the difference.
It’s a lot similar to his human cock, in most ways. The shape is almost the same, discounting the size difference; a long shaft, slightly thicker in the center, tapering into a mushroom head. It’s blue, just like the rest of his skin, and striped in the same tabby-like patterns. As you get closer to the tip, his shaft darkens into a deeper shade of blue, then fades to the same pink as his nose and tongue right at the slit.
Trails of dotted bioluminescence, like those that freckle his cheeks and chest, swirl down the skin of Jake’s dick. If you’re not mistaken, they pulse in time with the throb of his length in your hand.
You stare down at it, unsure for a moment what to do.
“You’re… pretty.” you mutter dumbly, eyes following down the twisting trails of glowing freckles. Like little constellations.
Jake barks out a laugh, and your eyes snap up to him, startled by the sudden sound. He grins down at you, his sharp incisors glinting in the light of a nearby monitor. Your cheeks burn hotter, and your gaze darts away again, overcome by the sheer size and strangeness of him.
“Easy, sweet girl,” Jake coos, tilting your head back to him again, his fingers applying gentle pressure to your neck. “It’s just me, alright? ‘S nothing to be scared of. I’m glad you think I’m pretty.”
You nod, eyes dipping from that steady yellow gaze to where Jake’s cock lays heavy in your palms. His words do something to soothe the ball of nerves that’s knotted up in your stomach, smooth some of the tension from your shoulders. It’s just Jake. Nine feet tall and bright blue and half-hard, maybe, but it’s Jake.
“Can I…?” You start, the murmur trailing off into the quiet beeps and pings of the surrounding lab equipment. It feels like the first time all over again, everything about his body strange and new and thrilling, even as it wracks your nerves.
Jake nods a little too quick, like he’s eager to get your hands on his body. “Yeah, yeah sweetheart, lemme just-"
His hand closes around your wrist, coaxing you to drop your grip on his shaft. For a second, Jake's ears flicker back like he misses the contact, but he's already moving, tugging you out of the lab's main circle of monitors and link pods.
Jake leads you to a familiar off-shoot from the main lab, the avatar physical therapy room. It's a good spot, and you wonder why you haven't thought of it before, given that it's suited to fit Jake's unique requirements. The ceilings here are high enough to accommodate the greater height of Na'vi bodies, the floors padded with soft mats for the comfort of the avatar drivers as they work out whatever injuries or soreness they encounter during their time in their alternate bodies. There's a air-locked door that leads straight to the outside portion of the compound, where the gardens lay, and past them the avatar bunking, so that the drivers can come and go as they please. The air index is set for human needs, given that the avatars are often accompanied by doctors walking them through exercises, but you could let in the Pandoran atmosphere if needed.
Jake's bare feet pad against the soft give of the floor mats as he leads you into the room, the low night-shift safety lights flickering on as you enter. Pulling you forward, Jake slides down to the mat with a thump, his tail curling to the side. He leans back against the wall, spreading his long, striped legs wide.
“C’mere,” he grunts, pulling you forward by your wrist. Jake brings you down to his lap, settling you onto one of his thighs, propped up against his chest. He’s warm, and so large and solid behind your back. You’re tempted to burrow into his side and hide away from how your heart is racing, but Jake’s got other plans. “There’s a better angle. Knock yourself out, honey.”
You swallow, staring down at his cock, bobbing expectantly between his legs. Your own thighs press together as you shift, a hot trickle desire starting somewhere deep in your gut.
Jake’s pillowed his head with his arms, elbows jutting out as he leans back against the wall to watch you. His pupils have blown a little wider, black swallowing up some of the feline gold of his iris. It makes you shiver, being watched so intently like this, with a gaze that’s somehow wilder, more predatory than when he’s human.
You pause when you reach for him, eyes alighting on a patch of black hair that nestles above Jake’s dick. It’s not like the pubic hair on his human body, which leads in from a happy trail and expands out over his inner thighs. Just a small bit of hair, just above his erection.
Frowning thoughtfully, you tip your head up to Jake. “Do all Na’vi have that, or is that an avatar trait, like your eyebrows?”
Jake raises an aforementioned brow at you, looking faintly amused. “I don’t know, clever girl. I haven’t really seen any Omatikayan guys whipping it out recently.”
Your cheeks go pink, and you duck your head. Right.
Jake doesn’t seem to mind being poked at like a science experiment, though, because he only chuckles, placing his palm on the back of your head. It’s heavy, his fingers long enough to splay from one ear to the other, like he’s cradling your entire skull.
“Keep goin’,” he encourages, threading his fingers into your hair. “It’s all yours.”
Warmth pools in your gut, and you can’t help the small smile the curls at the edges of your mouth. You hadn’t been sure about exploring Jake’s avatar, but the longer you look, the more you find that you want him.
Your enthusiasm is echoed in Jake, who keeps his eyes trained on every nervous shift you make. His sharp gaze doesn't leave you, even as he brings his respirator up to sip the air.
You press your side into Jake’s chest, leaning on him as support as you focus between his thighs. The hand he had resting on your head slips down, snaking around your waist to hold you steady. Jake must feel the shuddering breath you suck in when you take him into your hands again, fingers trembling with an electrifying mix of nerves and desire.
Using both hands now, you can feel more of him, the weight and heat of his erection. The first thing that strikes you is how soft Jake is. Not literally — he’s certainly well on his way to full-mast — but his skin. The planes of blue are silky, smoother and softer than human skin. Curious, you reach one hand to stroke down his stomach and find the same texture there.
Jake’s stomach muscles tense and relax under your touch, fluttering with the trail of your fingertips. On a whim, you brush your fingers back up his stomach, testing to see if he’s ticklish. You’re rewarded with a gruff laugh; a puff of amused air that ruffles the hair on top of your head.
“Gettin’ distracted?” Jake snickers, his tail flicking once behind him. You huff, the soft stroke of your fingers turning into a sharp jab as you prod at his stomach.
“Impatient,” You reprimand, though when you look up at him, Jake's grinning, completely unphased.
The hand around your waist tightens, his fingertips digging into the softness of your flank like a reminder. You roll your eyes at him, but obey nonetheless, sliding both palms back over his dick.
Running our fingers down Jake’s length, you notice that as he’s gotten harder ridges and bumps have raised along his length. They start at the base of his shaft, then lead down until they stop just before the flare of his tip, giving his dick a texture that’s far different from his human counterpart.
At first, you think they’re veins, thick and close to the surface. When you push your thumb down, testing them slightly, they don’t roll under the skin like a vein would, but instead keep their shape. You curl in a little closer, inspecting them with fascination.
They must be permanent ridges, natural raised twists that rib down his length. It almost puts you in mind of how a tree root gnarls, but it’s prettier than that, and more uniform, too. Each ridge is mirrored on the other side of his dick, creating a twining pattern. In passing, you wonder if the ridges are unique to each Na’vi male, but you’re quickly distracted by the thought of how that ribbing will feel rubbing against your insides. The notion makes you shudder, your thighs pressing together against the heat that grows there.
There’s an answering groan above you, and your eyes snap up to Jake, distracted for a moment. He’s stopped watching you, eyes closed, his head tipped back against the wall as your hands explore. Underneath you, his thigh is tense, the corded muscles tightening in reaction.
“Oh,” you breathe, looking down at where your thumbs press along two of his ridges. Curious, you slide the pads of your thumbs up the ribbing again, tracing the pattern with a firmer grip. “There?”
Jake’s hips jerk up once at the stimulation, thrusting his cock through your fingers. The movement jostles you, and your head snaps up, eyes fixed on Jake. He moans again, his brow wrinkling with effort.
“Yeah,” he grunts, his eyes opening to meet yours. With a touch of pride, you see his gaze has gone a little heavy-lidded, the rise and fall of his chest picking up speed. “Yeah, right there, baby.”
Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you readjust your grip, starting from the very base. He’s hard, and so hot under your hands, warmth that spreads into your palms. As you trace his ridges down to the very tip, Jake grunts under the attention. His fingers tighten at your waist, keeping you crushed close against him.
A dribble of precum leaks from his tip, beading at the sweet pink slit. At first, you think it’s only shining in the light of the lab’s running monitors, reflecting back the glow of the computers. But as you bend closer, you can see it’s got a luster of its own, glowing faintly in the dark. Like the bioluminescent freckles that are painted across his cheeks and legs and chest, his precum is phosphorescent, the light tinged with blue.
“Like little stars…” you murmur, recalling your thought from earlier as your eyes flicker between the dots on his shaft and inner thighs, then back to his pretty precum. You’re close enough now that your warm breath washes over Jake’s cockhead, and he jolts at the feeling, dick twitching up on its own.
“Glad you like it,” Jake says, but he’s goading you through gritted teeth. Obviously, letting you play with his cock is working him up more than he cares to admit. He rocks his hips up into your hands, dragging the hot weight of his dick through where your palms cup him. "How 'bout some hands-on appreciation?"
You roll your eyes at him despite yourself. Experimentally, you pump him once, using both hands and twisting slightly at the tip, the way you know he likes as a human. Jake’s snarking cuts off quickly, and he groans, his leg tensing underneath you. “Fuck, baby..”
Emboldened by his reaction, you swipe your thumb over his tip. A bead of precum comes away on the pad of your thumb, and you hold it up to your face. It keeps its iridescence, glowing faintly against your skin.
You look up at Jake, and find him already watching you, his eyes wide. Behind him, Jake's tail lashes, thumping enthusiastically against the floor mat. If you weren't feeling so worked up, you'd crack a joke about his dogged eagerness, but you're already antsy yourself.
Slowly, making sure his eyes are still on you, you raise the pad of your thumb to your mouth and lick.
There’s hardly enough to get a real taste, but what you can savor is surprisingly pleasant. Jake’s precum isn’t salty or bitter like a human’s, though it still has that undercurrent of musk; it's earthier, almost aromatic.
Beside you, Jake lets out a shaky exhale, his chest dipping. You can feel his cock jump, twitching against your thigh, and it sends of a jolt of heat between your legs.
“Goddamn,” he hisses, his voice hoarse. “You’re drivin’ me up the wall, sweetheart. Are you about done exploring?”
You swallow thickly, your hand dropping away from your lips. Done implies moving on to the next step, something you’re not quite sure of. All of the bravado you’ve built up playing with Jake’s dick leaves you, the little ball of nerves tightening in your stomach.
“I- I guess so,” you mutter, ducking your head under his chin. You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on it uncertainly. It’s not as if sex with Jake is an unfamiliar thing. But this, sitting on the lap of a giant blue alien, is far beyond your realm of expertise. It’s a little ridiculous, given that it’s part of your job description to study his biology, but the newness of it all makes you skittish.
Jake’s hand slides up from your side, smoothing over your upper back. It’s a soothing touch, and he leans down to where you’re curled into his side, still propped up on his thigh.
“Second thoughts, honey?” he asks, nuzzling his face into your hair. Jake’s nose is flatter now, sloping down into a blunt feline tip, and he presses it against the top of your head. The sensation reminds you of a huge cat, nudging into your face for attention.
“No,” you start, though your voice pitches higher at the end of the word. You try again, swallowing down the dryness in your throat. “No, I just…”
You stare down at his cock, bobbing expectantly against his stomach. You want to touch it more, you do. You’ve already grown slick between your thighs, and every time your legs clench, the pressure sends a little ripple of pleasure up into your gut. But…
"I don’t really know what to do,” you whisper. A little humiliated at the confession, you tuck your head into Jake’s chest, cheeks burning. His hand slows on your back, long fingers resting lightly on your spine. “I mean, I know, but I…”
Jake shushes you, cooing softly into your ear. His breath ghosts over your cheek, warm and close and rumbling. With a rush of affection, you realize he's purring like a loved-up feline, the vibrations reverberating through his chest and into you. It's a surprisingly charming sensation, almost ticklish.
“S’okay, honey. I’ve got plenty of ideas on what I wanna do to you,” Jake promises, and the rumble of his voice so close makes you shudder. “Let me take care of it.”
You find yourself nodding against his chest, relief smoothing out some of the tension in your shoulders. Desire pools in your gut, and you slide your thighs together instinctively. You’d almost forgotten the whole reason Jake had initiated this was to fuck you in ways he couldn’t in his human body. Whatever he’s about to do, he must have been thinking about it for a while, and the prospect has your stomach tightening pleasantly.
Jake takes his cue, and the hand he had stroking down your spine shifts, wrapping tightly around your waist. He hauls you up off of his thigh, the movement startling a little gasp out of you. Jake’s always been strong, but he moves you so easily now, manhandling you like nothing more than a doll.
He sets you back in his lap, facing his front now. Coaxing you to his chest, Jake moves so your knees bracket his hips, forcing your thighs apart, and you flush, feeling exposed.
If Jake notices your embarrassment, he doesn't bother to pay it any mind, already tugging at the hem of your shirt. His knuckles brush against the bare skin of your ribs as he makes an impatient noise, itching to get you undressed. "C'mon, kid, don't make me wait."
You laugh at his eagerness, but help him regardless, lifting your arms over your head so he can pull the fabric up and off. The shirt is instantly discarded, tossed carelessly across the PT room. Your bra doesn't survive much longer, Jake reaching behind you with practiced familiarity to undo it. To give him credit, you're a little surprised his new big fingers are nimble enough to unhook the clasps.
Jake sucks in a breath the moment your chest is bare, his tail giving a harsh thwack against the wall. Reading Jake's familiar expressions in an avatar's face is novel to you, and you're not quite sure that you've got every cue down, but the look he's got now is unmistakable. His eyes round into wide, excited circles, his pointed ears perking up and swiveling towards you, pricked for the sound of your breathing, drinking in the way the hush of air matches the rise and fall of your bare breasts.
Jake is hungry, his eyes greedy as they rove across your naked skin.
He doesn't bother asking for permission — your body is far more familiar to him than his avatar is to you, after all — a huge blue hand coming up to cup one of your tits. You let out a soft noise of gratification as he kneads at the soft flesh, making Jake's ears twitch. His hands are calloused, much like they are in his human body, palms rough from weeks of training in the forest, toughened by constant climbing and shooting his bow.
Unlike his human hands, though, is the sheer size of him. Jake's palm is big enough to cover almost the entirety of your breast as he fondles you, oversized fingertips pressing firmly into the suppleness. His other hand slides behind your back, forearm bracing behind you to keep you in a steady hold.
"Gotta get my mouth on these," Jake rumbles, ducking his head to do just that. He presses kisses to the top of your tit, then down the valley between the swell of your breasts. Every brush of his lips against your skin seems to tingle, and when he drags a fang lightly down the curve of your underboob, you shiver. Jake looks up at you at he works, taking in the fluttering of your eyelashes with a smug smirk.
"You've got such pretty tits, baby," he praises, lips hot against your sensitive skin. His tail undulates slowly behind him, flicking in satisfaction. "My perfect woman."
You hum, head tilted down to watch him. Jake's back is curved low to burrow into your breasts, and you slide your hands off of his shoulders to feel how the muscles of his chest flex in this position. Patting at his pectorals, you grin.
"You're not so bad yourself, Sully."
"Gee, thanks." Jake sniggers wryly. "You're a real charmer, aren'tcha?
You huff a little laugh at that, but the giggle quickly cuts into a groan as Jake finally brings his attention to your nipple, licking a warm stripe over the budded peak. He's quick to repeat the motion, the broad, flat plane of his tongue rasping over the nub again and again. The feeling of his avatar's tongue is unlike anything you've experienced before, hot and soft, but almost barbed, catching at little on your skin. It's addictive, and you push your chest up into Jake's mouth without thinking about it.
Jake growls in approval, parting his lips to suck your nipple into his mouth. A soft sigh slips from your lips as he suckles, the pressure sweet and sating. It stokes the pleasure in your gut, heat flaring low in your tummy. You can already feel how slick you're getting, the wetness between your legs growing from the way your thighs are stretched open over Jake's hips and the attention he's lavishing on your chest.
"Jake…" you murmur, hand coming up to rake through his hair. He's changed it some since he started training with the Omatikaya, little black braids hanging down in front of his ears where he used to let it hang loose. When he doesn't look up, too busy mouthing at your tits, you tug lightly on one of his braids.
Jake's eyes flick up to yours, and he grins around your nipple, lips curving against the swell of your breast. His smirk is far too pleased, especially for a man who's currently suckling needily at your bosom.
"Impatient," he smirks, echoing your earlier tease. His mouth pops off of your tit, leaving the rosy nub wet and peaked. Jake's tongue swipes over his lips, a flash of fang glowing white in the PT room's low light. "Why can't you just take what I give you, huh?"
You scowl at him, squirming in his lap to scoot yourself further up his thighs. He's being such a dick, teasing you like this when he knows you've been getting worked up over this for weeks. First and foremost, you've been worried about getting caught, but underneath that worry, there's been a growing thrill about how new all of this is going to be. While it's still Jake underneath all that muscle and sinew and prehensile tail, the fact that his alien body is strikingly different is undeniable.
Will you even be able to fit him? You're dubiously uncertain, given the new size difference between the two of you. Maybe you ought to have a less tentative grasp on the concept, given it's your job to study avatar biology, but the thought of applying those theories to your own body is daunting. It's not like Na'vi/human sexual explorations are catalogued research, after all.
You want to find out, though, and Jake is taking forever to get there.
"You're going so slow," you grumble, pulling insistently on his braid again. You roll your hips down experimentally, trying to get some friction from where you're straddling Jake's hard-on. The pressure is good, but your pants and underwear block any real progress, and you whine. "Come on, Jake."
Jake only smirks, grabbing ahold of your hips. He stops your movements easily, thumbs pressing hard against the jut of your hipbones as he halts your grinding.
"Quit whining," he snickers, leaning in to nip at the tender skin at the corner of your jaw. "I've gotta get you ready; you're so small. Don't wanna hurt you."
You huff, rolling your eyes. In theory, you know it's because Jake really does care about you, doesn't want to damage anything in his eagerness with this big, brawny new body. But there's an undertone to his voice that's smug, a little tilt to his mouth that tells you exactly how pleased with himself he truly is. Like he's fooling anyone — you can feel his erection pressed to your thigh, hot and heavy.
"You're just being a dick and drawing this out to make me squirm."
Jake doesn't deny it, the corners of his big, yellow-green eyes crinkling up. "It's working, isn't it?"
Leveling him with a glare, you reach up and flick at one of his pointed ears. "At least get me naked, Sully."
Jake's got no protests for that particular order, only grinning ferally as he wraps his hands back around your waist. With a grunt, he hoists you up off of his lap, giving you enough room to shimmy out of your pants. The fabric bunches around your ankles as you struggle to kick it off, and Jake tugs them off fully with an impatient jerk. They're discarded just like your other clothes were — tossed to some dark corner of the PT room without a thought.
When it gets to your panties, though, Jake gives pause. You're already starting to draw them down, but Jake's palm presses against your fingers, stopping your fingers where they're wrapped around the waistband.
It's a lacy little pair, something cute you dug up from the corners of your military-standard wardrobe. Jake slips a finger under the elastic, pulling it forward and let it snap back to your skin. You give a little yelp, then glare at him, but he's not paying your complaint much mind at all, too entranced by the slope of your cunt under the sheer fabric.
"Cute," he croons, swiping a thumb across where one of the straps arcs up over your hip. You're slightly mollified by the attention. You have put thought into this, after all, given how important it seemed to Jake when he first brought it up. You went to the trouble of finding a matching set and everything, though Jake hadn't really noticed the details of your bra in his eagerness to get to your tits.
Jake's eyes flicker back up to you, his tongue darting out to draw across the tip of one of his fangs. The grin he gives you is wolfish, pleased with your little performance. "You dressed up for me?"
You can't help but smile back, cheeks heating under his stare. "You like it?"
Jake's eyes slide back down to the curve of your pubic bone, his finger tracing along the waistband to the front of your panties. He twiddles with the tiny bow that's sewn to the front, a purr reverberating up from his chest.
"'Course I do. Pretty things for my pretty girl."
You wiggle in Jake's lap, shifting your weight across the striped blue skin of his thighs. It's a bit of a novelty for you to be able to prop yourself up like this across his legs, to find warm muscle underneath you. Jake doesn't bother to correct your movement this time, just running a teasing fingertip down to where the fabric of your panties cuts into the flesh of your ass.
"Yeah, well, I thought we could match," you quip, reaching for the respirator mask slung around Jake's neck. He breathes in obediently when you lift it to his mouth, like he'd forgotten it was there entirely in favor of savoring your newly-bared skin. "You're the one who showed up in just a thong, remember?"
Jake barks a laugh, his expression twitching into something wry. He bats away the respirator, nose crinkling at you in a play at indignation.
"Smartass," he says, voice warm with affection. "Didn't hear you complaining about my tewng earlier."
It's true — when you'd radioed Jake earlier this evening, whispering to him over comms that the lab was clear, you hadn't been prepared to see him pop up in all of his loincloth-clad glory. As much as you like the human Jake, with his worn band t-shirts and Marine Corps hoodies, you have to admit that going Na'vi was a good look for him. He hasn't earned his cummerbund yet, so his attire is simple; a leather loincloth of animal hide that hangs low around his hips, his knife sheath, and a few woven armbands twined around his biceps, highlighting the muscle there. He'd flexed, smirking at you. "Fashionable, huh?"
You can't deny it, so you just scrunch your nose at him, annoyed at being called out. "Whatever. Not my fault you look good in your little Na'vi panties."
Chuckling, Jake just palms your ass, giving the soft flesh a firm squeeze in retribution. He's not going to waste more time squabbling with you, not when there's so much more he wants to do with you tonight, finally getting what he wants in this better body. Especially not when you're in his lap, pretty and flushed and smelling so good.
Jake ducks his head, shoulders curling down so he can press his face against your ribs. He takes a deep inhale, his nostrils flaring as he sucks in a lungful of air. When his eyes open, darting to your face, and then back down to your cunt, Jake's pupils have blown wide.
"Fuck," he groans, ears pinning straight back to his skull. "Fuck, mama, I gotta-"
Whatever he's gotta do is lost on you as Jake moves swiftly, heaving you up and off his lap. You squeak in surprise as Jake plops you back down on the ground, one big hand pushing your chest down, forcing you to lay flat. You go down hard enough to leave you winded, breath forced out of you in a puff.
"Jake-" you start to protest, struggling to your elbows, but he silences you with a firm palm on your stomach, keeping you pinned down.
"Quiet," he murmurs, shifting to his knees as he crawls towards you, pushing his head up between your legs. "Just be still."
Swallowing hard, your throat clicks as you comply, suddenly lost for words. Jake's shoulders are so broad, forcing your thighs open with ease. Not for the first time tonight, you feel as though you're spread wide open for him, bared for those big yellow eyes. The damp patch that's been growing on the crotch of your underwear feels cold suddenly, exposed to the conditioned air.
Jake keeps his hand steady on your stomach as he leans in, nose bumping up along your pelvis. His breath ghosts hot and close over the wet fabric, making your legs jerk instinctively closer around his head. He doesn't even bother to tease you, too busy worming his way in deeper between your legs.
It's not until he pushes the blunt tip of his nose directly against your crotch and snuffles that you realize what he's doing.
"Jake!" You squawk in protest, then clap your hand over your mouth, looking around the darkened lab like Grace is going to coming flying around the corner at any minute, HR violation paperwork in hand. When none of your coworkers appear outside the glass doorway of the PT room to investigate your noise, you turn your gaze back on Jake, eyes wide.
He's still totally engrossed between your legs, sucking in big breaths through his nostrils. There's absolutely nothing repentant about the way he nuzzles at the crux of your thighs, sniffing enthusiastically at your underwear, nose pressing against where your panties stick to your slick folds.
You squeeze your thighs around his big, dumb, blue head, trying to ward him off, but Jake only grunts, your effort completely lost on him. Damn him, and damn this size difference.
"Stop smelling me," you whisper furiously, still a little paranoid in the quiet of the PT room. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Jake pauses in his sniffing long enough to grin up at you, running the hand that's not pinning you down up the inside of your thigh, callouses brushing over your skin. He uses it to coax your legs apart again, urging you to open up around his head.
"Can't help it," he purrs, ears twitching against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, the tips ticklish. "I've been smelling you all night. Didn't even realize it was you, 'til I got those stupid pants off. Thought it was just some new perfume."
That's new.
Of course, you'd both known that Jake's senses would be heightened in his avatar, scent and taste and touch beyond human experience. He can even see better than you right now, his gold-green eyes so much larger than yours, pupils expanded to suck in every trace of light in the dark.
Even with the weeks he's spent training with Neytiri, Jake's not completely used to this new body he gets to pilot. In his avatar, everything seems ramped up by a tenfold, his eyes and ears and nose so much more responsive than anything he's felt as a human. Parts of his body behave in strange ways, often against his bidding; his ears pricking high and forward when he's interested, pinning back when he's scolded, or his new tail always thrashing around with a mind of it's own.
You like Jake's new little tells, truth be told. He's not the type of guy who makes too much of a fuss about expressing his own emotions, often leaving you to pick up on his feelings from the little half-glances and cocked smiles he sends your way. But in his avatar, Jake doesn't have as much reign on his reactions. Every expression is bigger, bolder, harder to control, and while it frustrates Jake, you find it sweet. You can tell how he's feeling even if he's clumsily attempting to hide it, betrayed by his overactive tail and swiveling ears and cute sloped nose.
Somehow, though, you hadn't thought about Jake's new sensitivities exposing anything about you. It makes you blush, embarrassed at the thought of your own neediness being so obvious that he could smell it.
If you think about it, though, it makes sense that he can pick up on the scent of the arousal that's growing between your legs, sexed up enough to wet the crotch of your panties. And there's probably a biological reason why he'd be so attracted to the smell of a female ready to mate, though it's fascinating that that reaction applies to humans as well, not just Na'vi women. Is it because he's an avatar, his human DNA affecting his perception? Or perhaps he's subconsciously adjusted to your pheromones, given your established relationship? Shit, you'd really, really like to write this down-
Jake rudely interrupts your train of thought by licking over the damp spot on your panties, pressing the flat of his large tongue against the fabric. You jump, a surprised gasp tearing out of your throat at the wet pressure. Jake laughs into your cunt, the sound muffled against your underwear. A part of you wants to grind down into his tongue, seek out his mouth through the cloth, but your dignity is still smarting.
"You could smell me this whole time?" you ask, peering down at Jake between your legs. Heat rises to your cheeks as Jake pulls his head away from your crotch, leaning his cheek up against the pillow of your thigh. His nostrils are still flared, his breath a little too deep to be innocuous.
"Yeah, of course," he says casually, like he isn't telling you that your pussy stinks. He catches your sour look and smirks, his huge hands sliding down from your stomach to grasp onto your thighs. He squeezes the meat of your legs. "Relax, it's a compliment. It smells… sweet."
You suck your lower lip into your mouth, gnawing on it uncertainly. It's a new concept, and a slightly embarrassing one, but you can't accuse Jake of lying about how much he likes it. His tail waves enthusiastically behind him, and his eyes are earnest as he looks up at you.
"I promise, you smell good," Jake assures. His head dips down again, groaning as he inhales. "Shit, it's so good."
"This is weird," you complain, shoving his head back with the heel of your palm. "You're weird, Sully."
Jake huffs, pressing his forehead back insistently into your hand. "Sex with an alien, baby. What'd you expect?"
Fair point. You could argue the semantics on whether Jake actually counts as an alien, since he's technically human in everything but body. But his breath is puffing hot across the apex of your thighs, stirring the fine hair there, and the wet spot on your panties is starting to bother you.
"Did you set this up just to sniff me, then?" you challenge, narrowing your eyes as you look down at Jake. He grins, flashing you his sizable canines, like he thought you'd never ask.
"No," he murmurs, nosing in to give the crotch of your panties a quick kiss. "I didn't."
He gives your thighs another squeeze, fingertips pressing in hard before he slides his hands up to the lacy straps of your underwear. Hooking his fingers under, he pulls your panties down over the slope of your hips, guiding them off your ankles and throwing them with the rest of your clothes.
Jake nestles between your legs, settling there like he's got every right to take up the space. Laying flat on his tummy, he grabs your thighs and hoists them up over his freakishly broad shoulders, forcing a little squeak out of your mouth.
For a moment, he just gazes down at the slickness of your cunt, looking impossibly smug, like he's proud of how wet he's gotten you. You squirm under the attention, kicking your feet against the strong planes of his back. "Jesus, Jake, stop staring-"
A moan interrupts your tirade, tearing from your chest as Jake finally puts his mouth on you. He licks a broad stripe from your dripping hole all the way up to your clit, parting your folds around the firm muscle of his tongue.
If you'd thought the barbed texture of his tongue had been good while he'd been mouthing at your tits, it's even better against your pussy. Every lap drags a little at the hyper-sensitive skin, forcing your legs to twitch around his head as your gasp.
And Jesus, his tongue is so big, nearly able to cover your entire cunt when he opens wide. When Jake flattens it, you can feel the wet heat all the way from your swollen clit down to your entrance, like he could suck all of you into his mouth.
Now that Jake's finally decided to touch you, he's eating you out in earnest, licking and suckling and biting. He's already got an arsenal of tricks up his sleeve, given the amount of times you've done this before, little things he knows get you off. Usually, he takes longer teasing you, kissing and nipping at your pussy lips to work you up, but he's too eager tonight.
Jake's eyes are wide open as he buries his face in your pussy, huge and yellow like pretty twin moons, watching you from between your legs. The intensity of his gaze, paired with the pressure of his nose bumping against your clit as he curls his tongue into your hole, is enough to get your chest heaving.
You hide your face in your hands, overwhelmed by the barbed rasp of his tongue and the sight of his mouth working eagerly. Pleasure is coiling up in your gut embarrassingly fast, snapping taut like a cable. You're just starting to rock into his mouth, fingers pressed over your eyes, when Jake lifts his lips away from your cunt. Snapped from your haze, you whine with the sudden loss and peek out from between your fingers to look at him.
Jake's eyebrows are knitted as reaches up to your face, snagging both of your wrists in one large, striped hand. He yanks your fingers away with a frown, the lower half of his face wet with your slick.
"Eyes on me, pretty," he complains, nipping at the fat of your inner thigh in reprimand. He's careful not to let his fangs draw blood, but when he sucks a mark on top of the indents of his teeth, you know he's intent on leaving a bruise. "I wanna see."
"Okay, okay," you nod, your movements jerky and impatient as Jake's teeth worry at your delicate skin. Your hips twitch around his head in a silent plea, and he finally unlatches, pressing a hasty kiss to the hickey he's left before he's devouring you again.
Your hips cant up, trying to grind against his face, and Jake purrs in satisfaction, the vibration rumbling through his lips into you, shooting up your stomach. It makes you cry out, over and over, breathy little mewls that you try and fail to hold in. You don't know exactly how loud you're being in quiet darkness of the PT room, sound muffled by the blood that's rushing in your ears, but you know you're not being quiet.
Jake doesn't seem to mind at all, his pointed ears swiveling forward every time he makes you gasp or moan. It tickles against the skin of your inner thighs, making a delirious giggle bubble out of your chest. Jake looks up at the sound of your breathless laughter, grinning against your folds, his tail giving a happy beat against the matted floor.
"Feels good, baby?" he asks, pulling away for a moment. He presses a kiss to the curve of your pubic mound, lips soft against the tender skin.
"Uh-huh," you mumble, already starting to feel dazed just from his mouth. You dig your ankles into his back, pressing against his shoulder blades to urge him back between your legs. "Your giant tongue is fuckin' awesome."
Jake rolls his eyes at you, his hands squeezing at your hips reflexively. He releases his grip on you for a moment, snagging his respirator from where it hangs around his neck and bringing it up to his mouth. "Idiot."
You only grin, pushing yourself up higher on your elbows to get a better look at him as he sucks in a couple breaths. He's so pretty, his avatar attractive in a way you didn't expect. Honestly, you only regarded his other body with curiosity before he suggested fucking you with it, but now that you're actually doing the damn thing, you can't deny the appeal. Of course, it's helped by the fact that he's currently got his head burrowed between your legs.
"You ready for a little more?" Jake asks, letting the mask fall back to his chest. His hands return to your thighs, fingers nearly long enough to wrap around your entire leg.
You nod, swallowing thickly. Some of your confidence has worked up since Jake first pulled out his dick, and while the logistics of actually putting that thing inside you are still a little baffling, your curiosity outweighs your trepidation.
Jake hums in approval as he lowers his lips back to your cunt, the vibrations sending a pleasant shiver up your spine. He points his tongue to swirl little circles around your clit, and you suck in a harsh breath, heat shooting down from your gut to the tips of your toes.
With one hand, Jake pushes your thighs farther apart, breaking the cocoon they've made around his head, and with the other, he traces a finger around your hole. You bite your lip, resisting the urge to keen as you rock your hips up into his hand, begging for more.
When Jake finally pushes his finger in, it rips a moan from your throat, the sound wanton as he sinks his digit in up to the knuckle. You're more than wet enough, slick with your arousal and his spit, but the stretch is still a surprise. His hands are much larger now, and it feels like you've got two fingers inside you instead of just the one.
Jake crooks his finger inside you, prodding gently at the soft squishiness of your inner walls. He can reach a little further inside you now, and his touch is exploratory as he keeps his mouth busy at your clit, lapping dutifully.
You groan, eyes slipping shut again as Jake works his finger in and out, building up a nice little rhythm. He matches every thrust of his finger with a swipe of his tongue, coaxing soft mewls out from your chest.
You're unprepared for the second finger Jake adds, and your eyes fly open, gasping from the sting of the stretch.
"Shit — Jake!" you yelp, hands scrabbling to get a hold in his hair. Two of his fingers together are thick, and tears prick at the corner of your eyes as he worms himself in. Your hips jerk at the pressure, like your body's not quite sure if it wants to run away or seek him out.
"So whiny," Jake murmurs, his other hand gripping tighter onto your thigh, forcing you still. "You can take this, kid, no problem."
You can take it, but it doesn't stop you from tugging on his hair in revenge. Jake grumbles, nipping at your clit, the sharp point of his fangs making you clench down hard around his fingers with a gasp.
Jake works you slow, driving his fingers in unhurried and measured. You start to relax again, body sucking him in eagerly now as the burn fades to sating fullness. Wet noises squelch between you, loud enough in the quiet of the sleeping lab to make you blush.
The fist you had in his hair gentles, petting down his head as it bobs between your thighs. Your fingers card through Jake's soft black hair, eyes catching on the thick braid that snakes down his back, protecting his neural queue. You know the Na'vi use their kurus for connection when they're mating — you can't link up to Jake, but you wonder if playing with it a little could get him off, too.
You tamp down on the urge to reach for it and find out, not wanting to interrupt Jake when his tongue is flicking just right. Maybe next time, you think, and the coil of heat inside you only grows at the thought of next time.
Your interest is quickly reverted as Jake's long, prodding fingers find a familiar notch inside you. A thrill races through your stomach as he presses there, his eyes meeting yours in a question for approval.
"Oh, God," you groan, biting down on your bottom lip. You worry it between your teeth, brow drawing down in concentrated pleasure. "Right there, Sully-"
Without missing a beat, Jake returns to it, rubbing hard against the softness of your walls. Ecstasy rocks through you as you grind down onto his fingers, your body shuddering in pleasure. Jake moans in response, his tail undulating eagerly and flicking across the bottoms of your feet where they're thrown over his shoulders.
Heat is building up quick in your gut now, amplifying with every crook of Jake's fingertips. He switches from flicking his barbed tongue across your clit, wrapping his lips around the sensitive bud instead and suckling. You cry out, your hand tightening in his hair as you grow closer and closer to the edge.
"Jake- Jake, I'm close-" you pant, humping your hips against his face as he works his fingers in and out. His elbow knocks against your knee as he thrusts, but you can hardly feel it, every nerve in your body seeming to condense in your cunt.
"C'mon, give it to me," Jake mumbles, words sloppy and muffled by your pussy. "Give it to me, pretty." The reverberations have you reaching a little higher, chest heaving for breath as your face screws up.
Your legs lock up around Jake's head, crushing tight around his jaw as you start to tip over. He hardly seems to notice, giving a particularly harsh suck to your clit as he drives his fingers home one more time.
"I'm gonna- I'm gonna-"
Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, the heat that's been pooling in your gut spilling over all at once. A soft cry tears from your throat as the pleasure blinds you, your thighs shaking around Jake's head, your hole clenching hard and hungry around his fingers.
Jake doesn't stop, just keeps working you through your climax, the soft plap of his fingers barely legible through the buzzing in your ears. Your pussy flutters around him, walls pulsing as you come down from your high.
He scissors his fingers inside you, just to stretch you out a little bit more for good measure, and doesn't quit till you're smacking at his chest, whining from overstimulation. Only then does Jake lift his head from your cunt, his satisfied smile wet with his salvia and your juices.
"Enjoy yourself?" he teases, pulling his fingers out from your hole. Your breath catches at the loss, coming quick and uneven from your orgasm.
"Asshole," you complain weakly, pushing on his collarbone. Your tiny human hand does nothing to budge him, and you sigh. "Yes."
Jake purrs, crawling up over your body to see you eye-to-eye. You lie bonelessly beneath him as he holds himself up on his forearms, your body turned to a pleasant mush. It feels like all the warmth that had built up in your stomach has spread out through your body, making your fingers and toes and head feel fuzzy and warm.
Jake dips his head down for a kiss, and you accept him easily, opening up to let him slot his lips over yours. His tongue feels just as big in your mouth as it did on your pussy, licking the backs of your teeth as he makes you taste yourself.
When he finally breaks away, Jake presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your cheek. He trails across your face, rubbing his mouth and chin over your skin, his chest still rumbling in that proud purr. The spit and slick that wet his lips get smeared over your skin, and you scrunch your face up at him.
"Ew, Jake. You're making me all gross."
"You're already gross," Jake snarks, prodding you in the side with one of his fingers, still slippery with your juices. You scowl, twisting and turning underneath him to get away from his poking. It's futile, and Jake's already smushing his face against yours again, his nose pressing into your cheek. "This is all you, baby."
Jake's clearly enjoying how small you are underneath him, pinned in easily by his big warm body and unable to shove him off. Ignoring your protest, he just keeps nosing at you, rubbing his cheek over your jaw, inhaling deep at the crook of your neck.
You grumble something incoherent, but your post-orgasm bliss makes it hard to hold onto any irritation. Stretching your legs out until your toes tremble, you yawn underneath Jake, basking in the gratifying afterglow of a good climax.
The soft rush of breath ruffles Jake's hair, and he looks up from where he's been nuzzling insistently into your collarbone, the corner of his mouth quirked up.
"Tired already?" he goads, sitting up above you to give himself more room. Settling back onto his haunches, Jake keeps his eyes trained on you, drinking in the sight of you shifting and stretching lazily on the PT mats.
"Whatever," you say, cupping a hand in front of your mouth as another yawn wracks through your body. Jake just snickers, shifting to scoot back and widen his thighs.
"You're not done yet," he reminds you, reaching between his legs. Your gaze follows the movement, chest tightening a fraction as you watch him wrap a hand around the base of his cock.
"Oh," you breathe, the words coming out in a wheeze. "Right."
Between your fascinated curiosity about Jake's pretty alien avatar and the way he'd curled his tongue up your cunt, you'd gotten a little distracted from the original reason behind this whole illicit lab escapade. The ways he wanted to hold you, touch you, fuck you, that weren't possible with the handicaps of his human body.
Jake's laughing at how your eyes have widened, your fuzzy post-climax brain slow on the uptake. His grin only broadens as he pumps himself lazily, your eyes glued to his dick.
"What's wrong, pretty girl?" he coos, schooling his expression into mock-sympathy. "Nervous?"
"No," you insist, trying to force the waver out of your voice and sound snappish instead. You clamber up onto your elbows, glancing between Jake and his hips rocking up into his fist. "No, it's just-"
You turn your head away from him, trying to hide your cheeks glowing red. No human would be able to see it in the dark, but Jake's got better eyes now, and he always has a good read on you anyways. "You're just so big."
That earns you a delighted croon, Jake's tail swishing excitedly behind him as you stroke his ego. You face him again if only to glower at him, trying very hard to keep your eyes off the way his cock is still wrapped up in his fingers.
"Don't get a big head, Sully, I'm just talking about it logically," you snort, heaving yourself up to sit with a huff. You cross your arms over your bare chest as if to suppress the anticipation that's building behind your ribs. "Do you really think you can make it fit?"
The damage is already done from your compliment, because Jake's smirk doesn't drop. He'll be riding the high of 'you're so big' for a while, but he puts aside his ego for a moment to address your concern.
Dropping his grip around his base, he reaches out and snags you by the ankles instead, yanking you closer to him. You squawk in surprise, falling back on your butt as he drags you in by your legs. Thank God for the thick walls of the lab, because you've made a lot more noise than you planned to tonight, and Jake hasn't even started having his way with you.
Jake bullies his way between your legs for the second time tonight, hooking your calves up over his thighs and settling back on his haunches. He keeps his hands on the inside of your knees, palms warm against the skin as he spreads you out.
"Mmm…" Jake hums thoughtfully, squinting down at your pussy with an appraising eye. Embarrassment and indignation rise up in your chest, heating your face, and you squirm, trying to close your legs.
Jake doesn't let you, his hands holding firm on your knees, keeping your thighs bracketing either side of his waist. He leans in, hot breath washing over your clit, still sensitive from the orgasm he gave you a couple minutes prior.
"It'll fit," Jake declares, like he's been prospecting schematics instead of going eye to eye with your hole. "Maybe not all of it, but enough."
"Reassuring," you deadpan, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Jake rolls his eyes at you, letting go of one of your legs to flick you in the forehead.
"Thought you wanted this," he says, raising one of his dark eyebrows at you. One of those little human traits that carried over into his avatar, a bit of familiarity in the alienness. "Don't you wanna fuck a Na'vi, baby? You were all excited about my eyes and my fangs-"
You groan as Jake parrots your earlier words back to you, waving him off with a flustered hand. "Whatever, whatever! Let's just- let's just do it. Just… be nice, alright?"
Jake tilts his head as he looks down at you, trying to hide a smile. "I'm always nice."
"You know what I mean," you start, watching as he draws back to take himself in hand again, positioning his hips better between your legs. "I'm just no-"
You cut yourself off with a stuttering gasp as Jake guides his cock to your cunt, his blunt tip parting your folds. He doesn't push in yet, just drags his cockhead through the wetness, coating himself in your slick.
"Fuck," you groan, your head tipping back as his tip rolls over the bead of your clit, the pressure making stars burst behind your eyelids. "Fuck, Sully…"
Taking advantage of your neck being bared, Jake shuffles over you, keeping one hand on his cock while the other plants beside your head. He presses open-mouthed kisses across the line of your jaw, trailing down to where your throat works as you try to hold back a moan.
"Won't hurt you," Jake promises, the words mumbled into your skin as he keeps guiding his tip up and down over your clit, the blunt pressure making your nerves sing. "Gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart."
You whine in agreement, the noise coming out high-pitched and needy. Jake takes it for the invitation it is, adjusting his grip to slot his cockhead right over your entrance, lined up to breech you.
Your hole sucks greedily at his tip, already warm and wet around him. Jake grunts, his mouth falling opening against your neck, and he suckles another mark there, his tongue hot on your skin. It feels like your pulse rises up beneath the skin to meet him, heartbeat thrumming under his lips.
Slowly, Jake pushes in, sinking the flared tip into your pussy with a throaty groan of relief. Underneath him, your back arches on instinct, a choked, surprised noise falling from your lips. You're wet and you're loose from the earlier fingerfucking, but Jake is huge, far bigger than any human man, and your body is already struggling to adjust.
Jake abandons his grip on your knee to grasp at your hip instead, fingers digging firmly into the soft flesh. He grits his teeth, canines glinting faintly above you as he curbs the urge to just push past the resistance and slam home.
"Relax, baby, gotta relax if you want me to get it in," he instructs, pushing a little deeper into you. "Fuck, relax…"
You whimper, helpless against the burn as Jake pulls himself back, then tentatively pushes a bit farther, working his length inside. He's just barely past the flare of his pretty blue cockhead, and already you're trembling beneath him.
Endeavoring to obey, you suck in a couple shaky breaths, trying to force your muscles to loosen and let Jake in. Your hand comes up to clutch at the hand Jake has supporting himself beside your head, fingers wrapping around his wrist for support.
Raising his head from your neck, Jake looks down at the feeling of your tight grip around him. A endeared smile curves his lips, his ears flicked forward like you're the sweetest thing he's ever seen.
"Just like that," he coaches, still working himself in slow. There's a strain to his voice, and you know he's holding back for you, watching your tearful expression. "Perfect, just like that."
You keen at the instruction, toes curling. You feel so full, stretched beyond what you thought possible, your hole barely able to contract around Jake's dick. Your back is starting to strain from the arch you're holding, but you can't drop the position, instinctively searching for the right angle to ease Jake's entry.
Jake thrusts again, deeper this time, and a jolting pain shoots through your body. You cry out at the hurt, a sharper sting than the burn of adjustment, and Jake goes stock still, panting above you.
"Easy, easy," he soothes, the hand that's been pressing bruising fingertips into your hip coming up to smooth your hair out of your face. His gaze catches on the tears that are pooling in your eyes, threatening to spill over your lashes. "Breathe slow."
"Jake-" you choke out, your voice strangled by the tightness in your throat, a mirror for the tightness of your cunt. "Jake, I can't, I can't-"
"You can," Jake insists, pulling out just a bit to let you breathe. The pain dulls, but the pressure doesn't cease, leaving you crying and squirming around his dick. "You can take it, baby. You're gonna take it for me."
You shake your head, tears trickling in hot trails down your cheeks, but even as you protest, your hips are rocking in little aborted motions, begging for more without thinking. Jake's own hips adjust in turn, moving in tiny increments, carving out a space for himself inside you.
"That's it," Jake groans, his brows pinching down as the chokehold your cunt has on his shaft starts to loosen. He drops his head down, panting hot against your cheek as he murmurs. "Knew you'd do it. My girl, made to stretch for me, huh?"
You can only let out a garbled moan in response, all the words knocked out of your brain to make room for Jake. It feels like he's pushing up into your stomach, into your lungs, into your throat — like your whole body is filling up with him with each thrust.
Jake starts to move a little faster, sinking in deeper each time. Every time he pulls out, you feel the drag of his new ridges against your inner walls, ribbing up against the gummy flesh in a way that makes your thighs shake. The painful burn is starting to blur into pleasure now, heat building in your tummy even while you wipe tears from your cheeks with clumsy fingers.
Above you, Jake's breathing grows heavy, his ears pinned back flat to his head as he concentrates on getting himself in as deep as he can. It's been a long time since he's gotten to fuck a woman like this; since before he ended up in his wheelchair, and pairing that with all the heightened sensitivities of his Na'vi body is driving him wild.
"Tightest fuckin' thing I ever put my dick in," he grunts, snapping his hips up, tearing a squeal from your mouth. "Holy shit, baby, fits like a glove."
Whimpering, you snake your arms around his lithe waist, holding onto his back as he pistons in and out. Jake growls, his cock kicking inside you, putting a dull, hot ache low in your stomach. Your nails press into his skin, clinging onto the rolling muscles of his back and sure to leave raised marks.
Just like his tongue, Jake's dick is sending you spiraling with embarrassing speed, all dignity forgotten as your mouth falls open in a litany of moans and mewls. Jake finds your lips with his own, drinking in every breathless gasp of pleasure.
"Jake," you whine into his mouth, tasting the salt of your tears shared on each other's lips. "Oh, my God-"
He quiets you with another kiss, licking into your mouth needily. It feels like you're being filled in every hole, stretched open for him in every direction, and all you can do is focus on taking it, your legs and lips splayed open wide.
Using the hand that's not holding himself up, Jake slips his fingers under the arch of your spine, tracing down the bare skin. He palms the small of your back, fingers long enough to reach from the base of your spine and curl over your hip, urging you up so he can rut in at a new angle. You follow the press of his hand, groaning into the messy kisses he's still pressing against your mouth as your arch deepens.
The new angle lets Jake slip in just a bit further, another inch sucked in greedily by your cunt. You both moan together as your walls pulse around him, the ache in your gut twisting into pleasure from the friction. Jake pauses for a moment, your arms slackening around him as he sits back a bit to see how much of his cock has been swallowed up by your body.
"Good girl," he pants, pupils blown wide open at the pretty sight of your hole fluttering around him. He slips a hand between your bodies, thumb tracing over where you're stretched tight by his shaft, swiping up the pool of slick that you've leaked onto him. "Look at that, mama. Sucked me right in."
Not all of it fits — not yet, anyways, though Jake bets he could balls-deep with some practice and a little more stretching. But what you've taken tonight is already more than enough, only a few inches of his base left unsheathed in your plush heat.
You writhe beneath him, breasts heaving as you try to catch your breath. Jake's so deep now it feels like he's pushed out all your air, leaving you gasping and teary-eyed with your mouth lolled open. The part of your brain that's still capable of concentrating on something other than how much dick is currently splitting you open knows you must look stupid, mouth hanging open like a panting dog.
But Jake's eyes meet your face again, he groans, his cock jerking inside you and scraping up against your walls. He looks wrecked, strands of hair sticking to his sweat-damp forehead, his eyes half-lidded.
"You can't look at me like that," he grits between his teeth, driving his hips forward with a snap. The pitiful moan that it illicits from you doesn't do anything to help calm him, and Jake's hand tightens behind your back, fingers dimpling the soft flesh of your hip. "Tryna be nice."
You blubber as Jake thrusts, hard and sure into your core. The weight of his cock inside you has heat burning through your insides, growing a little hotter with every bit of friction he gives you. His respirator thumps against his chest, jarred by his movement.
More tears spring up when he stops again, slowing his thrusts with Herculean effort. He's still trying to take it slow, to give you something easy in return for letting him fuck you how he wants. It's torture, and your hands come up to his biceps, clinging in a desperate grip as you beg.
"Forget about nice, just- just move, Jake, please!" you blubber, and you might as well have given Jake the world.
Maybe if he hadn't been worn down by smelling your sweet slick the moment he'd stepped foot in the lab, or burying his head in your cunt and tasting your need bursting across his tongue, Jake would keep things slow.
As it is, you're beautiful and flushed and crying beneath him, your tight hole rippling around the hypersensitive ridges of his cock, and Jake doesn't have it in himself to draw this out any longer.
"Shit, okay," he breathes, and then he's on you, over you, inside you, and he's finally moving again. He strips his respirator mask from his neck, setting it down beside him and leaning forward to plant both his hands on either side of your head.
Jake draws himself out almost completely, just the tip of his cock left for you to clench around before he rams back in, forcing a breathless moan out of your lungs.
"Jake!" you cry out, hands scrabbling for purchase against his biceps, nails raking against his pretty blue skin. He grunts, letting you claw at him as he shifts his hips and slams home again. "Jake, oh my God, Jake!"
"That's my name, mama," he smirks, his fangs biting into his lower lip. "Don't wear it out."
Now that he's been given the go-ahead, Jake's doesn't hold himself back, devoted to finding a solid rhythm that'll make your legs shake. The weight and heat and girth of him feels like it's being seared into your insides, like the stretch is so tight your flesh is being molded to his.
Every thrust forces a little air from your chest, a little uh-uh-uh that you gasp in time to the push and pull of Jake's cock. You've given up on trying to cling to your apprehension about fucking in the lab, letting every little mewl and sob past your lips. If one of your coworkers found their way in here now, drawn by the pathetic noises you're making, you think you'd be too fucked-out and full to notice.
You let the solid rocking of Jake's hips sweep you up, eyes going half-lidded and tear-blurred as he spears his dick into you again and again. Your legs twitch around his waist, hooked over the muscle tone of his thighs as he drives into your pussy. All you can think about is the coil of heat that's growing tighter and tighter in your belly, the ache that's been growing since he worked you open.
One of Jake's hands slips back down your body, stroking over the sweaty skin of your side. He pauses to grope of at one of your tits for a moment, tweaking your nipple to make you shudder and squeeze around his cock, and the noise you make has his cock jumping inside you.
Grasping lower, he finds your hip again and digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise. He drags you down to meet his thrusts, jerking you on his dick as tears of overstimulation clot your lashes.
The tension in your stomach winds tighter, your body beginning to prickle with familiar heat. It's too much to handle, the way Jake keeps fucking into you, his groans coloring the slick noises your pussy makes as he sinks in over and over.
"Jake, 'm close," you whimper, your hand pawing at his chest, mindless with desperation. You writhe beneath him, cunt starting to quiver and flare around the girth of his cock. "Please, lemme just- please, please-"
Jake's hips stutter at your pleading, his rhythm staggering for a moment before he picks his pace back up, a quick snap of his pelvis against yours. He grits his teeth, the muscles of his torso bunching and flexing as he works to bring you to the edge.
"Yeah, baby, I know," he rasps, pistoning in rough and fast to make you sob, dragging you down to the snap of his hips. "I know, give it to me-"
Your breath snags as Jake moves faster, his hips smacking against the backs of your thighs, sucking in little hiccuping gasps as you feel the coil of pleasure curl taut. You feel yourself tightening around Jake, squeezing like a fist around his girth, and his hips buck wildly, chasing your cloying, pulsing heat.
The edges of your vision start to blur as heat swells inside you, your nerves starting to snap and fray at the edges. Jake snarls, the hand he had at your hip ripping away to find your clit instead, rubbing at the swollen bead, shooting a shock of ecstasy through your body.
"Jake!" you sob, your back arching higher, pressing yourself desperately into his fingers and cock. With one more thrust and a roll of his thumb over your clit, Jake sends you shaking apart, pushing you over the edge.
You cum hard, clamping down around Jake's cock like a vice when the tension finally snaps. Every muscle in your body goes taut as you seize up around him up, mouth falling open in a silent cry.
Your hips jerk up, frozen for a moment with shaking thighs, you see white — and then you collapse, muscles slackening in overwhelmed relief as going lax in Jake's hold.
Jake fucks you through it, hissing as your walls pulse around him, pussy fluttering like it's trying to milk him dry. His tail lashes furiously behind him, whipping through the air as he picks up his pace.
"God, been so long since I got to do this," he growls, ears pinned back flat to his skull. "You got no idea, baby, you're so good, so fuckin' good-"
You can't do anything but whine wordlessly beneath him, your body boneless as you shake through the aftershocks of your orgasm. Through the buzzing in your skull, you can hear him start to ramble, and know he's close. Jake always gets mouthy just before he cums, and he's no different in this avatar body.
"So good," he pants, his brow pinching down as his hips lurch, his head bowing down to hang above your face. "So good for me, cummin' around my cock, I'm gonna-"
Jake manages a few more sloppy thrusts, and then the knot that's tied tight behind his navel unravels. He slams deep a final time before he cums, his lips twisting in a low snarl as he spills deep inside you.
"Fuck," he moans, lurching above you as he spurts hot ropes of cum into your cunt. His fingers flex where they've been pressing bruises into your hip, tightening and loosening unthinkingly.
Even after he shudders through his orgasm, Jake doesn't stop moving, hips slowing to rock into you shallowly, trying to make sure he fucks all his cum deep.
"Jake," you mewl, one hand coming up to pat limply against his chest. He looks down, big eyes blown wide and a little glazed over like you've put him in a daze, but a flicker of energy lights up again at the sight of your tear-streaked face.
His breath is coming quick, hot pants of air fanning across your cheeks, so you grab his respirator from where he'd set in on the padded floor beside you, holding it up to his mouth. Jake sucks in a few impatient breaths before he pushes it away again, crowding over to get a better look at you.
A long, low sigh pushes past his lips as he cranes his neck down, catching your mouth in a kiss. You muster the energy to tilt your head up invitingly, a bloom of warmth blossoming in your gut at the approving sound Jake hums into your mouth.
You take it as long as you can, sucking on Jake's tongue and letting him nip at your lower lip before it gets to be too much. Whining from the overstimulation, you break off from him, pushing weakly at his chest to make him stop the rolling of his hips.
Jake obeys, finally going still, but it's a long moment before he can bring himself to pull out of your warmth. The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, and Jake hushes you sympathetically, running a soothing hand over your belly.
He gets a hold around your waist, pulling you up into his lap with little resistance. Settling onto his thighs, you let your head loll back against his chest, tucked safely into his arms. You feel boneless, your limbs loose and warm and weighed down.
Jake hooks his heavy head over your shoulder, staring down your body to between your legs. His cum is leaking out of you, dripping from your puffy folds down onto his lap. It glows just like his precum did, pretty and sticky and throwing off a bluish light into the darkness of the PT room.
"Look at you," Jake coos, dipping his fingers down to swipe through the mixture of your releases. He scoops some of his leaked seed up, pushing it back into your sore hole while his tail wags proudly behind him. "Put all those pretty little stars inside you, huh?"
You squirm, making a noise of protest as he slips a finger back up your oversensitive hole. Jake smirks, but he draws his hand back, instead wrapping both of his arms around your waist and holding you tight to his chest.
For a second, you just catch your breath, leaning back against Jake's solid weight as he watches a few more droplets of bioluminescent cum slide down your thighs, his tail curling around your ankle. The scientist part of your brain is itching with curiosity about why his sperm literally glows, but you're too blissed out to really care. Besides, Jake filled you up enough that you're sure you'll find some seeped into your panties later.
"That was insane," you sigh, pressing your face into Jake's neck. When he laughs, you can feel it thrum through his vocal cords, and it makes you grin lazily.
"Good insane, right?" he asks, nudging your face with his nose. You snort, because that much should be obvious, given the way you're sprawled out across his striped skin like a melted puddle of pleasure.
"Mhm," you nod, covering your mouth as you yawn. "Can't believe you talked me into this."
Jake purrs, rubbing his cheek against yours. You still can't get over how big his head is compared to yours, the size difference astounding even after you've had your guts rearranged.
"Barely had to convince you," he reminds you, squeezing your sides briefly, and you can't do anything but shrug unrepentantly. Alien sex in your workplace was certainly a gamble, but you feel like it's certainly paid off, even if you're sure you'll be sore in the morning.
You sit with Jake for a while longer, content to sit and bask in his obvious satisfaction. He's purring like a Samson engine, happy vibrations rumbling through his body and into yours while his thumbs stroke up and down your ribs, almost ticklish against your sides.
"My girl," he murmurs, trailing possessive kisses down your cheek and chin and neck, savoring every bit of naked skin pressed against him. "Took me so perfect."
In all honesty, you could sit and soak up Jake's praises for hours, but logic is starting to return to you now that you've come down from your orgasms, and you know you can't stay here all night. Sooner or later, one of your coworkers is going to wander by for an early shift and wonder why all the doors are locked.
"We gotta go, big guy," you say, rolling your eyes at the childish pout Jake gives you. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
"Fine," Jake sighs, looking extremely put-upon to be parted from your naked body. He lets you clamber off of his lap, the tufted tip of his tail giving a final flick before it uncoils from around your ankle. "Wish one of those lab geeks would just walk in here anyways, see you all cockdrunk and full of me."
Wrinkling your nose at him, you sit up and watch as he rises to his feet. "You're a freak. And we'd both get fired."
Jake stretches his arms above him with a groan, relieving his sore muscles from the tension they've been holding. He just cocks an eyebrow at your comment, twisting his back to pop his spine and shoulders.
"You're a freak too," he points out, angling his head purposefully towards the little rivulet of his glowing seed you've leaked onto the mats. His smile is jeering as he leans down towards you, cajoling. "And just imagine the look on their faces when they see you, dripping my cum all over their precious lab-"
"Oh my god, enough," you groan, trying to push down the flustered flutter of your heart. You kick out at him, heel connects with his ankle. Jake almost certainly feels nothing at all, but he gives you a hurt face anyways. He can't keep it up, though, expression morphing into a grin as you scowl at him.
"Okay, okay!" he says, holding his hand up in defeat. "I'll be back in just a minute, 'kay? Just gonna go to the avatar bunks outside."
You nod, tilting your face up to his as Jake bends to press a lingering kiss to your hair. He slopes out of the PT room with easy confidence, looking so natural in his avatar it'd be sort of mind-blowing, if he hadn't just fucked you with it.
The hiss of the airlock sounds as Jake slips into the exit chamber that'll let him out into the lab's portion of the outside compound, and you listen for the sound of his footsteps underneath it, padding away. It's just you in the dark now, settling your chin on your knees as you catch your breath.
You can tell you'll pay tomorrow for what you put your body through, a lingering ache already settling into your muscles, but you can't bring yourself to regret it when sated pleasure is still buzzing through your system. You wipe at your cheeks, rubbing your fingers across the tear tracks that had started to dry in tacky lines down your face, then between your thighs, where your cum has mixed with Jake's, sticky on your skin.
It's not until you hear Jake's link pod start to whir — signaling the transfer of his psionic link back to his human body — that you get up. You gather your clothes from the dark corners Jake threw them too, tossed carelessly over foam rollers and exercise balls. Something deep in your abdomen protests when bend at the waist to pick them up, the dull throb making you groan.
You're pulling your panties up over your knees when Jake reappears in the doorway looking distinctly less big and blue, his wheels stopping just short of the padded floor. The shit-eating smirk he wears now looks just the same it did on his avatar's face, smug as he takes in the luminescent smear of cum that's still visible on your leg.
"That's awesome," he says, eyes roving up your body as you get dressed. You've already got your bra and shirt on, and you just scoff at him as you shimmy into your pants, hiding his favorite view from sight.
Jake must notice the stiffness in your steps as you come towards him, because his mouth tightens sympathetically. As much as he gets his rocks off thinking about how much of himself you stretched around, he's not a monster, and he knows it's got to hurt a little.
"Sore?" he asks, and you nod, pushing your hair back from your forehead, the strands damp with sweat.
"You've got no idea. I feel like I got split in half."
Jake grins, patting his lap. "I gotcha, princess. Come take a ride."
It makes you giggle to see him so whipped, and you can't resist a tease. "Such a gentleman."
Jake's mouth quirks up as you comply, climbing into his chair with a some coaxing. It's a little awkward, and Jake has to keep a steady hand on the tread of his wheels to keep you both balanced, but soon you're sitting on his lap, legs hooked over his knees and your arms wrapped around his neck.
Slowly, Jake maneuvers you both backwards, careful with your additional weight. You tuck your face into his throat with a sigh as he steers out of the lab, hitting the pad next to the entryway door to unlock it.
The halls of Hell's Gate are quiet as Jake rolls down them, his arms pumping on either side of you to keep you moving. You let your eyes slip shut, blocking out the dimmed emergency lights that run in strips low on the walls at night. Everything is sore, but in a good way, sated and tired out and tucked up against Jake.
Jake pauses in front of the door to your room, snaking a hand under your weight to dig in his pocket for the spare keycard you gave him a couple weeks ago. He slides the thin plastic across the sensor by the doorframe, listening for the metallic sound of the lock clicking out of place.
He wheels into your room, coming to a stop by the narrow military-issue bedframe and patting gently at your back. "Hey, c'mon sleepyhead. Time to dress down."
You grumble into his neck, unwilling to part with the comfortable seat you've already got. Jake laughs as you nuzzle into his neck, rubbing your lips against the scruff at the edge of his jaw.
"I get it," he murmurs, giving your hip a little squeeze. "But you're gonna wanna shower, and change, and sleep in a real bed, kid."
You agree reluctantly, though it's not without a murmur of dissent. As you're starting to slip off his lap, though, Jake catches your waist with a hand, holding you still. You blink blearily at him, confused, but he doesn't answer right away, just craning his head down to give you a kiss.
It's softer than all the kisses you exchanged in the lab, no nips of sharp canines or pressure of a big barbed tongue. You melt into it without a question, relishing the feel of Jake's mouth moving against yours.
When you part, his pretty blue eyes are dark. He clears his throat, fingers tightening reflexively around your waist. "Thanks for letting me, y'know…"
With a rush of affection, you understand, and you quiet him with another kiss, a chaste peck on his lips.
"It was good," you whisper, pressing your forehead against his. "Gave me some ideas for next time."
This close, you can see the way the skin around Jake's eyes crinkle in detail, bunching up as he gives you a boyish smile.
"Next time?" he asks, just to make sure. You stroke a hand down the back of his neck, fingertips carding through the mussed, short-cropped hair there.
"Yeah," you promise, returning his smile with a little glow in your chest. He'll stay here tonight, after you've both cleaned up and showered, and you'll get to fall asleep with the warm weight of him pressed next to you. "Next time."
thank you so much reading!
i hope you enjoyed :D this is my first time publishing fic in 5 years, and my first time ever writing smut or reader-insert, so i know it's probably a bit clunky!! any constructive criticism is more than welcome; please tell me how i can improve, b/c i'll definitely be writing more jake/reader in the future!
don’t think about his pretty face, that gorgeous smile.
don’t think about how good he looks with his shirt off.
don’t think about his hands, how big they are.
don’t think about him dwarfing your bed.
don’t think about his hands trailing up your thighs while he’s trying to charm you.
don’t think about those lips, plush and full, telling you all the right things, ghosting over your jaw, your neck, your collar.
don’t think about his big hands on your waist, teasing the waistline of your bottoms, while he’s telling you what a pretty girl you are.
don’t think about him getting you off once on his fingers, and again on his tongue, still in those stupid grey sweatpants.
don’t think about his shit-eating grin when he looks up and down your body, proud of all the bites and the way your thighs are trembling delicately.
don’t think about the cadence of his voice dropping when he tells you what a good girl you are, or when he tells you to beg when you start pawing at his sweatpants.
don’t think about his dick, or the face he makes when you tell him it looks like it’s just too big. you can’t possibly take it.
don’t think about the way it sets you off when he assures you that you can take it, but he’ll just give you the tip.
just the tip.
a false promise. one that you’re willing to believe in once he lines up with your aching, dripping hole. it feels right when he tuts, mocking your little whimpers and moans as he begins to push in.
don’t think about the way it stretches your entrance open. just the tip. the way he holds you there so that you can’t move. he coos at you—just the tip.
and maybe both of you can’t take it anymore. he’s the dominant one, but it’s making him sweat. it’s making you cry—you just want him so badly. poor thing. he knows it. he wants it too.
so maybe he inches in. ever so slightly. and you cry out his name. so he keeps going. sinking in, stretching you out, making you feel every. single. inch. and maybe once he bottoms out, he grunts out your name, and maybe you lean up to kiss him.
don’t think about it.
don’t think about it at all.
(heh)
(likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3)
warnings: friends to lovers trope, dirty talk, vulgar language, pet names, unprotected sex, creampie, riding that thick dick, praise, mentions of injury (reader), let me know if i missed anything<3
You were perched in front of the mirror, admiring the woman gazing back at you through long lashes.
“It's giving brat.”
False lashes, acrylic nails, threaded brows.
“You know, I'm actually kind of diggin’ it.”
Little black dress with an open back, Jacquemus handbag, golden hoops, perfumed skin, high-heeled boots.
“Damn, I look good.”
Through the mirror, you could see Tim still at it with the device, a little black box with an antenna that could detect signals from even the smallest, most high-tech recorders. It made a static noise as he hovered the stick over just about every surface and object.
“Alright. It's safe,” he finally concluded once he was content with his work.
“Could have told you as much. My contacts are good,” you sassed with a smug look, leaning your hand on your hip.
Tim shot you an incredulous look as he packed away the gear. “Yeah, you can drop the bratty attitude now, smartass.”
You chuckled as he removed the gun from his belt and put it on the dresser. “I don't know—it's kinda growing on me.”
Though you had never been undercover with Tim before, you were confident you knew him well enough to feel when something was off with him. You had known each other for a long time, and right now he was being off.
And you knew exactly why.
“Come on, it's not that bad,” you sighed, finally moving away from the mirror and stepping out of the shoes.
There was only one bed.
He arched a brow at you and rolled his eyes. “The hell it is. We're supposed to play brother and sister and we're sharing a bed?”
You snorted at his tone—speaking as if it would jeopardize the whole operation.
“Look, even if anybody thinks anything of it, I refuse to believe it'll become a problem. We'll just roll with it,” you reasoned nonchalantly.
“What?” he mouthed in disbelief. “Roll with it? I—” he cut himself off, brows knitted tightly as he ran with hands over his face.
You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction and folded your arms as you leaned against the wall. “I'm sure we won't be the first incestuous couple residing in Buttfuck Arizona.”
You were clearly making him uncomfortable and you were having way too much fun with it.
Tim seemed to be looking anywhere but at you. You wondered if it was the one bed or the way you looked in the dress. You hoped it was the dress.
His jaw clenched as he inhaled sharply through his nose, his mouth set in a tight-lipped twitch. He shook his head when he finally glared at you, quickly turning to unload the gear from your suitcase. "Okay—just… Get your head on straight, yeah? Meeting's set in twenty.”
***
You winced as Tim tightened the string working through the flesh of your upper arm, the hand that wasn't holding the needle holding your shoulder in a firm grip. The pain was nothing you hadn't experienced before, but his touch made you hyper-aware of every sensation in your body. Including the heat rushing to your cheeks and ears.
“Stay still,” Tim ordered, his steely blue eyes focused on his patchwork as he closed the wound and bandaged it for you. “Let me know if there's any discomfort.”
“Yeah, thanks,” you sighed, your tone lower and shakier than you expected it to be.
The deal had gone sideways, but not completely off the tracks. Tim seemed worried that your cover was blown but your instincts told you not all had gone awry—you had been caught in a knife fight with your target's enemies. While the target fled the scene and bullets ricocheted, you and Tim secured the gangsters before heading off, too, leaving the rivals disabled for when backup swooped in. You had convinced Tim the operation was not compromised—that if anything, you had substantiated your cover.
Tim went out to pick up some food and you jumped in the shower, careful not to ruin the work Tim had just finished on your arm. By the time you finished up, Tim returned with a plastic bag and you ate on the bed. You could practically feel the tension in him radiating from his body and though you tried to tune it out, there came a point where you could no longer stand it.
“Look, if you're that worried about it, we can call it off,” you proposed. “I trust your gut so if you feel like something's off, we just pull the plug. Check-in's in an hour.”
Tim looked up with a furrow, appearing confused by your suggestion. It had crossed your mind that the ordeal with the rival gang earlier on was not the only thing pressing him—the whole situation probably made him uncomfortable.
While you were used to undercover work, he had really only dipped his toes into the world. You had known each other for years; you've had drinks far into the morning, deep conversations, and seen each other adapt to life's challenges. You knew he felt comfortable around you, and you felt comfortable with him, but it made sense to you that this whole scene was somewhat unfamiliar to him.
Your jobs forced circumstances where you worked together, but you had never been entangled in a situation where either one of you got seriously hurt. It was one thing knowing someone you cared for could find themselves in a dangerous situation at any given moment; a whole other when you're present and see how things go south in a matter of seconds.
Tim shook his head, swallowing down a bite of his burger. “You've done this kind of work a lot longer than me, it's your call.”
It bothered you a tad, him showing you unconditional trust in a life-or-death situation. If he really thought there was the slightest chance you had been made, you would rather have his honesty.
You chewed your lip instead of the fry in your hand, watching him quietly, trying to read him. In all the years you had known Tim, he had always been stoic, his warmer traits only showing once his guard had been breached. While he wasn't exactly an open book, he was always blunt on his opinions—just not now.
It had to be more than just about the operation.
“We'll do the check-in to let them know we're good. We can revisit in the morning.”
Tim bobbed his head but didn't look at you.
You arched an eyebrow at him, deciding to switch topics. “So… you wanna flip a coin on the bed?”
Tim rolled his eyes. “No, you take it. I can make myself comfortable on the floor.”
Your brows knitted together and you gave him a quizzical look. “What? You sure—I mean I certainly prefer sleeping cozy, but it doesn't feel fair to just—”
“Doesn't matter. You take the bed. I'll be fine.” he insisted and finished his meal, wiping his mouth with a napkin before standing. “I'm gonna take a shower.”
Tim scrunched the trash together and threw it in the bin before locking himself in the bathroom.
You sighed and drank from your watered-down soda.
Tim planted his hands on the counter in front of the bathroom mirror, letting his head fall to level with his shoulders as he exhaled deeply. He cursed himself for agreeing to this operation.
It was one thing to know you got hurt, and another to see you suffer injury on his watch.
This is what you do, he reminded himself. You are used to this.
Tim was angry with himself for letting this get to him, although he was more disappointed that your - well, your character's - blatant flirting with the criminals bothered him in such a way—his blood boiling whenever someone looked at you with primal urges.
He had no right.
Even worse he was disgusted with himself for entertaining the thought—how your acrylic nails would feel scratching the skin on his back, how your soft and supple flesh would mold in his palms, how your glossy lips would whimper soft mewls, and how your lashes would flutter shut in bliss.
Tim inhaled sharply, clearing his throat, and turned on the shower. The splashes that hit the tiles added a backdrop to his obscene thoughts while he rid himself of his clothes, goosebumps forming on his skin.
He stepped into the downpour, leaving the shower head attached to the clasp in the wall. Tim subconsciously held his breath as he let the water burn his skin, feeling the need to inflict pain on himself to clear his mind. Regardless, the scorching sensation passed and soon enough he gave in and pumped his aching cock in his hand.
When he had showered - and shot his load down the drain - he put on a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and a white shirt before walking back into the room.
You had already gotten under the covers, your eyes focused on the open page of your book. You had put aside two blankets and a pillow for Tim to make use of. The TV was on low volume, viewing a baseball game, and the remote was left at the end of the bed.
Tim’s jaw clenched and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him, seeing how you had laid out this display for him to feel comfortable when he had just jerked off thinking of you in a way friends were not supposed to.
He made a spot for himself on the floor, leaving his watch and handgun beside the pillow.
“You made contact?”
“Yup,” you replied softly, turning the page.
Tim hummed in response and settled on the hard floor cushioned by one of the blankets. When you felt his attention focus on the television, your absentminded gaze left the book and you watched him instead.
Even in a relaxed position, he maintained his characteristic rigid demeanor. Your gaze was caught by the broadness of his frame and the way his shoulders appeared constrained by the white fabric that hugged them.
Tim didn't seem too invested in the sports channel and soon he turned it off, lying down. You followed suit and put your book away, turning off the bedside lamp with a small grunt.
“You can read on if you want,” he said lowly.
You chuckled as you got comfortable in the bed, head leaning over the edge just enough to watch him from above. “Is that your way of telling me you're scared of the dark?”
A huff left his still body, and a grin pulled at your lips and although it was too dark to see, you could hear the smile in his voice. “Go to sleep.”
You laughed. “Yes, sir.”
You weren't sure for how long you had laid there before you began feeling restless. Instead of merely zoning out, your mind seemed to focus on every little detail. Outside the wind was ominously howling, a windchime clinking soft pitchy notes, and Tim seemed fixated on every little sound, whether it was a car door shutting or you turning in bed.
The silence inside was tangible, and you could practically hear Tim's mind running at a hundred miles per second.
Another heavy sigh escaped him as he turned on the floor with a grunt. Initially, he hadn't thought it would be that bad - Tim reminded himself he had slept in worse conditions while in the army - but now that he was here, the carpet smelled like tobacco and the ’80s pattern seemed to crawl.
He rolled on his back again, draping one arm over his eyes.
You shifted under the covers, the springs creaking beneath you. “How are you doing down there, bro?”
“Don't call me that,” he scoffed quickly, clearly far from sleep and you grinned.
You debated it in your mind before deciding to just throw it out there. It didn't have to be weird. You could literally just not make it weird. “You know, there's enough room for the both of us up here.”
Yeah, that wasn't too weird.
Right?
“What?”
Okay, you had made it weird.
The suggestion made Tim tense up, and his mind did not hesitate to picture the scenario. He knew you well enough to know the offer was innocent, but he couldn't help but imagine things far from innocent.
You chewed down on your bottom lip and tried to joke your way out of the position you had just put yourself in. “Easy, Sargeant—not offering to get handsy, just a side of the bed.”
There was another pause and the air was too thick for comfort. You were quickly coming to regret your offer, wishing the mattress would just swallow you whole before Tim could say another word. It had been a long time since you had been this embarrassed.
A moment later you could hear him move, but you didn't dare look.
“Move, then,” he suddenly muttered, and a shiver chilled your spine—he was already on his feet, so close.
You swallowed and made space for him in the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You felt a heat rise to your cheeks when you realized he had brought the blanket from the floor, your subconscious having irrationally convinced you that you would be sleeping under the same.
Tim's movements were almost mechanical as he lied down, and you found yourself shifting further to the edge of the bed, afraid to accidentally touch him.
God, you wanted to touch him.
If nothing else, then just to see his reaction—find out whether he wanted you as much as you did him.
You stared up at the ceiling, trying to slow your breathing as your whole body tingled. You could hear Tim's breaths as well, measured and controlled like everything else he did and it bothered you for some reason. If only he would just slip up, be a little easier to read.
Tentatively, you tilted your head just enough to glance at him from the corner of your eye. His hands were folded across his stomach and his eyes were shut, taut muscles barely moving an inch as if it might actually kill him to shift.
Tim couldn't possibly be comfortable like that.
He looked like a damn robot waiting to be recharged.
While this rigid man lay unmoving beside you, your heart was hammering away in your ribcage and your thighs rubbing together like the act might stand a chance of relieving you in some way.
You returned your gaze to the ceiling, breathed out, and rolled onto your side so that your back was facing him.
The thought of what you might feel if you pushed yourself against him made you inhale sharply.
Stop it, you cursed yourself mentally.
You didn't know how long you were laying there, just staring at the wall, but at some point your eyelids finally grew heavy, sleep slowly but surely, pulling you in.
Tim wasn't as lucky.
His mind wouldn't let him get a second of rest with you lying this close to him. He tried to focus his mind elsewhere but he was all too aware of the proximity.
His mind continuously betrayed him, replaying every moment during the day that had made him feel like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—the way you had practically teased him while doting on yourself in the mirror, the way that damned dress hugged your body in ways that made him feel like a fucking schoolboy with uncontrollable hard-ons, the way you had flirted with the criminal at that meeting and the way it made him feel possessive in a way he had no right to.
Then you had offered to share the bed with him, making it sound so casual like you knew it wasn’t the worst thought you could have had—reigniting the idea of “getting handsy” in his already spinning head.
You had to know what you were doing to him.
He felt like a coiled wire about to snap; like the subtle heat radiating off of your body threatened to burn him alive.
Then you shifted.
A tiny, barely noticeable movement so small he might as well have imagined it.
But then it repeated, this time accompanied by a small sigh.
In your sleep you inch closer to Tim, instinctively seeking a warmth the covers fail to provide you.
At first, it's just your foot grazing his calf, but then you rolled over, closer to him, and your knee bent so that it rested on his thigh as you nestled deeper into the mattress.
Tim tensed and held his breath, his entire body going rigid beneath the sheets.
You didn’t pull away. Instead, you continued shifting, moaning as if displeased, and rolled closer, molding your body against his side as if it belonged there.
He knew he should pull away—you're asleep, completely unaware of what you're doing. But it really did feel like your body belongs this close to him. Tim can't make himself move.
But then your hips moved, ever so slightly, and it didn't feel so innocent anymore.
Tim couldn’t think straight, his head spinning, conflicted. He was as still as a statue, stiff and unmoving. You sighed, soft and breathy, content and utterly unguarded against his body, his scent filling your lungs with safety.
Worse is when you murmured his name in your sleep. Though barely a whisper in the quiet room, it slipped through the cracks and under his skin, searing Tim from the inside out.
Before he could stop himself his hand moved down, ghosting over your hip to see if you would stir, if this was real. It was the faintest touch and while you didn't flinch, Tim was spiraling at the feeling of the curve of your body hiding beneath the cover.
His hand tentatively weighed down on your hip, ever so carefully feeling you in his palm. He froze when you shifted again, but you only pressed further into his touch and his breathing stuttered in response.
Another content moan escaped your lips, and Tim's jaw locked while his fingers clenched in reflex, tightening his grip on your hip.
A sharp inhale caught in your throat and your spine went taut as Tim's grasp pulled you from your semi-asleep state.
Your lashes fluttered against your skin and for a moment you were afraid to open them fully, fearing the man whose scent had captivated your dream might not be real.
But Tim was very real and very close, the warmth of his hand seeping through the cover and into your skin, branding you.
It took you a moment to separate imagination from reality, but when it sunk in, you melted completely.
For a moment neither of you spoke, the darkness of the room swallowing everything bar the feel of one another. The creaking bed might as well have been a cloud, peacefully floating about in the dark of the night.
Tim felt captured as your gaze studied his features, your hazy eyes full of something he didn't dare assume, but could only hope.
“Tim—” you breathed quietly, lips quivering with the unspoken, and Tim's heart ached at your voice; a raspiness, a hesitance.
He knew he should pull away, apologize, do something, but he couldn't move or say a thing. Not with the way you looked at him with desire in your eyes and your bottom lip caught under your teeth.
You didn’t pull away, you couldn’t and you didn’t want to, and judging by his hand still holding onto you, he didn’t want you to either.
You weren't entirely sure what was happening, lust and warning bells waging war in your mind, but your primal needs took over and your hips did an experimental grind.
A curse slipped from his lips, low and guttural, and he exhaled your name, a confirmation that he wanted you as much as you did him. Tim's digits dug into your hip, his stormy eyes latched onto yours as he swiftly moved on top of you, bracing himself with a strong arm beside your head—
And fucking hell it was spinning.
His lips were so close, his warm breath ghosting your skin, raising goosebumps. Your chest heaved heavily with each breath but instead of the air entering your lungs it was only him.
Another second passed and it was one wasted not on Tim, so as the next ticked in you closed the space between you completely, pressing your lips against his in a feverish kiss.
Tim's sturdy body molded against yours, his rough palm sliding up to cradle your cheek as he kissed back with an eagerness resembling your own.
All that had pent up in the course of the day, or perhaps for longer, was released then, your bodies syncing to become one in the dark of the night.
Sighing against his warm lips, you allowed your hands to find purchase on his shoulders, feeling around for any inch of revealed skin. Your fingertips slid under the sleeve of his t-shirt, tracing the hard lines of his flexed muscles, and your other hand snaked up to the back of his neck.
You could feel yourself getting more heated by each second, hungrily licking into Tim's mouth as you allowed yourself to be completely engulfed in everything him.
In turn, Tim worked on removing the blankets separating you so that your bodies were flushed.
When you felt his frame pin you and his erection press against your sex, you gasped into his mouth, every stolen glance, every flirty comment leading up to this moment, suddenly sparking every nerve ending in your body alive. Feeling his undeniable lust for you made your world tilt on its axis, making this feel overwhelmingly real. And yet, it was somehow not real enough to convince you it was not merely another fever dream. You needed him inside you, to claim you and to fill you up, to leave marks on your skin that would linger in the morning.
You bucked your hips against him, pathetically trying to relieve yourself with some sweet friction.
A low groan vibrated against your wet lips and he held your waist down with a rough grip, squeezing the exposed flesh.
You whined, looking up at him with doe-eyes. “Tim, I wanna feel you.”
“You will,” he promised, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear making you shudder and writhe.
His stubble tickled the sensitive flesh of your throat and his mouth suctioned the skin, tongue pressing and teeth scraping, quickly contorting the pout on your face into a breathless moan.
Tim's hand brushed past the waistband of your shorts and panties with practised ease, and when two long digits dragged through your wet folds, another breathy moan escaped you.
“Fuck,” Tim cursed as he felt how wet you were for him, watching your reaction with dark eyes as he dipped the fingers into your needy hole. “Tell me—did you have a little dream about me?”
Your jaw went slack, lips parted in a silent gasp, as he slipped two fingers into you, knuckle deep. No sound escaped your throat, but you couldn't exactly stop the wet squelch coming from your wet cunt.
His palm guided your face back to his, stormy blue orbs searching for an audible answer. You hadn't even realized you'd been holding your breath. “S'that why you've soaked yourself? Were you havin’ a little dirty dream ‘bout me?” Tim's fingers sunk back into your sobbing pussy.
“Yes,” you finally exhaled shakily, eyes rolling back as he slid his torturous fingers out and back in, curling them against your gummy walls. “F-fuck—yes!”
“Was it the first time?” he quizzed, clearly pleased with himself and—well, you were very pleased with him, too. He planted a chaste kiss just below your ear. “Hm? Have you dreamed of me before?”
“Ye-yeah,” you hummed, your mind barely grasping the words he spoke, everything a hot haze. “Sometimes… when I touch myself.”
“Good,” Tim murmured, scissoring his fingers into you while leaving feather-light open-mouthed kisses along your neck.
You shuddered, biting down on your wet bottom lip, focusing on the contrast between his delicate touch tracing down your collarbone and his fingers stretching you deliciously. He lifted your shirt, exposing your breasts and you moaned as he sucked on the soft flesh above your perked nipple.
Clamping down on his long fingers, you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Breathing shallow, eyes rolling to the back of your head, Tim picked up on the clues.
“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he encouraged. “I got you.”
Tim continued fingering you through your orgasm, pumping slowly but purposely as you creamed around his digits. Thighs shaking involuntarily, hands struggling to hold on to anything, you cried out a shaky moan. Riding against Tim's hand, you clawed at his neck as you came down from your high, quivering lips teasing his.
“Attagirl,” praised Tim and softly patted your jaw, prompting you to open and he shoved his fingers down on your tongue. Barely out of your daze, pussy still throbbing, you moaned around his digits, sucking them deeper into your mouth when he pressed his erection against your thigh. “Shit.”
Tim pulled his fingers back out and hungrily licked into your mouth, tasting the honeyed essence on your tongue.
Your hips bucked against his hard cock, greedy for more. Looping your arms around his form, you turned him over and straddled him, the creaking of the mattress emphasizing your needy movements.
Tim inhaled sharply, large hands squeezing your waist, pressing you down against his clothes hard-on.
Steely blue eyes that looked to be brewing a storm watched you intensely, loving how fucked through you looked after just one orgasm. Hair disheveled, lips plump, neck and cheeks flushed.
Grinding down on Tim you sighed, leaning down to kiss him passionately, acrylics poking into his chest where you found purchase. You were still out of breath, but you didn't care—oxygen was no longer what kept you alive, he was.
Moaning your name, Tim felt a wave of heat rush over him, veiling him completely in your scent and desire. He could hardly believe this was happening. One thing was you dreaming, moaning his name and letting him care for you; a whole different kind of reality was you grinding down on him, rubbing your sweet little cunt over his rock-hard, twitching cock.
Tim's jaw clenched when you reached down to free his neglected erection, an inhale getting stuck in his throat as the feeling of your soft fingers wrapping around the base of his shaft.
He was heavy in your hand, certainly bigger than what you would consider average. Thick and veiny girth with an angry head leaking precum. Swiping your thumb across the weeping slit, you brought it between your lips, moaning at the salty taste.
Tim hissed and sighed your name, hips bucking upward, eager for you to sink down on him. He was getting impatient and you could feel it in the way he held you, so you drew his throbbing cock against the soaked fabric of your panties.
His grip tightened in warning before he spoke in a low tone. “Don't be a brat now, sweetheart.”
You choked on the chuckle you emitted when you pushed your panties to the side and lined him up. Pushing the angry head between your slick folds, forcing an intrusion— “F-fuck, Tim,” you cried out, sinking down on him.
The stretch was intense, a sharp pain that shot into your abdomen, but you tried to ground yourself in the moment, focusing on where you were—on an undercover mission with a colleague, a friend, a man you had suppressed your attraction to for all too long.
You inhaled deeply, your hands falling to where his were placed on your hips, guiding them up to your breasts as he allowed you to accommodate him. Doing an experimental squeeze around him, he cursed and you began moving.
“You're so big,” you shuddered, leaning forward so that your bodies were flush, grounding you, cupping your hand against his clean-shaven jaw. “Feel so full of you, Tim.”
Sinking back down on him, you began to feel the pleasure overpowering the pain, the stinging stretch becoming absolutely delicious as you felt how your walls hugged him, clinging onto him. A wanton moan rasped from your throat as you sunk back down on him, reveling in how your cunt molded to fit around his thick girth.
Picking up a comfortable rhythm that had him rubbing against all the right spots, you met his gaze, salacious eyes staring back at you through layers of desire.
“You're so beautiful like this,” he admitted coarsely, breaths heavy and jaw slack. “Ridin’ me like you were made for me—fuck… Sweetest girl, you feel so good around my cock.”
His praise settled in your chest, pulling at your heart's strings. Clashing your lips against his, you picked up your speed and Tim's hands squeezed at the soft flesh of your asscheeks, resting there, helping you keep the rhythm steady.
Your tits bouncing against his chest, ass slamming down on his thighs, and your tight, juicy pussy sucking him in—Tim prayed to God this was not the last time you would ride him.
The sexiest moan you had ever heard reverberated from Tim's chest, the sight of the strings of your slick attaching to his pelvis as you bounced bringing something resembling primal instincts out of him. A ring of your milky cum circled his engorged shaft like a pearl bracelet, hugging his base and making a complete mess on him.
“Shit, baby—I won't last long f’you keep going like that,” Tim rasped, but made no sign to stop you. A breathy, self-satisfied grin escaped you but it contorted into a moan when Tim's thumb began drawing tight circles on your bundle of nerves. He pulled you down by your hair, fingertips rough yet soothing against your scalp. “S'that what you want? Hm? Wanna milk me for all I'm worth, yeah—go ahead, sweetheart. I'll fill you up,” he coaxed.
The pressure Tim applied to your throbbing clit made you whimper pathetically, though it was barely audible over the obscene moans and slapping sounds of wet, sweaty skin-on-skin contact.
The muscles in your thighs were burning from the strain but you didn't dare stop riding him, needing him to fulfill his promise of filling you up with his seed.
Tim showered you with praise, spurring you on as he noticed how your moans crescendoed. His thumb rigorously rolled against your clit, hips bucking up and fucking into you as he chased his own orgasm. “That's it, baby—come around my cock.”
And the brink was no further away than that.
You came, pussy clamping down on his rock-hard cock, pulsing walls practically massaging Tim's thick shaft.
You desperately tried not to get sloppy, wanting him to fill you, but you were a moaning, writhing mess, and your movements stuttered.
Tim wasn't one to break a promise though, and he fucked you through your orgasm, cock relentlessly fucking into your crying pussy. Incoherent pleas for him to fill you with his cum tumbled from your lips, and he didn't leave you begging for long.
With a final thrust, hot spurts of his seed painted your velvety walls, Tim's swollen cock pulsing against your insides.
Breath heavy, panting, you slowly slid off him, limply falling on his side, barely grounded as the high wore off. Tim's large hands supported you, one cradling your cheek, thumb caressing the warm skin, while the other dragged between your legs as he whispered reverent praises.
“You did good, sweetheart.”
Your heart fluttered and you whimpered when he scooped his leaking cum from your pussy and made an effort to push it back in. Lacking the strength to do more, you merely nuzzled your head deeper into his embrace, and he pulled you closer. “Does that mean we can do this again?” you asked, somewhat sheepish.
Tim's chest rumbled with a chuckle and he placed a kiss on the crown of your head. “Of course, but you have to let me take you out on a date once we get back.”
The butterflies in your stomach began flapping their wings harder. “Deal,” you agreed with a tired smile and kissed his collarbone.
