Hiiiii, im Farrah, 19, Gemini, INFP... I dont really know how to introduce myself 😬. Im open to asks and suggestions and stuff but pls be warned I may not get around to things quickly since my free time can sometimes become non-existent. I will post (hopefully) for: The Pitt; Marvel; Criminal Minds; The Walking Dead; House MD; Whoniverse; Supernatural; The Vampire Diaries; Teen Wolf; more.
pairing. dark!congressman!bucky x journalist!fem!reader
word count. 4.3k
summary. you are the reporter they bring in when there are men behind chairs too powerful to fear, the one with the questions no one else dares to ask. but when the new congressman snaps, the story you walk away with isn’t the one you thought you’d write.
warnings. mean!bucky, dark!bucky, dub-con/non-con elements, smut, MDNI, coercion, power imbalance, sex tape, pnv (unprotected), degradation, creampie, cumplay. no use of y/n.
notes. i don’t condone any actions depicted in the story. this is fiction, and please treat this as such. if you aren’t comfortable reading this, please do not read it.
You weren’t the usual type of journalist. No neighbourhood pieces or petty stuff. You only took cases worth your time. Complex profiles, reputations hanging in the balance, high profile affairs gone wrong. Basically the stories that required more than a microphone and polite questions read from cue cards. You’d built a name on that. Notorious for pushing too far, for asking what no one else had even imagined, for walking into rooms where powerful men sat smug in their chairs and walking out with their masks in shreds. The kind of reporter called in when someone wanted a spectacle out of a situation.
That was exactly what you thought when you rolled the small camera tripod in the congressman’s office and set it up yourself. Exact centre of the room, aligned to capture both the sides of the table, already blinking its little read light, recording your silence before the words even started. You tested the angle, checked the microphone pinned to your blouse and only then lowered yourself opposite to him. Calm and composed and ready to peel him open.
He wasn’t what you’d imagined. When they told you that you had to interview an ex assassin, the guy across you was the last guy you’d expected to find. He was composed, at least, that’s what he wanted everyone to believe. Navy blue suit, tie slightly loose around his neck, hair slicked back enough to look polished and taken seriously. Every aspect of him was planned to perfection and executed flawlessly. No one would second guess his policies if he looked the part. James Buchanan Barnes—war hero to assassin, now rebranded to politician—sat on the opposite side of the table.
“You’re not what I expected,” you spoke your mind, instead of opening with the first rehearsed question. On hindsight, you should’ve stuck to your practiced approach.
“What were you expecting?” His mouth twitched, you couldn’t quite figure out if it was meant to be a smile. His voice carried a rasp, that better fit late night confessions and not legislative interviews.
“Stiffer,” you said, “older, maybe. Someone who’d talk with memorised talking points.” You were quick to judge him. Truth be told, you’d judged him before you even stepped foot into his office. You had one goal only, and that is to make a scintillating story out of the ex winter soldier.
“Guess I’ll try not to disappoint.”
You tilted your head, and allowed your gaze to drag all over him. “Mm, jury’s still out.”
Something like irritation crossed his eyes. Or it could be amusement. It was hard to tell. He leaned forward a little and rested his elbows on the table between you both. “You here to ask about my policies, or waste both of our time?”
Zero patience.
You smiled, all teeth. “Oh, I’ll get there. But let’s not pretend you don’t know how the public sees you, Congressman. Everyone’s fascinated by the same thing: how the government decided to scrub the blood off the Winter Soldier and rebrand him as the golden boy of Brooklyn.”
His jaw flexed, expressing his annoyance. He didn’t answer right away. You watched him inhale, and then exhale, like he was counting to ten. Like he was giving you time to take back what you just said.
You didn’t.
“Rehabilitation isn’t rebranding,” he said finally. “And I don’t answer to gossip.”
“Then what do you answer to?” You tapped your pen lazily to the edge of your notebook, almost taunting. “Orders? Votes? Or is it whoever has their legs spread the widest?”
If you didn’t get his attention so far, now you had. His head snapped toward you so fast you almost dropped the act, but pride made you keep your smirk in place. His blue eyes cut through you, stripped of patience.
“You think you’re funny?”
“I think I’m getting more honesty out of you than anyone else has managed.” You crossed your legs slowly, the movement he traced with his eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t print that last part. Unless you want me to.”
Through gritted teeth, he glared at you. At that point, he looked less like a man fending off an eager journalist and more like a predator trying very hard to still keep the leash on himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice almost dropped down an octave. The single word sent chills to your spine. “Careful.”
A sane person would’ve rethought things. A sane person would excuse themselves and be done with whatever the hell this was. But a sane person usually doesn’t make a good journalist. And you were a great one.
“What happens if I’m not?” You did what you did best. Push until someone showed their real face.
The legs of his chair scraped against the hardwood floor, he shoved back from the table. In two strides, he was around it, towering over you. You hadn’t even had time to stand before his hand gripped the armrest of your chair. Trapping you in place, the heat of him a wall around you enclosing you in place.
“You came in here thinking you could play with me.” His words were low, as if the camera in the centre of the room didn’t exist anymore. “You thought I’d just sit there, let you run your mouth, let you poke and prod.” His lips curled into something meaner, darker. “That was your first mistake.”
Again, a sane person would’ve kept their mouth shut. But you tried for bravado, your voice betraying you halfway, “and the second?”
He leaned down until his breath ghosted just over your ear, “that you don’t know when to stop.”
His words hung there, close enough that you could feel the rumble of them against your skin. And for the first time all evening, your sharp little smirk faltered. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered, then slid lower. Slow enough that heat prickled at the back of your neck.
The camera running in the background gave you a false sense of security. You feigned courage, and spoke, “congressman, the camera—”
“Let it run,” his tone was unbothered. A man who’d spent his entire life surveilled, recorded, dissected—what was one more set of eyes?
He straightened just enough to look down at you properly, his hand still braced on the armrest like a threat. “What were you gonna ask me? Something about trade, about policies?” His head tilted, the mockery dripping now. “Or was it about how long I can keep my composure before I break?”
Your pen slipped from your fingers and rolled to the floor with a little clatter. You didn’t reach for it. Your knuckles were pale, clutching your notebook tight, as if the thin cover could protect you from the weight of him leaning over you.
When you still didn’t answer, he said, “I thought you were supposed to be good at this.” There was no patience left in his voice. “Control. Provocation. Asking the kind of questions that cut deep. Isn’t that why they sent you in here? Because you’re the little firecracker who knows how to make people slip?”
Your throat was dry, but you forced the words out anyway. “Seems like it worked.”
Your stupid reporter brain didn’t know when to shut the fuck up.
A laugh tore from him, but it was anything but pleasant. It was the kind of laugh that told you you’d pushed too far without saying a word. His metal hand moved to the other armrest, landing there and trapping you completely. He’d caged you without laying a finger on your skin, yet you could feel the threat radiating off him.
“Did you think I’d snap?” The heat off his skin slapped you right across yours. “Did you think I’d yell, raise my voice, and you can pick that up in your little microphone?”
Your pulse pounded so hard you could feel it in your ears. He was right. You had wanted this, had pushed for it, had prodded and smirked and needled. You wanted a story, saw him as a character on a paper. But now, pinned beneath his stare, your bravado felt paper-thin.
“I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” His tone was silk-wrapped steel. He cut off your protest with the smallest shift forward, his nose brushing the edge of your hairline. “Didn’t expect me to bite?”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You hated the silence, hated that for once you didn’t have the right quip on your tongue, hated that his nearness pulled every clever word straight out of your lungs.
He caught the moment you faltered. The moment it dawned on you, and realisation crossed your face. His grin spread, and he leaned back just far enough to look at you properly. “There it is,” he murmured, satisfaction coated his words, “finally, shut you up.”
The camera was still recording, doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the red light was still blinking behind you. You wondered—no, feared—what kind of picture you must’ve made right then: sitting stiff in your chair, chest rising too fast, eyes wide while the new Congressman loomed above you, looking nothing like the cleaned-up public servant they’re selling the public.
“Ask me another question,” he ordered, voice soft but absolute.
Your mind scrambled for one, any, and your gaze flicked to your notebook in you lap. It might as well have been blank.
“I—” Your voice cracked, and you tried again. “What do you…what do you say to the people who don’t trust you in office?”
His teeth flashed in something like victory, like you’d just admitted how thoroughly he’d rattled you. “I’d say…” he drawled, dragging it out, savouring the tremor in your voice, “…they should be more careful about where they put their trust. And who they mouth off to.”
The threat wasn’t veiled anymore.
The chair dug into your spine, the cool metal of his hand closing over your wrist before you’d even registered him moving. His grip wasn’t crushing, but firm enough to cause your notebook to tumble to the floor.
“Congressman—” you tried, meaning to steady yourself. But it came out weak, too small against the weight of his presence.
“That’s cute. Still trying to keep it professional, huh?”
Your mouth wanted to form a retort, something sharp, but the words stalled in your throat. Not because you didn’t have them, but because his thumb’s slow drag over your pulse made your skin prickle and your stomach swoop in ways you hated. You told yourself it was fear. Except the burn low in your belly wasn’t fear at all.
His thumb stroked once again over your pulse, a reminder of how fast it was hammering. “You think being press gives you immunity? Sweetheart, you came in here poking at me like you wanted to see the monster. Now you’re gonna find out.”
A protest formed in your lips, but he stole it before you could speak. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and heat asserting dominance. It wasn’t a kiss meant to coax, it was meant to devour, to brand you of him. When you gasped against him, his tongue pushed in deep, as though it was greedy, and you could taste the coffee on his breath.
You shoved weakly at his chest, out of instinct, not entirely out of refusal. He growled when you did that, and took your lower lip between his teeth, drawing blood.
“Camera’s on,” you whispered desperately, as if that might remind him of consequences, of image, of control.
Glancing over towards the red blinking light, he backed off you, and hope clouded your eyes. Maybe reminding him of the camera now was the only correct thing you’ve done today. The relief was short lived when he reached out and angled the tripod until the lens caught you square in its frame. You, with your whole body under his, and his shadow looming over you like a predator that’d found its prey.
Only once it was set did he lean back in, breath hot against you. “Good,” he rasped, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Let ‘em watch. Be the best fuckin’ sex tape Capitol’s ever seen.” His laugh was cruel. “Bet you’d like that. Tomorrow’s headline will be: Congressman rails reporter until she can’t talk straight.”
You wanted to spit at him, to curse him, to claw your way out from under his weight. Instead, your thighs pressed tighter together, as if instinct alone was trying to shield you. But that small twitch was exactly what betrayed you. His gaze sharpened, and you knew he’d noticed. Humiliation seared through you, because some dark, treacherous part of you throbbed hotter at the thought of being caught on film.
Humiliation rose to your stomach like bile, your cheeks reddened in response. Gathering the little ounce of dignity left, “you can’t—”
“Can’t?” His hand slid down, to catch the hem of your skirt, shoving it up in one harsh motion. His fingers squeezed your thigh, hard enough to sting. “You opened that pretty mouth, sweetheart. Asked the wrong questions. Now you’re mine until I decide otherwise.”
He dragged the chair slightly forward, it came with a squeak across the floor. He pushed your legs apart, as his gaze flicked to the camera. A slow smirk spread over his face, “smile for the press, babygirl.”
You tried to twist away, words mumbling out of your mouth in desperation. Your job, your reputation, your whole fucking life flashed before your eyes. Only for him to cup your jaw with his metal hand, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“You’re not a reporter right now,” he growled. “You’re a mouthy little brat who thought she could handle me. Guess what, sweetheart? You can’t. And I’m gonna make sure you remember it every time you sit down to write another story.”
The words burned you, humiliation spreading through your body like trees caught on wildfire. When his metal fingers left your jaw, you made the mistake of exhaling like it was all over.
The smirk on his face said otherwise, as he proceeded to move those fingers towards your now spread apart legs. He dragged the dampness across your panties, pressing hard enough to make your body jerk.
A broken sound tore through your throat.
“That’s it,” he mocked softly. “All it took was my hand and now you’re soaked. Pathetic.”
The camera blinking in the background picked up on every single movement, as did the microphone pinned to your blouse. He bent a little to angle himself against your chest, against the microphone, and whispered, “Go on, say something for the camera. Tell ‘em how the big bad Congressman ruined their little press darling.”
Metal fingers withdrew from your dampness, only to grip your thighs, spreading them wider. He crouched between them, suit jacket pulled taut over his shoulders, tie hanging loose as though even the fabric had given up trying to restrain him.
Polished Congressman on his knees, eyes starved as he devoured your cunt with his sight alone.
You tried again, a weak echo of protest. “The camera—”
“—is getting a show,” he cut in, his voice a growl pitched low enough to rumble straight through your bones. His hands shoved your skirt higher, baring you, until the air felt too sharp against the wet heat clinging to your panties. He nosed at you, inhaling deeply like he meant to shame you with the sound of it. “Fuck. You came in here acting like you had claws, but look at you now. Dripping for me.”
On reflex, your hips jerked, but he caught you by the waist and pinned you to the chair with infuriating ease. The cold press of metal fingers hooked into your panties, yanking them down rough enough that the elastic burned your thighs, then discarded them entirely.
“Don’t—” You meant to beg, but it came out shaky, breathless.
His eyes flicked up, the black almost fully encircling the blues of his irises. “Don’t what? Don’t ruin that perfect little image of yours?” A cruel smirk escaped his lips. “Too late, sweetheart.”
You shook your head, weak, muttering something that wasn’t even words. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. And God help you, your hips tilted up to meet him before you could force them still. You hated yourself for it, for the way your body betrayed the no tangled on your tongue.
The first lick of his tongue on your heat, sent shivers down your spine. Your head snapped back against the chair with a strangled cry. Thighs trembling, your hands grabbed his suit, a weak attempt to push him away. When it failed, you squirmed your way out of his grasp, only for his hands to clamp down harder, bruising grip dragging you closer towards his mouth.
“Maybe you should talk less and open your legs more,” he muttered into you, the words vicious against your skin before his tongue dove back in. He latched onto your clit, sucking hard, and your nails dug into his shoulders, useless against the brutal drag of his tongue.
“Bucky—please—”
He pulled back just far enough to sneer up at you, his mouth slick with your arousal. His lips were red and swollen. “Please what? Please stop? Or please don’t you dare fucking stop?”
You shook your head weakly, your fingers twisted in his jacket as if to push—but your hips rolled helplessly against his mouth, a traitor to your protests.
He gave your pussy a taunting lick, never breaking eye contact. “Come on, media darling. You’re good with words. Use ‘em.”
You tried to twist, to catch your breath, but his hands were iron on your thighs. “Stay still,” he ordered between licks, his voice muffled but sharp. “You wanted answers? Here’s one—your pussy’s the only thing worth my time.”
Your thighs clenched hard around his head, a desperate attempt to block him out, but it only gave him leverage. His tongue flattened, lapping you, until you couldn’t tell if you were trying to shove him away or hold him closer.
“You say no, but this little cunt’s already decided for you.”
His mouth worked relentlessly on your cunt, and you feel the right coil snap inside you. Vision blurring, you could do nothing but sob, your body trembling under the ruthless pace of his mouth.
Feeling your body seize through the actions of his tongue, heat tore through, sharp as lighting. Your vision went white around the edges as the orgasm ripped you open.
When you collapsed back bonelessly, he finally pulled away, lips glistening and his jaw smeared with you. He looked wild, hair all mussed, pupils blown black. He didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath as he crushed his mouth against yours. The taste of yourself flooded your tongue, his hand fisting your hair to hold you there until you moaned against him.
“Yeah,” he snarled, pulling back just far enough to smear the mess across your lips with his thumb. “Taste what you give me. Sweet little mouthy slut.”
Before you could even answer him, he was unbuckling his belt, the metallic click loud in the silence of the room. The zipper hissed down, and then he was yanking himself free, already flushed dark with need.
He dragged your hips to the edge of the chair and shoved in one brutal thrust, splitting you wide.
Your cry echoed sharp in the enclosed room. His head falls back once, before he leaned into you, his mouth brushing your ears, “so fucking tight around me, like you were made for this cock.”
His metal arm came back to hold your head, while he thrust deeper into you. Your eyes flew wide at the pressure, the shock of feeling him drive against that tender spot.
The air left your lungs, as his pace picked up, him rutting into you mercilessly, nearing his release.
You sobbed, nails digging into his sleeves. “Don’t—don’t cum inside me—”
He laughed. A breathless sound laced with cruelty. The flesh hand moves over to press down into your lower abdomen, pinning you in place.
“Oh, I’m gonna, sweetheart. Gonna paint that pretty pussy from the inside out.” His teeth sank into your neck, his voice a growl against your skin. “You think you get a say after mouthing off to me? Not a chance.”
As his thrusts grew heavier, you felt the pressure build inside you, as your body is dragged towards another climax. He groaned like a man possessed, his movements erratic now, hand gripping your hip so tight you knew he’d leave marks.
Head buried against your neck, as he buried himself deep and held himself there. His cock throbbed inside you when he spilled his release, now coating your inner walls, filling you to the brim.
You gasped, the sensation flooding you so full it left you dizzy. You should have hated it. Instead, your back arched, your toes curling in your shoes as a second climax tore loose from your body, clenching down on him in helpless aftershocks. The sound that slipped from you wasn’t protest at all, but a broken moan that only made his teeth bite harder into your neck.
He stayed still inside until the last pulse faded, until your body sagged beneath him. Then he pulled out slowly, and you could feel it—the slick warmth sliding free before it spilled down your thighs in a humiliating trickle.
“Look at that,” he murmured, voice still mean and smug with pleasure. “Leaking all over my fucking chair like you’re proud of it.”
You whimpered, shifting your legs together. But his hand was back on your hip instantly, forcing you open. His gaze dropped to your exposed cunt, watching his spend drip down onto your swollen folds. “No. Not wasting a drop.” He caught your wrist, guiding your trembling fingers down.
“Push it back where it belongs,” he ordered, his eyes locked on your face. “Go on. Fuck your fingers into yourself until it’s all nice and messy again.”
Shame scorched you, but your body obeyed. Your shaky fingers pressed back inside, pushing his cum deeper. The wet sounds filled the room, and you bit your lip to keep from sobbing aloud.
“Good girl,” he drawled, satisfied. “Now clean up. Every finger. Slow.”
Your hand shook as you lifted it, slick dripping between your knuckles, proof of what he’d just done to you. You hesitated, lips parting with a weak sound of protest, but the scent hit you first—salt and heat, musk curling in your throat—and something low inside you tightened in response.
Bucky’s eyes never left you. “Go on,” he coaxed, softer now, though the command was still there. “I can see you’re curious. Bet you’ve wondered how you taste on a cock, huh?”
Your tongue darted out before you could stop it, a nervous flick that smeared wetness across your bottom lip. The taste startled you—sharp and earthy, but laced with the faint sweetness of your own arousal—and instead of pulling back, you licked again.
His grin widened, triumphant now. “There you go,” he said, like he could settle in to watch you unravel all night. “Knew you’d like it. Don’t stop now—nice and slow for me.”
Heat rose up your throat, humiliation and want tangled so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart. You dragged one finger past your lips, sucking gently, and your thighs pressed together, trying to ease the ache that had never really faded.
“Swallow,” he demanded. When you did, choking around the shame, his grin spread. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
The praise from his mouth left you fluttering instead of making you feel every shade of disgust. His words shouldn’t sound like approval, but they curled hot in your chest all the same.
He tucked himself back in with casual efficiency, buckling his belt like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just ruined you in the middle of his office. And then he dropped into his chair, leaning back with the kind of heavy-lidded satisfaction that made your pulse thrum. He didn’t need to touch you anymore—the weight of his stare alone kept you rooted, fumbling with your skirt, your panties, trying to make yourself look untouched.
But your hands shook too badly, and your thighs pressed together too tightly, almost like it wasn’t just shame anymore but a restless want.
Not once did he look away.
When you finally reached for your bag, desperate to flee because you couldn’t stand to let your body betray you more, his voice cut sharp through the silence. “Camera.”
Your breath stalled. The red light still blinked, steady and damning in the corner. You hesitantly turned, but he only raised a brow, like he knew you’d already do what he wanted. Slowly, you retrieved it, setting it in his waiting hand. His metal fingers curled over it with utmost care, claiming it like a prize.
You should have bolted then, but you didn’t. Something in you wanted to linger, to see what else he might demand, what else you might let yourself obey.
He leaned back, smirk curling as he set the camera down on his desk like it was a trophy. “Make an appointment with my assistant. Two days.”
You stared at him, heartbeat deafening your ears. “For — for what?”
He chuckled, setting the camera on the desk beside him. “To finish what we started, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want to leave the tape incomplete.”
The words didn’t have your desired effect on your body, heat spread thick under your skin, your pulse quickening at the thought of being dragged back under his control, of giving in again even while you swore you wouldn’t.
You hated yourself for it, hated that your body refused to line up with your better judgment. Because the truth lingered hot and undeniable in the back of your throat: you couldn’t wait for the next appointment.
dbf!alpha!bucky x omega!reader (werewolf au) summary. you don't understand why your body is reacting this way to being under the same roof with your dad's best friend. one thing you do know is that this isn't normal.
word count. 10.8k
warnings. age gap (everyone is of legal age), lowkey love at first sight, smut, MDNI, virginity loss, corruption (?), oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, marking, knotting, creampie, belly bulge, size kink, knot deflation, breeding kink, usage of petnames (baby, sweetheart, omega, kid for reader. alpha for buck), no use of y/n.
notes. bucky is mentioned to have a metal arm, but there is no backstory on the ‘how’. i imagine he'd lost it in war. i read up on abo a few weeks ago and was inspired to write this. and i'm pretty sure there are some stuff i made up. this is my first abo fic, please be kind, or else i'll cry. this was also written by someone who's never even seen fake snow Imao. baby's first long fic!
reader. reader has hair that gets stuck to forehead due to sweating. it's mentioned that reader's mother died when she was six. reader is kinda portrayed as innocent and clueless about the whole wolf stuff despite being a wolf, bc she didn't have anyone to teach her about it. bucky calls the reader kid a couple of times, but she's of age.
dt. @phoenix-in-writing who came up with this amazing title, @sheriff-bodecker who helped me with this abo scent list, and my twin, my sugar, @barnes-babydoll who’s the no.1 dbf enthusiast. i love you guys🫶🏻
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long as your eyes could see, it's snow. you don't remember the last time it snowed like this. like it could trap you inside if you're not careful. thankfully you reached home before it got worse.
the front door sticks like it always does in winter, the wood swollen from the cold, and you have to shoulder it open with your hip while juggling two grocery bags and the mail that was frozen to the box.
snow tumbles off your boots in heavy clumps, melting instantly on the heated tile your dad finally splurged on last year.
the house smells like a candle he probably lit for you and like the chili he’s had simmering since noon, thick with cumin and too much garlic, the way he’s made it since you were little, the way it feels like home.
you’re kicking the door shut behind you when you hear your dad’s laugh boom from the living room, the one that means he’s genuinely happy.
there’s another voice under it. even though you haven't heard it before, you know that voice from a hundred stories.
bucky barnes. the guy who pulled your dad out of a burning hut in kandahar, the guy who sends you birthday cards with twenty dollars tucked inside even though you’re in your twenties now, the guy whose face you’ve only seen in grainy photos because he’s always “on the road” or “out west” or whatever vague thing your dad says when you ask why his best friend never visits.
you round the corner expecting the same old soldier you’ve built in your head: buzz-cut, sunburned, maybe missing a finger from some explosion.
instead there’s a man sprawled in your dad’s favorite recliner like he owns it, one boot propped on the coffee table, and flannel sleeves shoved to the elbows.
he’s bigger than the pictures, shoulders filling the chair, and when he turns his head the light catches on the sharp line of his jaw and the faint white scar that cuts through his left eyebrow.
your stomach just flips. hard. like it had never before.
“there she is,” your dad grins, arms open like you’re still eight. “thought the blizzard ate you.”
“almost did,” you manage, voice cracking on the last word because suddenly your tongue feels too thick. you dump the bags on the floor. the mail scatters. “roads are shit. i slid twice just getting out of the driveway.”
bucky’s eyes—god, they’re blue enough to hurt—track the movement of your hands, then lift to your face.
he doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something kind of shifts in his expression. there's a tightening around his mouth, nostrils flaring like he’s scenting the air.
you don’t understand why that makes heat rush straight between your legs.
you’ve never felt anything like this. it’s not just warmth; it’s an insistent throb, and you’re abruptly, achingly wet.
slick. the word pops into your head from some barely remembered dream, but that can’t be right. right?
you shift your weight, making your thighs brush, and the friction makes you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from whimpering.
your dad is still talking, oblivious to whatever's happening inside of you. “bucky’s house got buried under six feet of snow and a pine tree. power’s out for the county, roads closed till god knows when. told him he’s staying here till it thaws.”
“hey, kid,” bucky's voice sound mesmerising even closer. he doesn’t stand up— probably can’t without looking awkward in the low-ceilinged room —but he leans forward to put his elbows on his knees. “heard a lot about you.”
you try to laugh but it just comes out shaky. “yeah, well, dad exaggerates.”
“doesn’t feel like exaggeration,” he murmurs, so low you’re not sure your dad hears it over the crackle of the fire.
your skin is on fire. you shrug out of your coat too fast, and when you bend to pick up the groceries your sweater rides up in the back.
cool air hits the strip of skin above your jeans and you swear bucky’s inhale is audible. when you straighten he’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched so tight you can count the muscles there.
“you okay, honey?” your dad asks, atill not understanding what's happening. who can blame him? even you don't understand.
“fine,” you lie. but your voice cracks again. “just—just hot. house is warm.”
bucky finally stands slowly like every inch costs him. he’s taller than you expected, broad enough that the room feels smaller now.
taking two steps towards you, he stops an arms length away. his hands are loose at his sides but you can clearly see his fingers flexing and unflexing.
“you burning up, sweetheart?” he asks quietly. “hurts anywhere?”
the question is gentle, but there’s something under it that makes your knees wobble.
you stare at him like you're confused, your brows drawn together. because you sure are confused.
because how could he possibly know your whole body feels like one raw nerve? your nipples are tight against your bra, your clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and you’re terrified if you move wrong everyone will smell how soaked you are.
“i—” you start, then stop, because your dad is right there.
bucky’s eyes flick to your dad and back to you, a silent conversation you don’t yet understand. “we’ll talk later,” he says, soft enough it’s almost just breath. “after your old man’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead. yeah?”
you nod before you can think about it. your throat is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.
“good girl,” he says, and the praise hits you like a punch to the sternum. your thighs clench involuntarily.
your dad claps bucky on the shoulder, breaking the moment. “come on, i’ll show you the guest room before the game starts. you still drink that piss-water beer?”
“only when i’m desperate,” bucky lets himself be steered away, but you can feel the way his gaze pierce you one last time before he disappears around the corner.
you stand there in the hallway long after their footsteps fade upstairs, heart beating so hard you can feel it basically everywhere.
your panties are absolutely ruined. you can feel the wet sliding down the inside of your thigh when you finally force yourself to move, and you have to bite your lip until it bleeds to keep from moaning out loud.
upstairs a door thuds shut. you can hear water running, and your dad's infectious laugh.
you press your back to the wall and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache that has your name written all over it. and you don’t even know what it means.
snow keeps falling outside silently, erasing the world one inch at a time. inside, the house creaks around you like it knows something you don’t.
you stay there until your legs go numb, wondering why the air still smells like wood and forest and something darker, something that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and into someone else’s.
bucky’s that someone else.
he’s sleeping ten feet down the hall tonight. with snow covering every inch around the house. with no where left to run even if you try.
you’re fucked. so fucked.
you wait until the house goes quiet. the way it only does after midnight, when even the the wind outside has worn itself out against the windows.
your dad’s snores rumble through the walls like distant thunder, the same rhythm since you were a kid hiding under blankets during storms.
you count to two hundred after the last creak on the stairs, then slip out of your room in socked feet, hoodie pulled up over your head, and heart punching against your ribs so hard you’re almost convinced it’s loud enough to wake him.
the guest room door is cracked open, a thin blade of lamplight cutting across the hardwood.
fingers curled against the frame, you hesitate. because you're not sure what is going to happen when you walk in. but your body is begging you to push open the door and jump in the bed with a man you barely even know.
because knocking feels too formal and you’re terrified of making any real noise, you push open the door slightly.
bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, staring at the floor like it owes him money.
the lamp paints gold across the ridges of his back, the metal arm catching the light in a way that makes your stomach flip all over again.
he doesn’t look surprised when you appear. if anything, the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. is he… relieved?
“couldn’t sleep either, huh?” his voice is rough from disuse, gentle in a way that makes you feel small and safe and completely out of your depth all at once.
shaking your head, you step inside, and pull the door almost shut behind you. “i kept… feeling weird. like my skin doesn’t fit right. and everything smells like you and it’s making me—” you stop, because your cheeks are burning and you don't know how to finish that sentence without making a fool of yourself. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart.” he pats the mattress beside him, in a way that's offering but not demanding. “c’mere. sit before you fall over.”
your legs carry you across the room like they’ve decided for you. the bed dips under your weight and you end up closer than you planned, knee brushing his thigh. the contact sends sparks skittering up your spine and you jerk away immediately, then hate yourself for it.
bucky huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “yeah, that’s gonna keep happening. sorry.”
“why?” the word comes out tiny.
he rubs a hand over his face, just to have something to do with his hands. “your mom ever talk to you about… wolf stuff? beyond the shifting when you were a kid?”
you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “she died when i was six. dad doesn’t— he thinks the full-moon thing is just stories. i only shift when i’m really upset or whatever. i thought that was it. the whole package.”
bucky’s quiet for a long beat. “christ. okay.”
he shifts to face you more fully, one leg goes under him now as if he's careful not to crowd you. “there’s more. a lot more. and what you’re feeling right now? that’s your body waking up to something it’s been waiting for its whole life.”
your throat feels dry as you try to push your next words out. “waiting for what?”
“an alpha,” his voice is so soft, exactly the opposite of what it seems to carry. “me, apparently.”
the word doesn’t mean anything to you and everything at the same time. you stare at him, with your mouth open a little.
he winces like it hurt him. “shit, that sounded creepy. i’m not—i didn’t plan this. i came here because my cabin’s under six feet of snow and your dad’s the only person i trust not to ask questions when i start growling at the walls in a couple days. i had no idea you're the same, let alone that you’d be—” he gestures vaguely at all of you, flustered in a way that’s almost cute on a man built like a brick wall.
“be what?” you whisper.
“unclaimed omega,” he says, like the words taste both sweet and dangerous. “and in your first real heat cycle, from the smell of it. which is… fuck, it’s like walking into a room full of birthday cakes when you’ve been starving for years.”
your face goes nuclear. “i don’t—i’m not—i’ve never even—” you can’t finish any of those sentences.
“i know,” he says gently. “i can smell that too.”
your hands move upwards on their own accord as if to hide your face from the impending humiliation. “oh my god.”
“hey, no.” his flesh hand settles on your wrist, thumb stroking the inside where your pulse is rabbiting. “this isn’t your fault. none of this is, baby. your mom should’ve been here. or someone. anybody to explain that when an omega hits maturity and meets a compatible alpha, biology loses its goddamn mind.”
you let him lower your hand. “so what is a heat, exactly? like… being horny? because i feel like i’m dying.”
he exhales through his nose, and there's a sound you're not sure is a laugh. “it’s being horny on a cellular level, yeah. but worse. your body’s screaming for— for relief. for a knot. for—” he stops himself before going too far. “sorry. trying not to be crude.”
“i don’t even know what a knot is,” you mumble.
bucky makes a wounded noise. “jesus, kid.”
“i’m not a kid,” you protest automatically, then immediately want the floor to swallow you because you sound twelve.
“you’re twenty-somethin’ and you’ve never had anybody explain this to you. that’s criminal.” he drags a hand through his hair. “okay. short version, no diagrams. alphas go into rut. omegas go into heat. when they’re near each other and the timing’s right, it’s like throwing gasoline on a bonfire. the alpha’s body produces a—structure—at the base of his—” he gestures downward, face red now. “it locks inside the omega so nothing leaks out. nature’s way of making sure pups happen. it feels… good. really good. but it’s intense and it lasts a while and if you’re not ready it can hurt.”
you stare at your knees. “so you’re saying in a couple days you’re gonna… lose control?”
“i’m saying i’m already fighting tooth and nail not to crawl into your bed right now and do things your dad would shoot me for,” his voice is strained. “and you’re leaking slick like because your body recognizes me as—as safe. as yours. which is fucking with my head almost as bad as yours.”
the room spins a little. “mine?”
he looks at you then, and his eyes are soft and wrecked at the same time. “yeah. mine too, if we let it be. but that’s—we don’t have to. i can tough it out. i can leave at first light, find a motel with industrial suppressants, ride it out alone. i’ve done it before. it sucks but it’s doable.”
panic flares sharp in your chest. “no.”
he blinks, like he's trying to process if that's what he had really heard.
“i mean—” you twist your fingers together until the knuckles are strained. “i don’t want you to go. i don’t understand any of this but when you say you’re leaving, it feels like someone’s ripping something out of me. and i’m scared and everything hurts and you’re the only person who even knows why.”
bucky’s throat bobs. “sweetheart—”
“and you call me sweetheart and it makes my whole body feel like warm honey,” you blurt out, then slap a hand over your mouth.
a helpless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, that’s the bond talking. little bit of it already. fuck, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
you groan into your palm.
“look,” he says, scooting closer until your knees touch again. this time you don’t move away. “i’m not going anywhere tonight. tomorrow we’ll figure out suppressants, or—or something. but right now you’re shaking and you smell like a distressed omega and it’s making me want to punch through the walls.”
“i’m not shaking,” you lie, and then your teeth chatter loud enough to prove you wrong.
he rolls his eyes, but it's fond. “c’mere.”
before you can decide if that’s a good idea, he’s tugging you into his side, arm looping around your shoulders.
you go stiff for half a second and then melt, face pressed to the warm skin of his neck, breathing him in like oxygen. he smells good, so good, like he was just made for you.
“better?” he murmurs into your hair.
“mhmm.” it comes out a little muffled and a lot pathetic.
he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “thought so. scent bonding. works both ways.”
his hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades while the house settles around you. eventually he shifts, pulling the quilt from the foot of the bed and draping it over both of you.
“you ever been with anybody?” he asks quietly. “kissed, touched, anything?”
heat floods your face again. “no. there was this guy in college who tried but i got all panicky and bit him. like actually bit him. on the lip. i think he needed stitches.”
bucky snorts. “good instincts.”
“i thought i was just broken,” you admit. “everyone else was hooking up and i felt… nothing. until tonight. until you looked at me and it was like someone flipped a switch.”
“not broken, baby,” he says firmly. “waiting. your body knew what it wanted even if your head didn’t have the manual.”
you tilt your head back to see his face. “so what happens now?”
“now you let me hold you until you stop shaking. tomorrow your heat’s gonna get worse—cramps, fever, more slick than you know what to do with. i’ll be here. we’ll take it slow. i’ll talk you through every step. and if at any point you want me to stop, or leave, or call someone else— i will. no questions.”
you study him, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his metal fingers twitch like he’s fighting not to pull you closer. “you promise?”
“cross my heart, kid.” he draws an x over his chest with the flesh hand, like he's solemn.
you nod against his collarbone. “okay.”
“okay,” he echoes, there's a relief in his voice.
“bucky?”
“yeah?”
“is it always gonna feel this big? like the world got too small for my skin?”
he presses his lips to your temple in a lingering but featherlight kiss. “only when it’s right.”
you close your eyes and let the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek lull you toward something that feels dangerously like peace.
but in this room, wrapped in quilt and an alpha and the first real answers you’ve ever had, you finally stop shaking.
you wake up slowly, like swimming up through an ocean, and the first thing you notice is the heat.
not just the quilt tucked around you both, but bucky himself, a living furnace pressed along your back, his metal arm draped heavy over your waist, flesh hand splayed low on your stomach like he fell asleep holding you together.
your cheek is smushed against his collarbone, one of your legs thrown over his thigh because sometime in the night you apparently decided personal space was for suckers.
it’s too hot. you’re sweating where your skin touches his, hoodie twisted up under your arms, and between your legs you’re so wet it’s embarrassing, like you’ve been dreaming things you don’t even have names for.
the sheets under your hips feel damp and you pray to every god you’ve ever heard of that it hasn’t soaked through to his side.
you're not sure if he's awake yet. but you don't want to move and give yourself away. the thought is barely formed when his chest vibrates under your ear.
“morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. “been awake a while. you kick in your sleep, did you know that?”
your whole body goes rigid. oh god, he heard that thought. or guessed. does that mean he’s thinking about the other thing too?
“and yeah,” he adds quieter, thumb stroking across the strip of bare skin where your hoodie’s ridden up, “i can still smell how wet you are. been able to since about four a.m. when you started grinding on my leg like a daydream.
mortification floods you so hard you make a strangled noise and shove your face into the crook of his neck, trying to disappear into him.
his scent is stronger here, more concentrated, and it makes your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.
“hey, none of that,” he laughs against your hair. “told you last night, it’s biology, baby. not your fault. i’m the one who should be apologizing for sporting wood like a teenager since the second you crawled in here.”
you risk a peek. his eyes are half-lidded, and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that might be from the heat or might be something else.
“i thought maybe i peed the bed,” you mumble into his skin.
he actually laughs then, like the sound was startled out of him. “christ, you’re gonna kill me. no, baby, that’s slick. it's perfectly normal. it just means your body’s getting ready.”
“ready for what?” you ask, because even though you know, you still don’t totally get it, why this much is needed.
“ready for whatever we decide,” he says carefully. “or ready to make me take a very cold shower. jury’s out.”
down the hall comes the unmistakable thud of your dad’s bedroom door, then the groan of floorboards, and then the cough that always starts his day.
bucky goes still, arm tightening around you for a second before he eases away slowly, like he’s forcing himself.
“time to play innocent,” he whispers, pressing one quick kiss to your forehead that feels anything but innocent. “go. i’ll follow in a minute.”
you scramble out of the bed so fast you nearly face-plant, yanking your hoodie down and praying your legs work.
the cool air in the hallway hits your damp thighs and you whimper before you can stop yourself.
bucky’s already swinging his legs off the bed, sweatpants doing nothing to hide the situation in his lap. “go,” he repeats, voice strained. “before i do something stupid.”
you bolt. because you’re not thinking much, just acting on instinct.
in your room you change three times because nothing feels right against your skin, everything too scratchy or too hot, and end up in the softest leggings you own and one of your dad’s old army tees that hangs to mid-thigh.
when you creep downstairs, bucky’s already at the kitchen counter pouring coffee like he belongs there, hair damp from the fastest shower in history, wearing a different flannel that makes him look unfairly good.
your dad’s shoveling cereal into his mouth standing up, keys in one hand. “morning, trouble,” he says around a mouthful. “roads are clear enough for the plows. i gotta go in, inventory won’t count itself. you two behave.”
“yes, sir,” bucky says, mock-salute with his coffee mug.
your dad points a spoon at him. “and you, don’t let her con you into watching those vampire shows all day. she’ll rope you in, they’re addictive.”
“i make no promises,” bucky says solemnly.
your dad kisses the top of your head on his way out, same as always, and then the front door slams and the truck rumbles to life and pulls away, tires crunching over packed snow.
the house goes suddenly, echoingly quiet.
you stand there in the middle of the kitchen feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
bucky sets his mug down, leans back against the counter, with his arms crossed. it makes his biceps look good enough to chew through. “so. questions?”
a million of them crash together in your head. “is it always going to feel like this? like— this intense?”
“first heat’s the worst,” he says. “like the volume gets turned to eleven on everything. smells, touch, emotions. all of it.”
you chew your lip. “and the… wet thing. is that forever now?”
he huffs a soft laugh. “only when you’re around an alpha you like. or ovulating. or happy. or sad. basically whenever your body feels like being dramatic.”
“great,” you mutter. “i’m a leaky faucet.”
“adorable leaky faucet,” he corrects, grinning when you flip him off without thinking.
by ten you’re convinced you’re fine.
you make pancakes. well, bucky makes pancakes while you sit on the counter kicking your feet and stealing chocolate chips.
the cramps are mild, just a low tug deep in your belly, and the wetness has eased to a manageable dampness.
you even laugh when he flips a pancake and it lands half on the stove.
“see?” your is mouth full, but that doesn't stop you from talking. “totally normal. maybe it was just a twenty-four-hour thing.”
bucky eyes you over the rim of his coffee, expression unreadable. “sure, kid. whatever you say.”
by noon the cramps are back with friends.
you’re curled on the couch under three blankets watching some documentary about penguins because everything else felt too loud, and every time you shift the pressure between your legs makes you whimper.
bucky sits on the coffee table facing you. “scale of one to ten?”
“six?” you lie.
“try again.”
“eight,” you admit. sweat beads at your hairline even though it’s cold enough to freeze your feet. “it feels like someone parked a truck on my uterus.”
he winces in sympathy. “yeah, that’s the heat talking. your body’s cranking the dial, trying to get my attention.”
“it has your attention,” you snap, then immediately feel bad. “sorry. i’m sorry. i’m just—everything hurts and i’m scared and i still don’t really get why.”
“i know.” he reaches out, brushes damp hair off your forehead. “want me to run you a bath? heat helps sometimes. or i can make a heat pack. or—”
“can you just—” you gesture vaguely. “sit with me? like last night? your smell makes it quieter in my head.”
he hesitates for half a second, then crawls onto the couch behind you, pulling you back against his chest.
you go boneless instantly, like a switch was flipped, head lolling on his shoulder.
“better?” he asks, mouth against your temple.
“mhmm.” you’re already drifting, the pain dulling to a background throb. “don’t leave.”
“not going anywhere,” he promises.
the afternoon bleeds away in waves. one minute you’re dozing, the next you’re arching with a cramp so sharp tears leak out the corners of your eyes.
bucky holds you through all of it, rubbing slow circles on your belly, murmuring nonsense about how strong you are, how good you’re doing, how fucking brave.
by four you’re openly crying, not even trying to hide it, face buried in his shirt. “it hurts so much,” you sob. “i changed my mind, i want it to stop.”
“i know, baby.” his voice is wrecked. “i’m right here. you’re doing so good.”
you can feel him shaking too, just a faint tremor in the arm locked around you.
his scent has gone darker, sharper, and when you turn your face into his neck you realize he’s sweating through his shirt.
“bucky?” you whisper.
“yeah?”
“are you okay?” the irony is delicious, you asking him if he were okay, while you were nearly knocking on death’s door.
he laughs, but it’s thin. “no. your heat’s kicking my rut into gear about a week early. trying real hard to be a gentleman here.”
you whine. “i don’t want a gentleman. i want it to stop hurting.”
he goes very still. “sweetheart, we talked about this—”
“i know what i said,” you cut in. “but i changed my mind. please. i’ll beg if you want. just make it stop.”
he cups your wet cheek, thumb wiping away your tears. “you don’t have to beg, baby. ever. but we’re gonna do this right, okay? we are gonna go slow. with lots of talking. the second you say stop, we stop.”
you nod so hard your teeth click.
“words, omega,” he says gently.
“yes. please. yes.”
he exhales shakily, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the hallway.
“guest room’s got the bigger bed,” he mutters, half to himself. “and farther from your dad’s room for when he gets home.”
you cling to his neck, breathing him in, the pain already easing just from the promise in his arms.
he carries you up the stairs like you’re made of glass and dynamite at the same time, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back.
your face is tucked into his neck because it’s the only place that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire, and every step jostles you against his chest.
only then you feel it. the thick, rigid line of him pressed against your hip, unmistakable even through two layers of clothes.
you pull back just enough to stare, wide-eyed even though you try hard not to be startled. “bucky… is that—”
“yeah,” he mutters, cheeks going red. “ignore it. or don’t. christ, i’m trying to be decent here.”
“it feels huge,” you whisper like you're both awed and terrified, and then immediately want to die because who the fuck says that out loud?
he trips on the top step, catches himself with a grunt. “you’re gonna be the end of me, kid. swear to god.”
the guest room door is already ajar; he shoulders it open and lowers you onto the bed like you’re something precious.
the mattress is cool under your back and for one glorious minute the cramps ease, the fever drops, and you think maybe the worst is over.
you prop yourself on your elbows, hair still sticking to your damp forehead. “i feel… okay right now. like it backed off.”
bucky stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, breathing slowly through his nose. “that’s the calm before the next wave, sweetheart. happens sometimes. gives you just enough hope to make the crash worse.”
you bite your lip, debating whether to ask or not. but then tour body thrums like it needs him inside you, and you make up your mind. “so… knotting. you said last night it locks you inside. how does that even work? like… is it painful? or does it just… pop out like a balloon animal?”
he chokes on air, rubs the back of his neck until the skin goes pink. “jesus. uh. no balloon animals. it’s—there’s a ring of muscle at the base. when i’m… close, it swells, and… and gets thick. the idea is it plugs everything so nothing leaks, keeps the—keeps you full.” his ears are scarlet now. “biology’s real romantic.”
you sit up fully, knees drawn to your chest, genuinely curious. “but does it hurt you? or me? and how long does it stay big?”
“hurts if you fight it,” he says carefully. “if you relax and let it happen, it’s… intense. but good intense. lasts twenty minutes, half hour sometimes. you feel full, safe, floaty. like the best hug you’ve ever had, only inside.”
your eyes go round. “inside.”
he groans and drops his chin, as to avoid eye-contact for a bit. you've never seen him this embarrassed. “yeah. inside.”
you pick at the hem of your borrowed army tee. “we’re probably gonna have sex anyway,” you say softly, matter-of-fact. “you can just say cock. i’m not gonna faint.”
bucky lifts his head, stares at you for a long second, and then laughs. “god, baby. you’re something else, you know that?”
“i’m serious,” you insist even if your cheeks are hot. you are determined. “i want to know what’s coming. i hate not knowing.”
he exhales once and crawls onto the bed beside you, sitting cross-legged like you’re having a sleepover instead of the single most loaded conversation of your life.
“alright. honest, then. i’m big. bigger than average even for an alpha. first time’s gonna burn a little no matter what, but if i open you up slowly —tongue, fingers, lots of slick—you’ll take me. the knot’ll stretch you wide and then lock, and yeah, it’ll feel like you can’t possibly get any fuller, and then you will. and it’ll be good. i’ll make sure it’s good.”
“promise?” your voice is barely a breath.
“promise,” his is rough. “now c’mere before the next wave hits and you start crying again.”
you go willingly, letting him tug the oversized tee over your head.
cool air kisses your skin and your nipples tighten instantly, aching little points that beg for attention before he’s even touched them.
bucky’s gaze drops to your chest and something feral flickers across his face before he reins it in with visible effort.
“fuck,” he breathes. “look at you.”
you cross your arms self-consciously.
you cross your arms self-consciously, trying to hide, but he catches your wrists gently in one big hand and pins them above your head without even thinking about it, metal fingers cool against your pulse points.
“they’re just boobs.” you can feel your cheeks heating up.
they’re perfect,” he counters, and leans in, mouth closing over one stiff peak without asking permission because you’re already arching toward him like your body wrote the invitation years ago.
the first pull of his lips is gentle, almost curious, like he’s tasting something sacred. then he groans and sucks harder, tongue flicking in quick, ruthless circles while his beard scrapes the soft underside of your breast.
his flesh hand cups the weight, feeding you deeper into his mouth like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll ever fill him.
there’s no milk, you know that, but he’s sucking like there is, like he could live off it, like if he tries hard enough he’ll coax it out of you just to taste how sweet on his tongue.
“bucky—” your fingers tangle in his hair, not sure if you’re pulling him closer or holding on for dear life. probably both.
he switches sides, laving the abandoned nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it in, humming around it.
the vibration shoots straight between your legs and you realize you’re grinding against nothing, hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles.
he pulls off with a wet pop, eyes blown black. “need to taste you properly,” he rasps. “gonna make you come on my tongue twice before we can even think about my cock. okay?”
you nod so fast your head spins.
he eases you onto your back, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and panties together, peeling them down in one motion. the fabric sticks where you’re soaked through and he has to work them over your hips, cursing under his breath when the cool air hits your bare, dripping skin.
the scent of you slams into him like a punch. his eyes flutter shut for a second, throat working as he swallows hard.
“christ, look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs, pushing them wide with careful hands. his thumbs stroke the crease where thigh meets groin, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “all wet and dripping for me. fucking glistening.”
you whimper and try to close your legs out of sheer embarrassment, but he holds you open easily, metal arm braced across one thigh, flesh hand splayed over the other, keeping you spread like a feast.
“uh-uh. let me see.” he blows a cool stream of air directly over your clit and you jolt, a high-pitched sound escaping that you don’t even recognize as yours. “sensitive little thing. look at her twitch for me.”
before you realise what’s happening, his mouth is on you.
the first lick is broad and slow, from your entrance to your clit, gathering slick like he’s starving for it, tongue curling to scoop every drop.
he groans against you the sound vibrating through your entire body, and does it again, and again, until your thighs are shaking in his grip and your back is bowed off the bed.
your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget your own name for three full seconds.
all that now exists is the wet heat of his mouth and the mortifying little squeak you make that sounds absolutely nothing like you.
“taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, words slurred like he’s drunk on you. “sweetest thing i’ve ever had. could live down here, baby. could die happy with my face buried in this cunt.”
he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, like he's just teasing, then seals his lips around it and sucks. it's soft at first, then harder when you cry out.
your back bows off the bed, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his hair.
“bucky—oh god—”
he slides one thick finger inside you without warning and you clench around it, shocked at how easily it goes, how much more you suddenly need.
it doesn’t hurt like you always scared you it would. it feels like coming home to a house you didn’t know you owned. you have to bite your lip to keep from saying something mortifying like 'thank you'.
“relax, baby,” he soothes, pulling off your clit just long enough to watch his finger disappear into you, eyes dark with wonder. “gotta open you up. look how greedy you are — fuck—sucking me right in like you were made for this.”
he crooks his finger, finds that spot inside that makes your vision white out, and you come with a startled wail, thighs clamping around his head, slick gushing over his hand.
he just keeps stroking that spot slowly while his mouth returns to your clit with soft and lazy licks, drawing the orgasm out until you’re shaking and oversensitive and trying to squirm away from his grasp.
“one more, baby,” he says against your folds, voice muffled again. “need you soft and open for me.”
you want to be cool and say something sexy but what comes out is, “i don’t have any more in me."
he just laughs into your thigh like you just told the best joke in the world. the laugh vibrates and suddenly you do have one more.
a sob leaves you now, as you say “can’t,” but your hips are already chasing his tongue. he laughs again like he's received the memo.
“you can and you will. come on, omega, give it to me. give it to your alpha.”
he adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, scissoring gently while his tongue flicks faster.
the burn is there, like a sweet ache, but it’s drowned out by the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until you snap again, harder this time, a rush of wet heat spilling over his chin.
he works you through it, licking softly until you go limp, with tears drying on your temples.
only then does he crawl up your body, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the space between your breasts. it's like he needs to map every single part of you, make you his in every way that will ever count.
his beard is soaked, lips swollen and shiny, and he looks wrecked in the best way.
“good girl,” he whispers, nuzzling your throat, scenting you openly now. “so fucking good for me.”
you reach for him with shaky hands, tugging at his shirt. you know one thing and one thing only. that you want him. “off. want skin.”
realisation hits you that you're talking in half sentences now, but you have bigger things to look forward to.
he yanks it over his head in one quick motion, then pauses, looking down at where you’re still spread open and trembling beneath him.
you just stare at him and his abs because it's goddamn unfair how hot he is. the flannel shirt has been hiding the most beautiful thing in the world ever.
there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his collarbones from holding himself back all day, and the scent rolling off his bare skin hits you like a drug, wet earth and gun-oil and something feral that makes your mouth water and your thighs try to close on instinct.
“still with me?” his voice is both rough and gentle at the same time, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real.
you nod and pull him down until his weight settles over you, the most perfect thing ever.
his chest hair rasps against your nipples, the metal arm cool against your ribs, flesh hand burning hot on your hip, and you feel tiny under him, safe and pinned and exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“don’t stop,” you breathe against his mouth. “please don’t stop.”
"not gonna," he kisses you like he’s drowning, swallowing every little sound you make.
his tongue strokes yours, making you taste yourself on him, and you whine into his mouth.
your hands slide over the ridges of his back, nails digging in when another cramp twists low in your belly.
it is sharp enough to make your hips jerk, grinding your soaked pussy against the hard line of his cock still trapped in his sweatpants
“alpha,” you gasp against his lips, the word slipping out of you in the most needy way, surprising you both.
bucky groans, his forehead dropping to yours. “fuck, omega. say it again.”
“alpha, please.” tears spill down your temples. “it hurts. need you inside, please.”
he rears back just enough to shove his sweatpants down, kicking them off, and then he’s bare above you, cock heavy and flushed against his stomach. there's a bead of precum pearling at the tip.
you stare at him, because holy shit he wasn’t exaggerating about how big he is.
it’s ridiculous. beautiful and ridiculous and you have a fleeting, hysterical thought that you’re about to get ruined by a guy who still sends you birthday cards.
the thought makes you giggle and then choke because he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“eyes on me,” he says softly, settling between your thighs again, nudging them wider with his knees. “gonna go slow, sweetheart. tell me if it’s too much.”
you nod, almost biting your lip bloody, and he lines up, dragging the blunt head through your folds, coating himself in slick, spreading your wetness up over your clit until you’re shaking and trying to chase the pressure.
the first press is gentle, just the tip breaching you, and you both suck in a breath.
“oh god,” you whimper. it burns sharply, but underneath it is relief so profound you start crying harder, tears sliding hot into your hair.
“breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice shaking with restraint. “breathe out a little. there you go—fuck, that’s it.”
inch by agonizing inch he sinks in, pausing every time you tense, kissing away your tears, whispering praise against your throat, “so tight. taking me so well. my perfect girl,” the words rumbling against your skin, beard scraping deliciously.
when he’s halfway you feel impossibly full already, and you claw at his shoulders. “too much—”
“almost,” he soothes, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest, rolling down between your breasts. “just a little more. you’re doing so good, omega. look how pretty you open for me.”
he pulls back just enough that you both watch his cock disappear into you, the sight so filthy your walls flutter around him and he curses under his breath.
the stretch is so sudden and complete that for one stupid second you’re scared you’re going to split open.
but then the fear flips into wonder because he’s home, he’s actually home inside you and your body is singing in a language you never even learned, every ridge and vein dragging against places inside you that light up like fireworks.
another slow push and he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and you both moan, broken sounds that tangle in the air.
he stills as he's buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, with his forehead pressed to yours.
“move,” you beg, because you feel full and empty at the same time somehow. “please move, alpha.”
he draws back slow, almost all the way out, then slides home again, and the drag lights every nerve on fire.
when he slides back in it’s like the first sip of water after you didn’t even know you were dying of thirst. your hips tilt greedily without permission, chasing that feeling again, and you hate how obvious it is but you can’t stop.
a sob leaves you as your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him inside you deeper.
“like that?” he rasps, setting a careful rhythm, long strokes that have you seeing stars. “feel good?”
“yes—yes—harder alpha—” you don’t even und why you’re screaming for him to go harder, but everything in your body is asking for more.
he obliges, hips snapping a little sharper, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room.
your slick is everywhere, soaking the sheets, dripping down his balls, easing the way until he’s fucking into you relentlessly.
you turn your head without thinking, mouth finding the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and bite dow. blood floods your tongue, and you taste iron.
it’s not romantic, it’s animal and desperate and the most honest thing you’ve ever done with your mouth—claiming him before your brain can talk you out of it.
you don't know what made you feral enough to do it, but the wolf in you seems happy.
“fuck—did you just—” he pulls back to stare at you, a perfect ring of your teeth blooming red on his skin.
“i’m sorry!” you whisper, a little horrified now that he's noticed. “i didn’t mean—i just needed—”
“no, baby, no.” his laugh is breathless, and leans in to capture your lips, kissing you fiercely, tasting his own blood on your tongue and groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. “you marked me. you've claimed me. means i’m yours now, my little wolf.”
your heart flips. “really?”
“really.” he nuzzles your throat, scent glands pulsing, licking over your pulse point like he’s already planning where to bite. “want me to mark you back? make it even?”
“yes,” you breathe. “make me yours. please, alpha.”
a possessive growl rips off him, and he strikes. his teeth sink into the soft spot where neck meets shoulder.
pain flares, but then melts into pure bliss, a rush of warmth flooding every vein, your pussy clamping down so hard he curses into your skin.
his bite lands and the pain is bright but then it is gone, replaced by a rush that pours straight down your spine and pools between your legs.
suddenly, you understand why people write songs about this exact second. you also understand you’re never going to be just “you” again.
you come with a scream, walls clamping down on him, milking his cock as pleasure crashes over you in waves.
bucky's pace falters, like your orgasm triggered his too. “shit—gonna knot you—can’t hold—”
the base of his cock starts to swell, catching on every thrust, and stretching you wider.
you feel it grow and thicken, a delicious pressure that has you keening.
you gasp even though you know what exactly is happening. the feeling is nothing and everything like he'd described.
“knot, omega,” he grits out,like he's confirming in case you were still confused. “gonna lock us together. fill you up, baby.”
it pops fully, sealing you tight, and you hiss at the sensation. you're stuffed so full you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
the knot throbs inside you, stretching your walls until you feel every pulse of his heartbeat.
his rhythm turns shallow, and then he’s coming, hot pulses deep inside, so much it floods you instantly.
spurt after thick spurt paints your insides, your belly rounding with it.
“take it,” his voice breaks. “take every drop—fuck, look at you.”
dazed at the sensation, you stare down between you, hand pressing over the little bulge.
when you press, you feel him pulse, another hot spurt, and the skin stretches under your hand. the possessive little wolf that lives in you purrs 'mine' so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it.
“that’s me,” he whispers, covering your hand with his. “all in you. keeping you full.”
you come again just from that, weaker but deeper, a rolling climax that leaves you boneless and sobbing his name.
he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re on top, knot tying you together, his arms banded around your back.
he’s still leaking into you, little pulses every time you clench, and you can’t stop touching the swell of your stomach, marveling at how full you feel.
“feels weird,” you mumble into his neck. “good weird. like you’re part of me now.”
“i am,” he says simply, fingers tracing the bite mark on your shoulder. “and you’re part of me. we're mated. for real.”
you lift your head, tears fresh but happy this time. “even though i bit you like a feral raccoon?”
he snorts but kisses the tip of your nose. “that was just you being my my fierce little omega.”
the knot takes its sweet time, like it knows exactly how wrecked you both are and refuses to rush the moment.
you’re draped over bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, his arms locked around your back so you don’t slide off the swell of your own belly.
every few seconds one of you shifts and the tug where you’re joined makes you both hiss.
“think i look about three months along,” you mumble into his skin, poking the taut curve of your stomach.
bucky huffs a laugh that shakes you both. “try five. you’re carrying the barnes heir already, clearly i’m very efficient.”
“shut up,” you groan, but you’re grinning. “this is so weird. i look like i swallowed a something.”
sliding one big hand down to cradle the underside of the bulge, his thumb strokes soft circles. “never seen anything hotter in my life, swear to god.”
you hide your face in his neck again because the way he’s looking at you—like you hung the damn moon and then painted it gold for good measure—makes your chest ache in a brand new way.
time blurs. snow ticks against the window like it’s trying to get in on the secret.
eventually the pressure eases, the knot shrinking by slow degrees until you feel him slip a fraction inside you.
“here we go,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “gonna be messy, baby. you ready?”
you nod, and then the last of it deflates and he slides free with a wet sound that should be obscene but mostly just makes you whimper at the sudden emptiness.
you feel it leave you and panic for one stupid heartbeat that he’s leaving too, until his arms tighten and you realize the mess is just proof he stayed.
hot and endless cum follows immediately, gushing out of you in a rush that soaks the sheets, his thighs, everything.
mortified, you try to clamp your legs shut, but he’s already laughing softly and holding you open with gentle hands.
“let it happen, sweetheart. look at that—fuck, that’s all me.” he sounds awed, staring between your legs where it keeps coming, pearly ropes painting your thighs, pooling under your ass. “you took so much. proud of you.”
“it’s everywhere,” you whisper as you feel head flood your cheeks. “the bed’s ruined. dad’s gonna kill us.”
“worth it,” he says, still watching like he can’t believe his eyes. “christen the guest room properly. he’ll just think i spilled milk or something.”
you smack his chest weakly. “that is not what this looks like.”
he finally tears his gaze away to grin at you. “no, it looks like i bred my omega six ways to sunday. which is accurate.”
the word bred sends a fresh shiver through you, aftershocks rippling up your spine.
he places a wet kiss to the side of your jaw, and moves away from you, so he can grab the water bottle from the nightstand. but even that half a second absence pulls something deep off your chest.
when he presses the bottle to your moth without any preamble, you guzzle half of it without sitting up. and then hand it back with a sheepish smile.
he drinks the rest, and a drop slides down his chin that you lean over and lick away without thinking.
“thirsty little thing,” he teases, but his voice is so soft.
he disappears to the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth and a towel that has definitely seen better days. you try to take the cloth but he bats your hand away, kneeling between your legs again.
“let me,” his voice gentle but firm nonetheless. “part of the deal.”
he cleans you slowly—thighs first, then careful swipes over your swollen folds, murmuring apologies when you flinch at the oversensitivity.
the cloth is warm and smells faintly of your old detergent, and the care in his hands makes your chest ache.
“you don’t have to,” you whisper.
“want to,” he says simply. “always gonna take care of you now.”
when he’s done he tosses everything toward the hamper but misses by a mile, earning a laugh from you.
he sits up and scoops you into his lap, and you curl into him immediately, resting your head on his shoulder.
“bathroom,” he decides. “then food. then more cuddling. in that order.”
you make a pathetic noise. “can’t walk.”
“wasn’t planning on making you.”
he scoops you up before you can protest about the mess, carrying you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing.
the shower’s ancient and takes forever to heat, but he holds you under the spray anyway, washing you slowly and thoroughly. his hands are tender between your legs, cleaning away the evidence with a softness that makes tears prick again.
every gentle pass of his hand feels like apology and worship at the same time.
you’re sore, swollen, raw, and still you find yourself canting your hips into his touch because even wrecked you’re greedy for him.
you lean on him like you're boneless, letting him shampoo your hair, rinse the sweat from your back, kiss the bite mark on your shoulder until it tingles.
you let him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is you.
“still with me?” he asks quietly, thumbing soap from your collarbone.
“barely,” you admit, voice hoarse from all the screaming. “feel like i got hit by a truck.”
he snorts, turning you to rinse your back. “sexy horny truck.”
back in the bedroom he strips the ruined sheets with military efficiency, muttering about evidence disposal, then wrestles a clean set from the linen closet while you sit on the edge of the mattress wrapped in a towel with your legs dangling, watching the muscles in his back flex.
he crawls in beside you once it’s made, pulling you down so you’re both face to face now, noses brushing each other.
“hey,” he whispers.
“hey yourself,” you whisper back.
you study each other in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds. his hair’s a mess, lips swollen, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen on anyone.
“i love you,” you say, simple as breathing. because it is. nothing had ever felt this good, this right. he looks exactly like everything you've been searching all your life.
you catalogue the tiny things nobody else ever gets to see: the faint freckle just under his left eye, the way his lashes stick together from the shower, the tiny scar on his lip you suddenly want to kiss every day for the rest of your life.
the list feels endless and you’re stupidly grateful for every single item.
you feel his breath catch. “yeah?”
“yeah. think i started falling the second you looked at me like i was something worth looking at. downstairs, when i walked in and you smelled me and didn’t run. maybe even before that, from all dad’s stories. but definitely then.”
metal fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he finds words. “i love you too. terrified me how fast. thought i was having some kinda stroke when your scent hit me. like the world narrowed to just you and i hadn’t even seen your face yet.”
you laugh. “romantic.”
“i’m a romantic guy,” he deadpans, but his voice is softer when he adds, “you’re it for me, sweetheart. mated or not, marked or not, you’re it.”
you kiss him slowly, tasting the truth of it. when you pull back you rest your forehead against his.
“so what happens now?” you ask.
you’re both sticky and wrecked and you can feel a bruise blooming where he bit you and you’ve never been happier to be in pain.
because it means tomorrow when your dad asks why you’re walking funny you’ll have to lie to the man who taught you 'honesty is the best policy' and honestly the irony is delicious.
his thumb strokes your mating mark. “now my rut kicks in for real. been simmering since your heat hit, but the knot triggered it proper. gonna be… a lot. more intense than this. might get growly and possessive, want to keep you in bed for days. you sore?”
“little,” you admit. “but not bad. i want you, alpha. want all of it. however you need me.”
his eyes darken, when the weight of your sentence reaches him. “careful throwing that word around, baby. might not let you out of this room till spring.”
you nip his bottom lip. “promise?”
rolling you under him again, a delighted growl leaves him, “gonna wreck you all over again.”
hours later, bucky’s face is buried in your neck, beard scratching the bite mark every time he exhales.
you’re tracing lazy circles through the sweat on his back with one finger, counting the little scars you find like constellations, like if you memorize them all you’ll never lose him.
the quiet is perfect until it isn’t.
your dad’s truck is gonna crunch up that driveway in like… two hours max. maybe less if the plows are feeling generous.
the thought lands between you like a live grenade and you feel bucky tense the exact second it detonates in your head too.
“shit,” you whisper into his hair.
“yeah,” he mumbles against your skin, voice a little rough. “shit’s a good word for it.”
your heart starts jackhammering so hard you’re surprised he can’t feel it through your ribs.
telling your dad.
jesus.
the man who still calls you “trouble” and kisses the top of your head like you’re ten. the man who taught you how to throw a punch and how to change a tire and who once cried when you left for college. you’re about to walk downstairs and tell him his best friend just mated his daughter.
you’re going to break his heart or make him break bucky’s face and you’re not sure which is worse.
“we’re gonna have to tell him,” your voice is quieter than you mean to be.
bucky lifts his head just enough to look at you, blue eyes still blown wide and soft around the edges. “you want the fun version or the realistic version?”
“gimme both.”
he flops onto his back, dragging you with him so you’re sprawled across his chest like a blanket. his heartbeat is thundering under your ear and it’s the only thing keeping you from spiraling.
“fun version: we walk downstairs holding hands, i say ‘hey pal, remember that time i pulled you outta that burning hut? cool, i just knocked up your daughter, we’re even.’ then we run.”
you snort so hard it hurts, but it’s almost a sob too. “and the realistic version?”
he sighs. “he shoots me in the face, buries me in the backyard, tells everyone i wandered off drunk into the blizzard.”
you smack his chest weakly. “buck, be serious.”
“i am serious.” his voice drops. “your old man’s got a twelve-gauge and the muscle memory of a guy who once killed a dude in the dark.”
you picture it for one terrifying second—your dad’s face going blank the way it did when he came home from deployment and didn’t talk for three days —and your stomach flips so hard you taste metal.
you prop your chin on his sternum, trying to breathe. “he loves you.”
“he loved me when i was just the guy who sent you disney gift cards and fixed his truck. he’s gonna love me a lot less when he realizes i just spent the last six hours balls-deep in his only kid.”
you groan and hide your face between his pecs. the smell of him—sex and pine and you—makes your eyes sting. “god, don’t say it like that.”
“how do you want me to say it?” he’s smiling, you can hear it, but it’s thin. “should i go with ‘we discovered a profound emotional connection’?”
“shut up.” you bite his collarbone just hard enough to make him hiss, then lick the spot in apology. “i’m freaking out here.”
he softens immediately, hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, thumb rubbing that spot that makes your whole spine melt. “hey. breathe, baby. we’ll figure it out.”
you want to believe him. you do. but the idea of your dad looking at you like you’re suddenly someone else’s daughter makes something inside you crack.
you peek up at him. “together?”
“together,” he says, like it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. “but i gotta be real with you—i’m not letting him shoot me until after i get more of that chili. i’ve earned it.”
you laugh despite everything, and somehow he always knows exactly how to yank you out of your own head. “he’s gonna smell it on us. both of us. the whole house reeks.”
bucky wrinkles his nose. “yeah. smells like a mated pair just invented sex. real subtle.”
you sit up a little, straddling his hips, sheet pooling around your waist. you feel the evidence of him still leaking out of you and it’s equal parts mortifying and possessive and you want to keep it there forever.
“we could… shower again? open all the windows? say we were burning incense or something?”
he arches a brow. “incense that smells like cum and desperate omega? bold choice.”
you flick his ear. “i’m workshopping.”
he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes serious now. “look. i’ll take the lead, okay? been through worse firefights than one pissed-off dad.”
“you ever had a firefight where the enemy taught you how to ride a bike and made you pancakes when you were hungover?”
“fair point.” he exhales through his teeth. “maybe we ease him into it. i’ll start with ‘hey, remember when you said if anyone ever hurt her you’d skin them alive? funny story—’”
you drop your forehead to his. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “we could just… show him the bites.”
bucky goes very still. “you want me to roll in there shirtless like ‘surprise, i’m your new son-in-law’?”
“it’s honest.”
“it’s suicidal.”
you chew your lip until you taste blood. “i don’t want to lie to him. not about this. not about us.”
his whole face softens so fast it’s unfair. “yeah. me neither.” he brushes your hair back, tucking it behind your ear like you’re something fragile and priceless. “okay. no lying. but maybe… we put clothes on first. and i stand slightly behind you. like a human shield but sexier.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s watery. “why’s the shield standing behind— oh, you coward.”
“smart,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”
you lean down and kiss him slowly, tasting the both of you on his tongue. when you pull back his eyes are dark again.
“stop that,” he mutters. “we’re trying to adult here.”
“can’t help it. you’re all… biteable.”
he groans and flips you suddenly, pinning you under him again. “keep talking like that and your dad’s gonna come home to round two and a locked door.”
you grin up at him, reckless and terrified and stupidly in love. “it’ll be worth it.”
he kisses you once more, hard, then rolls off and sits up. “come on. food first. then we face the firing squad.”
you watch him stand, all long lines and scars and the bite you put on his shoulder still red and perfect. your chest does something complicated—like it’s too small for everything trying to live inside it.
“bucky?”
he glances back. “yeah?”
“whatever he says… i’m not giving you back.”
his smile is small and crooked and yours. “good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. never.”
outside, the snow keeps piling up. inside, you know you're bound to each other in ways no one had ever been to anyone else.
my masterlist .ᐟ
extras. guess who deleted the whole draft this afternoon and crashed the fuck out? anyways, it all worked out, i think. i am quite proud of how this turned out, especially the moodboard bc seb looks absolutely delicious there! taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment + to get added to the taglist .ᐟ
summary: jack just wanted to make sure you had sweet dreams. that's all.
warnings: somnophilia, cnc? I think this qualifies as cnc, no explicit consent discussion however consent is referenced in the story and this is consensual, self-drugging, misuse of prescription medication, but also not really since it is supposed to put the reader to sleep, oral sex, vaginal sex, creampie
author's note: enjoy this quick little treat, dedicated to my favorite enabler @fangirl-dot-com
Jack sat in the armchair, waiting. He checked his watch again. It had only been 2 minutes since he checked it the last time, but he was growing impatient. He had to wait just a little bit longer. You’d taken the medication an hour and a half ago, and he needed to hold out for at least another 15 minutes to be truly sure it had taken effect.
But God, he was already hard. The anticipation was killing him. He didn’t even know what he was going to do to you exactly, just that he needed to get his hands on you.
So he threw caution to the wind.
He forced himself to walk with careful, measured steps, doing his best to keep them soft. Inevitably, his plastic foot was much louder than his real one, but his slow pace kept the noise to a minimum.
The bedroom was dark, moonlight shining through the curtains and providing him just enough light to make out your form underneath the comforter, laying on your side and facing away from him. You were nearly fully hidden, but he could see just the tip of your bare shoulder, letting him know you were bare beneath the blankets and sheets.
Jack knew you were going to be naked - the two of you had discussed it, right before you’d taken the 150mg of trazodone - but the knowledge still had his mouth watering and cock throbbing. He reached down to palm his length as he came to a stop at the edge of the bed.
He hesitated for another moment, just wanting to make sure you were truly dead to the world before he began. The only sound he could hear was your soft, even breathing. No rustling or shifting, nothing that would indicate you were awake.
Satisfied, his hand reached out, gently dragging the covers down, revealing your naked body to him, inch by inch. The smooth skin of your back pebbled with goosebumps as your warm sanctuary was taken away.
When he had you fully revealed from head to toe, Jack took a second to sweep his eyes across your backside. He’d seen you both naked and sleeping many, many times over the course of your relationship, but this was different. This time, he was seeing you with the intention of taking advantage of you while your medication kept you floating in whatever dreamland you’d flown off to.
He’d been hesitant when you first asked him to do this to you, but even before he agreed, he couldn’t deny that the idea of you limp and completely at his mercy had heat stirring in his gut. It was never something he’d ever considered doing, not something he ever thought he’d be into. But since he’d met you, he’d found himself experimenting more and more, and this was your latest suggestion.
And he’d do anything for you, especially when the sexcapades you pitched had him twitching in his pants.
So, with gentle hands, he rolled you over. Your face was blank, eyes shut and lips parted. Jack sighed in satisfaction at the sight of your bare breasts rising and falling with every breath.
He let two of his fingers trail down your sternum, coasting between your breasts and over your stomach, dipping down between your slightly open thighs. The pads of his fingers parted your folds. They slipped down to your opening, finding you not quite wet enough to take them just yet. So, he got to work.
Jack pulled his shirt over his head, dropping it to the floor without a care. He popped the button of his jeans, forcing himself to slow down as he slid the zipper down and pulled them, along with his briefs, down his legs. The hard length of his cock popped up, slapping against his lower stomach and leaving a smear of precum against his barely-there abs, much harder than it should have been from just thinking about what he was about to do.
He didn’t bother with his prosthetic yet, needing the added balance to be able to manipulate your body to his liking.
Jack allowed himself to stroke his aching length once before releasing it. He parted your thighs, pushing them wide to make room for himself as he lowered onto his stomach between them. He felt filthy lying there, eye level with your cunt while your head lolled to the side, breaths still even.
Two of his fingers parted your outer folds, exposing every inch to his greedy eyes. The barest touch of his fingers had your thighs twitching and wetness starting to gather. It seemed that even in your sleep your body knew exactly how to react to him.
He shifted forward, his tongue poking out from between his lips to trace around your clit. His eyes were glued to what he could see of your face, checking for any reaction. Your brow furrowed, but you made no other movements and not a single sound came from your lips.
So Jack continued. His tongue made lazy figure-eights while his fingers kept you wide open for him.
His spit was mixing with your gradually leaking fluids, covering his chin. Jack’s eyes slipped shut, focusing on his favorite flavor coating his tongue.
But when you made your first noise, nothing more than a whispered, breathy little mewl, his eyes snapped open, scanning your face. He didn’t stop, but he did slow down, until he saw that your eyes were still closed and your body still limp. The only movements you made were small, reflexive twitches and spasms as he worked you up even more.
His fingers dipped down, finding you finally wet enough for the two of them to slide in. He closed his lips over your clit, sucking and curling his fingers up to find that textured spot that - even now in your unconscious state - had your back arching and hips bucking into his mouth. The jerky movements of your body were uncoordinated in your slumber.
You were making even more noises, mostly incoherent whines and whimpers, as he kept up his pace, pushing you towards the peak he could feel building in your body.
Jack longed to feel your hands sliding through his hair, hear his name falling from your lips, but there was something deeply erotic about the limp twitching of your fingers and the complete surrender of your will to him. His hips were tutting against the bed, chasing his own pleasure as he took the edge of his.
When you started clenching around his fingers more regularly and the unconscious bucking of your hips crew more erratic, he knew you were close. Jack doubled down, stroking and scissoring his fingers.
Your body locked up, muscles tensed and frozen for a moment, until your back arched off the bed. The noises you were making were high pitched and whiny, your muscles spasming uncontrollably. He could feel you spasming around his fingers, the sound wet and obscene as he kept pumping them, keeping your orgasm going, long past the point it should have ended.
He didn’t relent until you were letting out dry sobs and struggling against his hold.
Jack pulled back, sucking his fingers into his mouth as soon as they were free of your still clenching cunt. His eyes shut in bliss as even more of your wonderful taste filled his mouth.
His wet fingers wrapped around his length as he sat up. He had to let go almost as soon as his first stroke, already finding himself much closer to the edge than he wanted to be. Jack needed to be in you, and fast, before he blew his load all over the sheets.
Keeping his movements gentle - even though he was sure the medication would keep you under for the rest of the night - he moved your legs, hitching them up over his thighs as he settled on his knees. He grabbed his length again, lining up the tip with your soaking fold.
Jack really tried to keep his eyes locked on your face as he pushed in, but the tight, wet sensation was too much for him to handle in his current state. His head tipped back, eyes slipping shut as he slid all the way inside.
You gasped when the tip of him pressed against your cervix, jerking his attention back to you. Your mouth had dropped open, brows pinched together, but you stayed asleep. Jack stayed hilted, pelvis pushed flush against yours, savoring the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him.
But he couldn’t help his hips from jerking when you unintentionally tightened around him, a groan leaving his throat before he could stop it. He wasn’t concerned with his own noises, since he was pretty sure a bomb going off next door wouldn’t wake you, but he still tried to keep it down.
You answered his thrust with a whimper, breasts rising and falling faster as your breathing picked up. His eyes tracked the motion, unable to look away as he pulled back. The impact of his hips colliding with yours had them bouncing even more.
Jack was hypnotized, gaze glued to your breasts. Every thrust he made had your entire body jerking up the bed. The headboard tapped increasingly harder against the wall as his pace picked up.
He finally pried his eyes away from your tits to glance up at your face. The blissed out, vacant look on your face as you mewled and whined in time with his every movement yanked him right to the edge.
Jack gasped, his rhythm faltering before falling into an even harder, more desperate one as he chased his own release. He was slamming in and out of you, groaning and whining with every thrust in. Your walls were sucking him in, clamped down around him as he struggled to keep going, until he finally hit the point of no return.
The noise that left him was broken and wanton. His length jerked and twitched as he held himself there, buried to the hilt, spilling himself as deep as he could get. It flooded out of him, overflowing around his cock and leaking out of you.
The orgasm knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping and panting as the last of his release left him. He stayed buried balls deep inside you until he could catch his breath.
When his cock had gone soft and his heart rate and breathing had leveled out, Jack slowly withdrew. Your walls clenched around him one more time, and Jack bit back a groan as he shuffled back.
He watched with hunger as his white release dripped out of you, spilling down onto the sheets. Your own breathing was back to slow and deep, body still totally limp and out of it.
For a second, Jack considered diving back between your legs to clean you up with his tongue, but then he thought better of it. You knew he was going to do something to you, and what better way to prove it than to wake up with his cum still dripping from your cunt?
So Jack wiped up the mess he’d made on your folds, leaving the inside of you to soak in his release. He wiped himself down, unlatching his prosthetic, then fell into bed beside you. He held you tight, moving your body one last time to wrap around you from behind.
As he wrapped an arm around your waist, he whispered in your ear; “Good night, sweetheart.”
MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH // JACK ABBBOT // DENNIS WHITAKER
NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED, pt. 1
⤷ //. cw: foursome, daddy kink, sir kink, fauxcest, puppy play . //
he tasted of lust. of sweating skin and wanton salt.
his thumb now shoved into the bed of your stupid tongue.
“fucking christ, look at that little cunt just stretch.”
jack’s voice rumbled from behind, making a full show of how your little hole struggled and labored to just accommodate the sheer fucking girth of his cock.
“just sucking me all in—all nice and tight.”
chuckling, he then pulled himself back—watching as the length of it receded with only the tip now inside—before slamming himself back to the very hilt; the head now driving into your most sensitive spot.
“si-sir!! oh-oh fuckkk—!” your eyes then rolled, back into your vacant skull, back arching inward once more.
soon, your entire body fell into a beautiful decline—hips now jutting up high, face still cushioned in between robby’s thighs.
“c’mon, sweetie, use that cute little mouth of yours.” robby implored; his calloused hand now egging you on from behind. with a fistful of your hair, he then pushed his cock against your moaning mouth.
“open.” he commanded—and when you failed to fit the entire thing like he wished—he then shook his head, “always making me do the work. typical.” and at the tutting of his tongue, he then shoved himself inside. without so much of a warning.
you soon found your cries suppressed as your nose met the coarse thatch of his hair; face now pressed into the skin of his canting pelvis.
“much better, attagirl. easy does it now—just open up that mouth of yours and let daddy use that sweet, fucking throat.” the older man spewed on from above, circling his hips as he soon moved back and forth. “can do that for me right, sweetie? still want to be daddy’s number one girl?”
you then nodded. desperately. enthusiastically. just wanting to please the man however way you can—whether that be showing your complete devotion by letting him have free and total reign of your very body.
still fucking from behind, jack watched with a debauched—almost gluttonous—expression, hips snapping forward with a brisk, punishing pace.
unforgiving and ruinous. driving back and forth, slamming with a force that was meant to remind. meant to show your now dumbing mind who owned that cunt between your shaking legs while his hands bruised your hips.
all the while, sitting but a feet or so away, was your poor brother. hardened cock weeping as he whined. begged. even for just a lick or a taste of his adorable sister.
but your daddies—especially jack—was not the kind to forget such an indiscretion. not when it meant that their sweet little innocent girl was willing to disobey just to help your supposed horny brother.
“look at your brother,” jack spat, condescending the young man while his cock twitched and ached—untouched but not forgotten—from between his legs. “fucking ruining my carpet with his stupid seed.”
the degradation—the very sight of your brother kneeling on the floor, legs spread with his cock standing at attention, merely sitting and not even joining—was enough to make you beg on his behalf. to put him out of his horrible misery.
still, how could you speak when your mouth was full?—when your mouth is being used? not when robby was still pumping his entire dick into your mouth and hitting the very back of your throat. knowing very well that come tomorrow, your voice will be deliciously hoarse.
“let him ruin the carpet. ain’t letting him stick that dick of his back into my sweet girl’s cunt. not after last time.” robby grunted, shoving himself until his entire pelvis was all that you could see—the smell of his musk, his sweat now clouding your mind and lingering senses. until it all bubbled you into wonderful submission.
“i-i’m so-sorry, sir—ple-please—” dennis stuttered—inevitably speaking out of turn—and only to be met with a withering glare from both his handlers. silencing him within the very instant he opened his mouth.
scoffing, robby then pulled himself out of your languid throat, slapping his sopping dick upon your face while you chased for breath. wet from your messy slobber, his heated skin smeared it all across your cheeks. the humiliation now staining your skin.
“please what, boy?” robby arched a brow, that steel in his gaze enough to make your cunt clench and for dennis’ already swollen cock to fatten impossibly further.
“fu-fuckk..” jack’s hips stuttered, feeling that sudden blissful resistance from within, driving himself back further. relishing how it gripped him tight like a wanton, little vice.
“i-i’ll do anything!!—please! j-just need to be inside!” dennis begged—his voice becoming pitched at the end of his pleas as he watched how jack now plowed with a furious vigor. one that had you mewling like some poor puppy in horrible heat. how he needed to be inside you so much. to relieve that ache from within while he rutted in you until you peed.
“h-hurts s’much, si-sir…”
at his daring begging, robby then smirked. almost amused at the thought that his little boy would even think that by pouting both he and jack will show leniency.
shaking his head, robby then chuckled. his thumb slipping inside your trembling lips as he pried them open to the shape of his cock.
“you ain’t getting any until your father and i are done with your sister.”
with that, robby then circled the tip along your mouth before plunging inside.
and for hours on end, without even a single moment of cessation, your two handlers fucked with the vigor that belied their age. spilling their seed until both you and they have lost count.
position soon changed, with you now lying on your back with robby now fucking inside your used pussy while jack plowed through your throat. hands wrapped around to both choke and add some much needed pressure for him to enjoy.
you must have lost your mind by then. with thoughts subsiding into a euphoric, submissive cloud. where nothing lingered but pleasure and want.
and like the good little girl that you were, you allowed yourself to be all pliant and willing to their every whim. whatever position, however rough or quick. you laid there and took it like their little champ.
all the while, dennis kneeled on the floor, watching. knuckles pale at his sides and palms bruised with various shapes of crescents that his nails had carved.
mouth salivating. pupils blown.
and at last, the two men pulled themselves out from your cute little holes. their seed seeping from both the entrance of your fluttering cunt and at the corners of your swollen lips.
all ruined. all used.
dennis then waited. breathing now still as adrenaline rushed through his veins. waiting for permission. even the slightest inclination that both his handlers were willing to let him have their seconds.
like some mutt begging its owner for scraps.
jack then looked to robby—a subtle tilt in his head, asking the other man if their boy deserved to sink his dick into your used cunt.
robby then looked to dennis. and with a click from his tongue, the boy then dove onto the floor.
pressing his face into your sweating nape while his swollen cock pressed into the puffed folds of your thoroughly-plowed pussy before pushing himself fully inside.
god, this must be heaven.
and without hesitation, without even waiting for your permission, he started to rut his hips. the desperation ingrained in each canting motion and muffled whine. he could feel himself slipping further into the same clouded, delirious space as his darling sister. the pleasure too much for his broken mind as he started to ramble from pure, frenzied lust.
“fee-feel so good, sis—fuck me!—gonna make sure it sticks, sis.” dennis cried, lifting your legs until it was now resting on his shoulders. folding you into half as your fucked-dumb mind was mewling from the stimulation.
“w-we’re gonna have so-so many little pups—gonna make sure you’re so full with me after shift. during s-shift. do-don’t care if-if sir already came inside, gonna make sure the pup is mine and no one e-else’s.” dennis plowed deep, pushing both your handlers seed deeper and deeper as it soon mixed with his own.
“m-my little sis i-is gonna look so-so cute wh-when she-she’s all round and full. f-fuck me!!—” your poor brother then spilled deep inside, still hooking the underside of your knee while he flipped you on your side, showing his handlers that he will work double time if that meant his little sister would carry his kids.
drooling into the carpet, your lashes fluttered. cheeks reddened and wet as you begged for dennis for more. hips moving with a mind of its own as they went downwards to met his thrusts.
“c-c’mon, s-sis, y-you can cum again right?” dennis then moved his free hand down to your swollen and angry clit, flicking it back and forth with his fingers while he continued his manic mumbling.
“s-say that you ca-can—!” he then pushed himself up and deep, earning a sudden yelp from your lips, “y’know it-it’s better wh-when we cum together! i-increases the c-chances!”
you cried out then, telling your brother that you can’t. begging him to stop as you started to feel something weird start to churn from within.
but clouded with desperation—with his mind now set on some deluded mission—he continued despite your complaints. slamming inside while he continued to rub your clit.
all the while, now seated on the couch, was your two handlers.
all too pleased to watch their pups breed.
and without warning, as you tried to pull yourself off from his stupid cock, you peed.
squirts of clear liquid leaving your cute messy hole while dennis realigned himself and slammed back inside. wasting no time to finish inside while you milked him dry.
his seed spilling into the entrance of your battered womb, joining both your handler’s own spend.
and with a grin that reach from ear to ear, dennis then moved inside. still grinding, still thrusting his now limp cock as he whispered,
“third times the charm. gotta make sure they have my eyes.”
taglist !
@howlingco , @katyainthesheets , @str4wbsstuff , @angel113431 , @squeakymxsterbationcrocks (that’s a fucking hilarious name, wth did i just type) , @immoralreblogs , @xinyaya , @skullz4soulz , @imnolongerasullengirl , @horror-movie--fan
the fire alarm ruins your orgasm, for the third time this week. thankfully, your neighbor offers to help you after you snap at him in the parking lot, and in return, he wants cookies. you would give him anything if it meant he would ruin you...
pairing | aaron hotchner x neighbor!fem reader
disclaimer | don't read this if it makes you uncomfortable. what you consume is your own responsibility <3 MDNI
warnings | PORN WITHOUT PLOT, PERV!hotch, also dark and cocky!hotch, he is sooooo confident and fulllll of himself, reader is very sexually frustrated and angry like that's the entire plot, a lot of cursing, italics, mentions of outfit, no body descriptions, no use of y/n, hotch lives alone!!!, sex of convenience (is that even a trope?), basically a week of edging up until this point, rough sex and gentle touches!!, crying, oral (both), protected p in v (be proud of me), multiple orgasms, dubcon undertones but in a sexy way, slight choking, almost loss of consciousness?, reader says no but he keeps going and it all works out<3, forehead kisses, slight exhibitionism kink? ..... this is PURE FILTH. #ovulating
word count | 4.3k we're all going to hell together <3
It had to have something against you, that was the only explanation.
Perhaps you had done something to anger it, to provoke the monster inside to unleash its wrath and direct it at you. Maybe it was karma for that time you finished check-out at your local grocery shop, and didn't give the change to the homeless man outside.
In your defense, you were in a rush, and the few dollars had been pushed into the depths of your back pockets in a hurry.
But you should have given him the change, you would have given him all of your money if that cleansed your karma.
The fire alarm had blasted its deafening howls at the wonderful hour of two in the fucking morning—and you suppressed the urge to cry with it as you kicked off the sheets of your bed and stomped to the door. Angrily.
Three times in one week.
Three times had the fire alarm gone off—three fucking times had you not gotten off. It sent your nerves into overdrive. Every fiber in your body was tense, buzzing with frustration. Your mind no longer worked properly, there was not a single thought in your head that could even resemble sanity.
You were spent, uptight. Fired up. Deeply and infuriatingly.
The past week had been Hell. Capital H. Like the place they send your soul to suffer for eternity. Someone should call the Devil and tell him if his Underworld was ever at capacity, they could send the rest to live in your apartment complex. There was no difference.
Maybe this was the Underworld, and the Devil was the one causing you to suffer.
You wondered if the Devil fucked good.
Probably. Most likely. Unfortunately.
Half of the week had left you exhausted. Passed out the moment your head hit the pillow. Every other day you worked at the Office of Worst Kinds of People (a staff of only business men), and you had repeatedly run out of patience and will to live.
When you had not been swamped with work, you found yourself alone, in the solitude of your own apartment.
The quiet was driving you insane.
Every single one of your friends had been busy, whether with their own jobs or vacations. You didn't have a boyfriend, despite how much you found yourself needing one right about now. You were lonely.
It was you and your steadily growing collection of adult toys—except, you didn't get to be with them either.
How was it even possible that every moment you had to yourself, to get the release that would hopefully lift your shitty mood, the fire alarm protested by screaming its discontent.
Its pleasure was your displeasure, you were sure of that.
Oh, how you wished you could have gotten your shit together and downloaded the dating app your friends had begged you to get. Or even gone to a club, a bar—even a fucking strip club—just to get laid.
Fuck, you needed to get someone inside of you. Soon. Hard and fast.
"Aren't you cold?" Aaron, your next door neighbor, asked from your immediate left. Your head whipped to the side, to glare at him while you mentally sewed your mouth shut. It took everything in you to not snap in his stupidly handsome face.
Apparently, by the looks of him, he had better instincts when it came to urgent situations. You know the questions that are like 'what three things would you grab if there was a fire'? Yeah, Aaron seemed like he had his things figured out.
First of all, he was actually wearing clothes—and not a cropped tee and frilly, ruffled shorts that made your ass look amazing—mostly because it didn't cover anything.
Second of all, he had a bag slung over his shoulder. Which you guessed was actually useful stuff, and not the initial image that popped into your head of sex toys and bondage equipment.
Third of all, he didn't seem to mind being hauled out of the comfort of his apartment in the ass crack of—not even dawn.
Of-fucking-course you were cold. It was two in the fucking morning and your shit had been scared out of you by the infuriating fire alarm—which, also, most definitely, had it out for you.
And not 'out for you' in a good way, like it had whipped out its boner just for you. Because if that was the case, you wouldn't have been as cranky and frustrated as you were.
You would have climbed it, that was how desperate you were.
Pride was long lost and it would be a fool's mission to search for it.
"It's fine," you lied, lifting and dropping a shoulder to really sell the act of indifference. The urge to cross your arms over your chest and rub some warmth into your skin was increasingly hard to resist. You wished someone else would rub warmth into your skin instead.
Maybe the cold would seep into your bones and extinguish the burning between your legs. Hopefully.
"You're in a bad mood tonight," he clicked his tongue and chuckled, almost more to himself than you, "here, take this."
The world seemed to slow as you watched him reach for the zipper of his jacket. One inch was all it took, it slid down one inch to reveal the column of his throat and panic struck you.
"Stop," you gasped but it sounded more like a whine, an open palm stretched out to shield the sliver of skin from your vision—from the wrath of the demon in between your legs, "if you undress any more, I'm going to fucking jump. God."
"Fuck," your voice lowered to a whisper, to direct your words to yourself, as you dragged a hand down your face, "I need to get it together." This was getting out of hand. You had to get your shit together before anyone in the sea of people around you ended up the a danger zone.
"Three fucking times this week," you closed your eyes and sighed, "I just—need to get laid."
Aaron stilled as you continued muttering to yourself. He just stood there, unsure how to react, close enough that the warmth of his body caressed your skin in a way that drew goosebumps—far away enough that he wasn't in immediate danger of getting pounced on. Yet.
You met his unreadable gaze with an apologetic wince, "sorry."
Shit, you must have come across as an insane and desperate whore. Which might have been true, but that was not the subject of panicked discussion here. Aaron was nice, he always offered to help carry your stuff if you were struggling. Was always helpful if you had trouble with your car.
And he always appreciated your baking. If he wasn't home whenever you had made a batch of cookies or muffins or whatever, you'd shoot him a text and he'd knock on your door as soon as he got back.
Aaron watched out for you. He didn't deserve your shitty attitude.
He chuckled, a dark sound, rough and raspy. Like his throat had yet to fully wake up from slumber. Your thighs pressed together without your consent—and you knew he noticed. Apparently, your brain and your body no longer conversed before decisions were made. What a team, right?
"Can you wait until they let us back inside, or?" he purred, a playful smirk toying on his lips. As if the idea of it was amusing and not an actual fucking issue. But the urge to wipe that infuriatingly sexy look off his face vanished, as soon as his words sunk in.
Did he think you were joking?
The sticky mess practically dripping down your thighs was not funny, at all. It was embarrassing and annoying, and extremely frustrating. The idea of being this... aroused in the parking lot with every single resident of the complex present—it honestly kind of turned you on even more.
"It's not funny," you grumbled under your breath, arms folded over your chest to try to keep from shaking. Whimpering. Somewhere in between glaring at the asphalt under your shoes and picturing a giant orgy in the parking lot, Aaron had slipped his jacket off.
"Didn't say it was," he bit back a grin as he hung the jacket around your shoulders, "but only if you bake those cookies again." The scent of him waved around you, the heat of his body lingering inside the fabric now seeped into your skin.
"Are you making demands for sex?" you huffed a laugh, both unbelieving and intrigued, as you clutched the jacket tighter, "we'll fuck if I make you cookies?" Was it sad that you really hoped he meant it?
Maybe, but you did not give a single shit. Dick was dick—and he was absolutely not the ugliest person to be dicked down by—nor was the request anything but it's own win.
He was fucking gorgeous, in a dark and mysterious way. Like you'd never know if he was plotting your assassination or fantasizing about his cock deep in your throat—which was all the more attractive.
Not to mention, he liked your baking so much, he was trading sex for a batch of cookies.
This is what capitalism could have been.
Aaron chuckled, shrugging with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, "give and take, right?" Oh, he was absolutely onto something, that man. And, soon, he could be onto you—if the firemen could just get their fingers out of their asses and let you back inside.
"How could I ever refuse such an offer?" you licked your lips and smirked, reflecting the smug expression forming on his face.
The stairwell door stood directly across from your apartment, pushed against one end of the hallway. On the middle wall was Aaron's door. His apartment was the biggest on your floor, save from the exact mirrored layout on the opposite end.
It was longer than yours, stretching further out than most of the other apartments.
You halted at the familiar crossroad, tilting your head as you studied the two doors with feigned indecisiveness, "mine or yours?" It didn't matter, you did not care at all. Not even a little bit. All you wanted was to get pounded so hard, you wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. And then some.
"Mine," he stated, decided, keys jingling in his hand as he unlocked the door. He held it open for you to enter, then closed it shut behind you.
Aaron kicked off his shoes and dropped his keys onto the console table, before turning back to look at you with a devilish smirk on his face, "can I get you anything?"
"Yeah, a dick and a bed, please and thank you," you mumbled as you hung up his jacket on the hooks, then snorted, "actually, the bed is optional." Anywhere would be acceptable, you thought to yourself as you sat down on the floor to untie your shoes.
Why the hell did you decide on converse? An even better question, how the hell did you manage to put them on while rushing out of the building?
"Well, I was thinking a glass of water or something," he mused, taking a step closer to where you knelt on the floor, "but, since you asked so nicely..."
"I'm going to scream if you don't touch me now." you glared up at him after pushing your shoes out of the way, barely restraining yourself from sinking your teeth into his thighs like a fucking vampire. They were right in front of you.
He seemed to really enjoy your snappy words and lack of composure, or perhaps he was the Devil himself come to prolong your suffering—might as well been as he didn't move an inch. Aaron just tilted his head down, filling your vision with his tall body and satisfied, smug expression.
However, you were a woman of your word. So, you took a breath, intent to actually scream your frustrations out—but the moment your lips parted, his cock hit the back of your throat.
You hadn't even noticed his pants coming undone, or his cock being whipped out—not until he was pushing past your lips with a groan and his hand tangled in your hair to keep you in place. He was careful, despite his grip on your head, his pace was slow and easy.
But slow and easy was not your style. Slow and easy would not do fucking shit to the volcano of horny you had transformed into.
Grazing your teeth lightly, in warning, a reminder of who really had the power, then you relaxed your jaw entirely. Offering the space of your mouth for him to use freely. Roughly, hopefully.
Aaron did. He fucked your throat until tears were streaming down your face. Until you had snaked a hand down your shorts and fingered yourself—until you had gotten so close you trembled—and that was when he pulled out.
Seconds before release could wash over you.
You tried your best to not sob as he lifted you up to your feet, a smile on his lips, his hands on either side of your face. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his thumbs brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks, "how many times, sweetheart?"
"What?" you shook your head in attempt to focus on the question he had asked. The gesture was so gentle, you almost passed out from the shift in energy. But the fire in your veins burned with threat and promise of eruption. Every cell in your body was tense, every fiber was screaming for the release you had been denied way too many times now.
"How many times do you want to cum for me, sweetheart?" Aaron repeated casually, like it was the most common question. His hands traveled down your sides, to your waist, under your shirt. His touch was like gasoline, fuel to what was brewing in your lower stomach. You shivered as his thumb grazed your peaked nipple, moaned as he pinched it between his fingers.
"Three?" he suggested in the absence of your answer, his hands cupping both your breasts firmly, "or more?" The smile on his lips seemed even more devilish as he tilted his head to the side, studying your dazed expression. A predator watching his prey. Fuck, it was hot.
"Three," you managed finally, nodding absentmindedly at your own confirmation, "fast, please. I'm going to explode if I can't—"
"I know, come on," Aaron relented with a chuckle, dragging you through the living room, to his bedroom.
The moment your feet crossed the threshold, his lips were on yours. Hungry and claiming. His tongue darted into your mouth with a force that stole your breath away, that had you wishing to never need air again. There was nothing slow and easy about him anymore.
He was all fire. Consumed by a demon of his own.
His mouth traveled across your jaw, biting the soft skin down your neck. As if he was teasing himself, refraining from devouring you entirely. If vampires were real, you would gladly offer your own neck if it felt like this.
Your hands tangled in his hair, clawed at his neck—anywhere you could reach, you scratched. Every thought in your brain evaporated as he groped your ass. Harshly. Everything about him was demanding, every touch on your body was an act of claim, every bite on your neck was a mark.
Then, he stepped back, out of your grasp, to rake his gaze down your body. He was appreciating the sight, drinking in the state of you. His cock was pressed against his lower stomach, the tip glistening with precum and the remnant of your spit.
You clenched around nothing at the thought of him inside you, how big he was in your mouth and how deep he fucked himself down your throat. How good he'd stretch you out. How you had promised him three orgasms.
Aaron clicked his tongue and tilted his head, "as much as I would love to fuck you in those shorts," he purred lowly, almost growling, "if you want to keep them in one piece, I suggest you take them off. Now."
You did not need to be told twice—not when the look on his face alone had you shivering with anticipation—the sound of his voice echoed through your bones, vibrating your body with the melody. His eyes darkened with something you could only assume was a warning sign, as his own clothes decorated the floor alongside yours.
The moment your shirt was off, he threw you on the bed, his hands gripping your hips to pull you to the edge as he positioned himself between them. His cock twitched against your thigh as he leaned down, face hovering inches above yours with a predatory look in his eyes.
"Sweetheart," he purred, in a way so condescending, you couldn't help but squeez your thighs around him, "how would you like your first one?"
Fuck. In the dim light of his bedroom, with the gleam in his eyes, he looked every part of the Devil you had imagined.
"Don't care," you breathed, grinding you hips against him, "would jus' like it right now." The ache was consuming you, the desperation was at an all time high. You could practically feel your head emptying, and filling up again with images of him. No thoughts, it was all a burning need for Aaron.
"Guess it's my choice, then." he mused, a satisfied smile on his lips.
Then he was gone again, rummaging in the closet on the opposite side of the bedroom, returning with a blue—tie? You shuddered, breath hitching with a small whimper as he stalked for you. Slowly.
With a nod of his head, you pushed yourself backwards until you hit the headboard. Without exchanging a single word, you lifted your arms and he tied them together, securing you to his bed. You were at his mercy—and, God, did it turn you on.
Aaron was everywhere. His hands spread your thighs, his mouth devouring your breasts. Then his hands snaked up to replace his mouth, and his head lowered between your legs. He blew, air fanning across your folds—before he settled.
You moaned as his tongue danced around, plunged into you, pushing every button that ensured you would explode in no time. He rolled your nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger, the other hand moving down to your lower stomach, to press you into the mattress.
Your hips bucked, or tried to, against his hold. Tried to both push yourself into the feeling of his mouth on you, as well as away from it. It was dizzying and breathtaking, too much and yet not enough. The tie around your wrist dug into the skin, to keep you restrained as you pulled.
His groans were muffled by your thighs, vibrating around your clit. The sounds of him consuming you like it was everything he'd ever wanted, it sent you barrelling for the edge. Tumbling rapidly for the pleasure you had been denied for a week, as if it could be ripped out of your grasp any moment, and this was the only chance.
Your thighs shook with the intensity of your approaching orgasm, your whimpers turned into breathy moans, then small screams—until his fingers plunged into your mouth, and you unfolded. Drowned in darkness, the abyss of bliss.
It hurt so fucking good.
The sound of a wrapper ripping open did not register in your dazed state. You didn't register much at all before his cock slammed into you. In one movement.
Aaron wasn't giving you the moment to catch your breath, or to adjust to the size of him. No, he was a man of his own word, and he was intent to collect the debt you owed him. In his own pace, hard and fast, unrelenting.
It didn't take long for the sensitivity to melt back into desire. For the pain to reshape into a mind-numbing pleasure.
"Fuck," you gasped, eyes rolling as he hit the deepest spot inside of you over and over again. Both of his hands gripped your hips to hold use you as his anchor—and you hoped there would be bruises. Prints of his fingers, marks of his claims. Tattoos of the memories.
Aaron looked like a god above you. A disheveled, sexy god. His hair stuck to his forehead, slick with sweat as he pounded his cock deeper. Rougher. His eyes were wild, like he was in a crazed state and the urges had taken over. As if he had been possessed. He fucked like it, too.
"Wan' touch you," you managed to breathe, back arching off the bed with another forceful thrust. Your jaw was slack with the intent of forming another sound, yet none came out. Nothing but gasps could be heard. Gasps and skin slapping—and his deep rumbles that almost sounded like praise—but you couldn't make it out over the buzzing in your body.
The pressure lessened around your wrist and you pulled them free, grabbing his shoulders instead. Raking your nails down his back as he leaned over you, fucking you harder into the mattress.
Aaron bent your leg, your knee pressing against his chest to allow him deeper. His hand moving to your throat. It was a light hold, but firm enough to restrict the airways. You were shaking again, moaning pathetically as you clenched around him. The pressure around your throat was dizzying in the best ways. Intoxicating.
"Give it to me, sweetheart." his lips brushed your ear, his tone so demanding—you obeyed even before his words registered.
Everything was on fire. A delicious flame threatening to consume you as your body went numb with the force of your second orgasm. Skin buzzing with electricity, legs shaking around him as it swallowed you whole. A scream stuck in your throat, hindered by his tightening grip.
The world started to fade, the edges of your vision darkening. The abyss stretching endlessly— "Don't you dare," Aaron muttered somewhere far away, followed by a small sting on your cheek.
You gasped at the pain, the haze clearing up again to find his dark eyes staring down—at you.
He clicked his tongue, in what sounded like disapproval.
"I'm not done with you yet," he stated, a fake sweet smile growing on his lips, as if that would make it easier for you, "we had a deal. I'll fuck you until you give me—" he halted his words to move his hips, dragging himself out and pushing himself all the way back in, "—how many?"
"No, m' can't." you whimpered as tears rolled down your cheeks, his thumb swiping them away gently. Every slow thrust of his cock rubbed against your walls, you shuddered as he bottomed out, whined as he rolled his hips.
Aaron cooed, condescendingly, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, "but I know you can."
His pace picked up, slowly increasing to give you a chance to follow, until he was pounding into you again. Hammering while kissing away the tears on your cheeks, fucking you like his life depended on it, while gently stroking your hair. The contrast of his actions confused you enough, distracted your mind enough that your body melted into him. To give him what he wanted.
"Good girl," Aaron purred in your ear, snaking a hand around your thigh—"look at you," he hummed with appreciation, continuing his distractions to keep you focused on his voice, as his thumb started rubbing circles on your clit, "always knew you'd be good for me."
You mumbled incoherent noises, shuddered as new waves of pleasure jolted through your sensitive cunt, cried as he hit that very spot again. He was getting close now. His breath turned ragged and his hips were faltering, snapping with desperation for his own release. But he wasn't going to let himself, not until you gave him your last.
With a sob, your third orgasm washed over you, and Aaron followed with a groan of your name. A string of curses, along with coos of praise, as he came.
By the time you had reentered your body, regained a sliver of composure in the comfort of his arms, the sun had started to rise.
His curtains were open and you were curled up against him and admiring the view. The sky turning pastel, pink melting into a light purple, over to blue.
"You can see straight into my bedroom from here," you mused, a soft smile spreading on your tired face at the revelation. The bed was perfectly in line of sight with your bed, you could even see your sheets on the floor… You snapped your head around, gasping, "how much—"
Apparently Aaron had followed your train of thought, he understood instantly. "Only when you don't close your blinds," he grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement as he watched it sink in, "speaking of, maybe you should close them more often."
"Aaron," you raised a hand to cover your mouth, a panicked giggle escaping from your lips, "I never close my blinds." Yet, despite the horror of knowing you had been watched in the not-so-private privacy of your bedroom—which was absolutely your own fault—it also sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. Pooling right between your legs.
He had watched you.
And you didn't hate it. At all.
"Do you have anywhere to be today?" he whispered into your hair, his breath fanning the shell of your ear. You shook your head, biting your lip as his nose brushed down your throat, to your shoulder, "no, why?"
Aaron lifted his head and smiled sheepishly, "you still owe me cookies."
⌗ SUMMARY For a long time, loneliness was easier to live with than wanting. Now every morning asks him to let you go, and every night convinces him to forget why he should.
⌗ WARNINGS sex worker reader, explicit sexual content, sweet but awkward and emotionally constipated bucky, yearning, hyperspermia — lots of cum and lots of sex, detailed warnings in each chapter, happy ending. no use of y/n.
— ⟡ DISCRETION REQUIRED
For James Buchanan Barnes, control had always been the closest thing to safety after years spent without either. Funny how a stranger with a warm smile and even warmer hands could bring down every wall he'd built so carefully.
— ⟡ GUEST ROOMS AND OTHER EMPTY THINGS
There’s something especially cruel about a guest room that never gets used. Made it far too easy to pretend you belonged in his bed. But morning does come, peeling away the comfort of his carefully constructed illusion.
— ⟡ WHEN NOBODY IS COUNTING
They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. Unanswered habits, empty mornings, and reaching for someone who was never supposed to become part of your every day — no one ever mentions how much it hurts.
⌗ NOTES giving myself something to look forward to lol. coming soon… soon as in september. stay mad, stay mystified (tell me you get it), and stay tuned.
moodboard inspired by @mariasont ; images sourced from pinterest
this is written based on this post by @dendelon this was an amazing idea, thank you.
in which daryl found a woman in trouble in the woods and he helped her only to realized how broken she was. daryl formed a bond with her but come across trouble along the way.
pairings: daryl dixon x female reader
warnings and tags: heavy angst, mentions of severe parental abuse and harassment, mentions of being held hostage and captivity by a guardian, small insinuation of sexual abuse (barely there), violence and gore, reader is slightly feral due to a long period of isolation, reader has trust issues, platonical bond that turns romantic, slow burn, romantic tension, no smut, self-harm for protection, reader has a fear of men. soft!daryl. unprotected l. reader only trusts daryl. not proofread!
word count: 8.4k
a/n: i saw this idea while scrolling through tumblr and I just had to do something with it. this can be an ongoing series, you guys can request certain scenarios that you want to see more of them. there are no sexual tension or smut in this fic because i dont feel that it fits, however if you guys want me to expand it i will gladly do so just drop a request. hope you enjoy this is my first long Daryl fic that i post. i heavily recommend you listen to Reflections by The Neighborhood as it deeply resonates with the story.
Daryl had always felt more comfortable outside. Everyone knew that. Ever since the group was taken in by Alexandria, he felt ‘off’. Like it wasn’t him. He was deeply uncomfortable. The mansions, the marks, the suburban feeling of it all. He had always stayed outside, before and after and that was his life. It was bad for him to admit but he wished he had stayed longer outside. It was selfish. It was something he would never say to anyone–not even Carol. He knew enough that the group needed this. They have been through too much. They needed a moment of peace. However, Daryl did not believe that everything will stay as it is for too long. He never gets too comfortable. So everyday ever since he entered the gates he would take some time for himself to go outside and hunt. Though Deanna claimed that they had enough food, Daryl did not believe it would last.
He was grateful that nobody pressured him. Which was surprising. All of the groups had come to an understanding that; that’s just how he is. They did not want him to be pretentious, they weren’t embarrassed of his ways. They just let him be. Let him have his own time to adjust. That is why he loved them so much, he would die for them. Of course he would never say it out loud but he does show it in the form of actions. Let it be big or small. They always showed they appreciated him.
If someone had asked him; “Do you miss the life you had before?”, he would say no. He was happy with the people he was with, he wasn’t happy before.
When Aaron invited him to his home, that was the first time he felt moved. That was the first time he recognized Aaron was just simply a good guy. He did not have any agenda, any tricks up his sleeve–he was just kind. Kindness is a diamond nowadays. It is so hard to find. Maybe… Just maybe, all the other Alexandrians were like him as well. He sure started to notice that with Deanna but he was still wary of her.
“The main reason why I wanted to help me recruit… is because you do know the difference between a good person and a bad person” Hearing him say that, Daryl’s heart swells. However, he would never show it. Instead, he offered Aaron to catch rabbits for him. It amused him. He was the first person to see Daryl, truly sees him and even gave him a new ride in the process. Aaron was the first Alexandrian he trusted.
After the first few weeks he felt a little comfortable again, not fully–just enough to make him stay. Alexandria didn’t force him to stay inside, they would let him out whenever he wanted.
Today was one of the days where he would ask to be left alone as he went out on a hunt.
He moves carefully in the woods, his hearing was far more heightened than the average person. The amount of focus and patience he obtained was how he was able to become silent and deadly. Every noise that comes through the woods he would be able to recognize what it is and where it is from.
A scream was definitely not one of it.
He immediately rushed towards it, he was careful of his peripheral vision and not losing sight of his surroundings. The noise became louder and louder until he was close enough to see what it was but remain invisible.
Observe, intervene if the situation calls for it.
He hid behind a tree as he watched from afar. His eyes adjusted to the distance. He saw two men, one was holding down a woman as she cried for her life and the other was rummaging through her belongings. They looked at her with eyes that could only count as pure evil. They weren’t planning to only steal from her–they were planning to take her away.
With careful movements, Daryl got close enough behind the two men. Without hesitation, he shot his crossbow right in one of the men’s chest as he fell down–limp, dead. The other was too shocked as he looked around trying to find the perpetrator. Daryl gave him no chance to even see the light of day before he stabbed him from behind. The man fell limp, just like his friend.
“I don’t take chances anymore”
Rick’s words echoed in his mind as he firmly believed in it. The woman gasped as she backed away to a tree, she didn’t say anything but she looked at him with fear.
“You’re safe, it’s okay” Daryl placed his knife away as well as his crossbow as he raised his hands up. The woman was still terrified as if Daryl was going to end her life next, “I’m not gonna hurt you, I’m just gonna help you take your things, alright?”
He moved closer just by a bit and before he could do anything else the woman took off in fear, leaving all her supplies behind.
“Shit” He cursed to himself as he watched her disappear into the woods. Daryl was too far out to be close to Alexandria and run for her and maybe take her back. If he did all that he would be out here late at night and it would be more dangerous. Daryl looked at her scattered supplies as he bent down to collect them. However, he did not have the attention to take it. Instead, he collected it and placed it on a tree branch–not too high that she couldn’t reach it. He took out his pen and paper as he wrote.
‘Look up’
There was a chance she might come back and see it but there was also a chance that she wasn’t coming back and someone else might have taken it. There was also a chance she might not make it through the night empty-handed. That thought dawned upon him but he couldn’t risk himself getting in trouble for his group.
He walked away, heading back to Alexandria as he glanced at the backpack one more time.
He hoped she survived.
.
The next day, Daryl went to the same spot to hunt. His intention was to bring food back but deep in his conscience he also hoped the girl would return again. He went back to the same tree, he saw that his note was still intact but the backpack was no longer there. He hoped she was the one who took it.
As he spent time in the woods he saw a baby deer, quietly eating leaves. He thought it was his opening. He carefully moved closer, his aim was set right on its heart as he moved slowly he suddenly tripped on a rock that he had not noticed and scared the deer away.
“Damnit” He cursed as he wiped off the sweat that was beading on his forehead, he groaned as he leaned on a tree, slowly sitting down as he thought that he might lose his touch. Or maybe there was just too much in his mind about the girl he encountered yesterday. Daryl didn’t want to give up so he looked around to see if he could spot any animals left in the woods. He was about to give up when suddenly he heard the cracking of twigs behind him. He turned in a swift motion, wielding his crossbow but then he froze in shock.
It was her.
He immediately dropped his weapon. He raised his hands again, trying to show her that he wasn’t dangerous.
Daryl looked down as he noticed something. The same baby deer that he was hunting was now dead in her arms. She looked at him blankly as she walked closer towards him. Every move she made had Daryl looking closely.
She threw the dead deer in front of him, offering it to him. Daryl looked at the deer and looked back at her, she just hummed and gestured for him to take it. Then he realized it was her way of thanking him for saving her.
He took the deer from her hands slowly, afraid that sudden movements would scare her away. She was about to turn around and leave when he noticed that she managed to take her backpack with her.
“Hey, wait up” Daryl called out softly as she turned around, “Stay there, we can share it”
There it is again, the blank stare that he could not read. Daryl took out his knife as he was about to butcher the deer’s leg, she suddenly grew frantic as she ran towards him and bent down to his level.
Daryl looked at her as she pointed towards the deer and pointed back at him; “It’s for you”, as he understood. He shook his head as he continued to cut the leg off.
“We can share it, it’s okay” Daryl muttered softly, she didn’t do anything else–instead she just looked at him as if she was confused. “Here”, Daryl paid her no mind as he gave her the larger part, taking only the leg with him. She did not understand why he did that.
She looked at the deer that Daryl gave her for a while, she held it tight in her hands. Something in her eyes told him that she felt thankful.
Then she left.
.
It had become a part of his routine. Ever since that day, he would come out to the same spot and he would bring her different things each day. She sat far away from him but he was okay with it, Daryl didn’t need to say anything to her nor did she have to say anything to him. Daryl did not look for her. Instead, he lets her come to him on her own terms.
After that encounter, Daryl had brought some canned foods he managed to snatch from Olivia–she never found out where the canned beans went. Daryl waited in the woods, sitting at the same tree as he sharpened and cleaned his arrows to pass time. He cleared the area from walkers so it was safe for him–for her. When Daryl noticed her peeking out behind the tree, he held out the canned beans for her to take.
She approached him slowly, carefully and when she got closed enough she pointed towards the ground. It always takes some time for it to register what she was gesturing but eventually he understood that she didn’t want to come in contact with him so he carefully threw the beans at her. She grabbed it quickly as she backed away, a distance she thought was safe for her.
“My name’s Daryl” He tried. As he patiently waited for her to reply but she never did, she always just stared back at him. “You wanna tell me your name?”
She stays silent again as Daryl decides not to push it any further. She opened the can eagerly, as she scoped the beans and ate it with her hands. Daryl takes the moment to observe her while she is distracted with eating.
Daryl noticed the countless amount of scars on her face, some were new and some were older. Definitely some from the encounter a few days before. She had a huge gash on her forehead that she had left untreated, Daryl made a mental note to bring her bandages and antiseptic from Alexandria next time. His eyes trailed down as he noticed her wrists. There was a deep scar surrounding it, like she had been restrained for a long time. Daryl took a moment to wonder what you have been through to make you end up this way. In some ways, he saw a bit of his own reflection in her.
Like routine, she finished the canned beans and looked at him one last time before she left.
.
“You’ve been going out a lot” Carol implored, “You good, pookie?”
Daryl grumbled, “Was out ‘huntin”
Carol hummed as she took a seat right next to Daryl.
“Well, I don’t see you coming back with anything,” Carol teased as he groaned, getting up from the porch, “Have you showered?”
He hummed before leaving her behind. Carol noticed how Daryl had been acting strange since they got to Alexandria. However, she just blamed it on the new environment.
Daryl went to the infirmary quietly, grabbing whatever was needed for her.
He went out at the same spot, at the same time each day. He was starting to wonder where she was sheltered. He didn't feel the need to question her.
She appeared again, just after a while he arrived. Daryl took out the bandages and medicine.
“You have a cut on your forehead, ‘ya need to treat it or else it would get infected” Daryl threw the items at her like a habit, but this time she just stared at it. “You can get sick if you don’t clean it”
She slowly took the bandage and she just fiddled it in her hands. It was as if she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Do you know how to treat it yourself?” Daryl questioned as she looked at him, confused. She shook her head as she threw it back at him, “Ya need it. Can I help?”
She stayed silent for a while. Daryl could see that she was deeply contemplating whether or not she should let him do it. Daryl let her take her time, not rushing her–if anything he had all the time in the world.
Hesitantly, she nodded.
“Kay, I’ll do it slowly. But if I do it slowly it is gonna hurt, is that okay?” She nodded once again. Suddenly she took out her knife, gripping it in her hands. Daryl immediately understood why. However, he was not scared. He wasn’t going to hurt her–not in a harmful way and he was sure she wasn’t going to hurt him. He nodded, acknowledging her actions as he gestured her to move closer and so she did–but carefully. Daryl let her get close enough to tend to her wounds. He cut a piece of clean bandaged as he poured a small amount of antiseptic on it.
“This is going to sting, alright?” She nodded again as she closed her eyes, preparing for the medicine to come in contact with her wounds. When Daryl softly patted the cut on her forehead, she winced softly and he immediately stopped, “Are you okay? Ya want me to continue?”
She nodded again.
Daryl managed to clean her cut, patching it up, “There, all good now”
She looked at Daryl for a while as she backed away, this time instead of a far distance–she stayed close.
“Thank you” She let out her first words. It was soft and raspy, she hasn’t spoken in a while. Daryl hides his shock as he nodded, holding out the bandage and medicine for her to take. This time, she took it right out of his hands.
Daryl went back to Alexandria, he was satisfied with the progress he made today.
.
Daryl didn’t show up the next day. However, she waited patiently for him to come. She waited longer than usual and it was about to be dark. A subconscious part of her had made it her routine as well. She grew disappointed and sad.
.
She peeked from behind a tree as she saw Daryl there, doing the same thing when he waited for her. Usually she would wait for a while and observe him from afar but today she ran towards him. Daryl seemed to notice the look of worry on her face.
“I’m sorry” He apologized, “I had to go out and look for food with my friend”
She visibly flinched when he mentioned the existence of other people, she started to get scared.
“Don’t worry, they don’t know about you” Daryl reassured softly, “Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask ‘ya something”
She sat there patiently.
“I have a camp, we have good people there–ya don’t have to be alone anymore” Daryl finally mentioned Alexandria. He had assessed her enough to know that she was not a bad person, just lost and scared. The mention of a camp made her grow wary as she started to look around, afraid that there were others watching her. She whimpered as she cowered away. Daryl felt anxious as it was not the reaction he was expecting. He kept reassuring her the same thing again and again until she believed him and calmed down. Daryl understood that she doesn’t want to be taken in. He doesn’t push it.
Once she calmed down, she suddenly got up and Daryl prepared for her to leave again.
This time she doesn’t.
Instead, she motioned him to follow her and so he did. It was a 20 minute walk, further out away from Alexandria. Daryl was curious about where she was taking him. As they walked, Daryl noticed a cabin started to appear, surrounding it were makeshift barriers made from wood that were sharp and it caught the walkers to come near. She was good at surviving. This must be where she was staying.
“You ‘takin me here?” She nodded as she avoided the trapped walkers impaled on the sharp end. They were still alive. Surrounding the cabin was maybe a dozen or more dead ones, Daryl felt a sense of relief knowing that she is able to defend herself from them and she seems to be good at it.
“Keeps them out” She muttered softly gesturing to the dead walkers surrounding the cabin. She was smart to know that their scent wards them off. On the other hand, Daryl had to get used to her talking now but he was happy for it.
When they were inside, she gestured to Daryl to sit on the chair as he did so as she scoured through her cabinet. She took out a piece of a half-eatened candy bar as she offered it to Daryl. He gave her a small smile as he took it from her, muttering a soft ‘thanks’.
She sat in front of him as she closely watched him eat the candy bar, Daryl didn’t know why but he found the situation slightly amusing. He tried to hide his smile but his eyes failed to do so.
“Can you tell me your name, now?” He tried, once again this time he was testing to see if she had become more open towards him. She stayed silent, Daryl had accepted she was still not ready.
“It’s YN” Daryl was wrong. Daryl nodded in acknowledgement as he wiped his sticky hands on his jeans, holding his hand out playfully. She looked down at it as if it was going to bite her, he motioned his hand out again as she hesitantly reached out to shake it. For a moment, Daryl might have noticed a smile carved on his face but he could be wrong. Maybe he was imagining things.
Daryl looked out of the window as he noticed the sun starting to set.
“I should probably get back before it gets dark” Daryl stated as he saw her suddenly deflating. The look of disappointment on her face was small but still enough for him to notice.
She looked down for a while but then looked at him again. “Stay?”
For a moment, Daryl felt like he caved in. The way she softly asked him had made it hard to resist her. Without much convincing Daryl just nodded. Her eyes light up again but she looks away before Daryl could notice it.
She started to prepare a bedding for him on the floor, neatly folding a blanket for him. As the day went dark she suddenly laid on the floor.
“What? No, you stay on the bed, I’ll sleep on the floor” She shook her head vigorously, as she pointed on the bed, demanding him to sleep there, “Well if you don’t sleep on the bed, then I guess I just have to sleep right next to ya”
Her eyes widened as he could see her flush, Daryl was afraid he had tested the water too much and made her uncomfortable but instead she said nothing and proceeded to lay on the bed. He chuckled softly as he made himself comfortable.
“Goodnight, YN” Daryl muttered.
“Goodnight, Daryl”
That was the first time he had heard his name slip through her lips.
It sounded nice.
.
The rain began sometime after midnight. Not a drizzle but a downpour.
The kind that swallowed the forest whole.
Wind screamed through the pines, rattling the walls of the tiny cabin until every loose plank groaned in protest. Rain hammered the roof hard enough to drown out even the distant moans of walkers.
Daryl stirred on the floor, one arm draped over his crossbow. He'd insisted on sleeping against the door. She'd argue silently by pointing at the empty spot on the bed, still wanting him to sleep on the bed and let her sleep on the floor.
He'd simply shaken his head. "Nah."
That had been the end of it.
"Daryl..." She whispered softly, enough for it to be heard. He didn't wake. Another deafening crack echoed through the cabin as it trembled.
The tree was falling–straight toward the side where he slept. She crossed the room in three strides.
"Daryl!" Still nothing. She grabbed his jacket. Daryl opened his eyes just as she threw herself at him. They hit the floor together. The wall exploded. Wood burst inward. A massive pine trunk crashed through the cabin, obliterating the place where he'd been lying less than a second earlier. The impact threw splinters like knives. The roof sagged violently. One heavy beam came down with it. Daryl rolled instinctively. She wasn't fast enough. The beam clipped her shoulder and trapped her forearm beneath broken timber. She made no sound. Just a sharp intake of breath.
Daryl was already on his knees.
"Hey!" Daryl received no response from her. His heart beats loudly in his chest as fear is taken over him by the state of her. She was staring at her arm and blood seeped steadily through her sleeve.
A jagged splinter, longer than his hand, had punched clean through the flesh just below her elbow.
"Damn it." Daryl cursed as he looked at her with worry. He shoved the beam aside with both hands and it barely budged. He planted his boots as he grunted. The wood shifted enough for her to wrench herself free.
She immediately reached for the splinter. His hand caught her wrist just in time.
"Don't. You will bleed out" She froze. Their eyes met, his frightened one met hers. For a moment Daryl had thanked god that he had stayed and didn’t leave.
As he glanced at her, she looked less like the wary woman from the woods and more like a frightened animal caught in a trap.
He softened his voice. "Leave it. You’ll be okay"
Rain poured through the broken roof as cold water soaked them both.
"We gotta move." Daryl stated as he carried her out of the cabin. Daryl looked down and noticed how pale she was already. He got scared, terrified as he tried his best to keep the wound from bleeding out too much. He had to make a decision.
Before did that he did what he could to wrap her wounds just enough so she won’t bleed out as much. She screamed in pain as she cried, Daryl’s heart broke.
He knew. If he stays here, tries to tend to her wounds that he is very much not capable of–she will die.
He brings her back to Alexandria, she will live–but Daryl doesn't know how she will react. His best bet is that he will lose her trust, she will probably hate him.
However, the times he had spent together with her–he could not afford losing her.
He’d rather she lives and hates him forever than be gone from his life.
“Need ya to keep talking to me alright, my bike is not far from here–you’d have to stay awake okay?” Daryl only received a soft hum as she was floating in and out of consciousness. "...You shoved me, you would've been crushed."
He was met with silence. Finally, she answered in a voice rough from exhaustion.
"...So would've you." It was such an obvious statement that if she wasn’t dying right now he would’ve laughed. Instead, he looked at the ruined cabin in the distance. Then back at her.
"You could've got yourself killed." He stressed as he carefully ran out, trying to get to his bike as fast as he could. She merely hummed, too tired to respond.
"...Didn't think." She answered weakly after a while.
But Daryl knew she had. She'd thought exactly once.
Daryl's in danger.
And she'd moved without hesitation. It made his heart swell. It unsettled him more than the storm ever could. He wasn't used to anyone throwing themselves into harm's way for him—least of all someone who trusted almost no one. He didn't have words for what that realization did to him, all he knew was that she had to live.
She barely realized what was happening but Daryl had strapped her securely on his bike as he rode off to Alexandria. The blood dripped down the road as it mixed into the wet concrete.
Next thing he knows, she was fully unconscious.
.
When the gates opened, the Alexandrians took no time helping Daryl out. They saw the state of the girl and they looked at him with worry, Deanna was the first to ask him what happened.
“A tree fell on top of her cabin” He paused, his voice cracking at the end, “She was tryna’ save me” He admitted defeatedly as his group gathered around him to hear him out, Carol looked at him then back at the girl who was rushed to the infirmary. She put two and two together. However, Carol saw how disheveled he looked—how he was pacing around his face full of worry as he followed the others to the infirmary. She knew now’s not the best time to push it.
Daryl had stayed by her side the whole time Dr. Pete was performing the surgery on her. Deanna keeps mentioning how Pete is great and she will be okay—if she wasn’t he was going to bash the asshole’s face in. Knowing he was by now, Daryl only tolerated him so that he could save her.
“She’s gonna be out for maybe a few hours, maybe up to a day—it depends on her reaction towards the anesthesia. She should be fine to heal in a month or so. In the meantime, she can not do any physical activity since the branch had punctured straight through her arm. It will risk the stitches opening and she will bleed out again” Daryl nodded in understanding but the whole time he hadn’t looked at his face, his eyes were on her, “She has a lot of injury from the past, I’ve put some cream on to help with the scarring”
Pete left the room as he patted Daryl in the back. It doesn’t matter how long it took for her to wake up, he wasn’t planning on losing his sights on her.
A few hours had passed and there were no signs of her waking up. At this point, Daryl had found comfort in hearing her heart monitor beeping.
Suddenly his group had walked into the room, alongside Aaron.
“Ya’ll can’t be here when she wakes up, she’d get scared so ya’ll need to leave” Nobody said a thing before Rick suddenly came up to her bed, taking out his cuffs as he cuffed her left uninjured arm to the bed. Daryl lashed out on his action as he pushed Rick violently. “You get that shit off right now, she’s not dangerous!”
“It’s just a procedure, Daryl—we don’t know who she is,” Rick stated calmly. “You’ve never told us about her”
“I trust her goddamnit. Just take it off!” Daryl tried to reach for the keys on Rick’s waist and Rick pushed him off.
“You do. We don’t—we need to see how she is first and we can take it off” Aaron muttered as he looked at him with betrayal.
“I thought you trusted me? Your ass was the one who wanted me to be a recruiter. Well here’s what I’m doing, I’m damn ‘recruitin” Daryl shouted at Aaron as he held his hand up, gesturing to calm down.
“We have procedures Daryl, we can’t just simply bring someone in without getting to know them for weeks and weeks”
“To hell with ya procedures!—what? you’re saying I should leave her to die? When I met her, there were two men that were gonna do bad things to her, you’re sayin I should just let ‘em have her?” Daryl was growing more and more agitated, his voice getting louder with each word that came out of his mouth. “ S’that what you want?”
The group were on each other’s necks, the room was loud.
Loud enough that it managed to wake her up.
“D-Daryl?” She cried out as she looked around, she was so shocked her whole body froze as she went silent. Her eyes were wide as her fear consumed her. Too many people. Too many men. Everybody went silent as they looked at her. Her eyes turned glassy once she realized she was cuffed to the bed.
“Hey, you’re okay—“
“No… no, no, no, no!” She chanted repeatedly as she started sobbing violently, shaking her cuffed hands vigorously as she tried to free herself. She kept saying it over and over and her movements were frantic. She wailed out as the group stood there in silence, shocked at her state.
“YN, calm down—“ Daryl tried to approach her but she backed away, it was like the first day they met all over again. Daryl noticed the look in her eyes.
“I trusted you”
Daryl felt his heart drop.
“Rick take it off, it’s freaking her out!” Daryl yelled at him and the result of that made her flinch and whimper as she cried, “Take the damn cuffs off!”
“I can’t—“
“Daryl?” Carol called out in shock as she pointed at her.
She was violently pulling at her hand to free it, Rick had made the cuff snug on her wrist and the impact had torn into her skin as blood dripped down. She screamed in pain but the only thing in her mind was that she had to run. Run far from here and never come back.
“YN, stop—Rick, take the damn cuffs off!” Rick just stood there freezing as he realized the shattering state of the girl but he still held it in his heart that he had to be safe.
He couldn’t take any chances.
Daryl tried to get her to stop moving but she somehow was stronger than him, she kept trying to pull her arm out. When she was halfway there, her thumb twisted violently as she screamed in pain, crying out trying to free herself. She sobbed and sobbed her wrist was scraped raw and her thumb had been broken.
Daryl had never felt so scared. He was so scared he started to cry. He started crying out begging her to stop. Begging Rick to uncuff her. Everybody just stood there, panicked in their hearts but they were so in shock they couldn’t move or say anything.
Carol took the initiative to snag the keys from Rick as she tossed it to Daryl. He desperately uncuffed her wrist as he held her arm carefully, looking at the state she was in. When Daryl looked up, she had passed out from all the shock and pain. Her face was pale, she was all sweaty. Daryl didn’t know why but he cried looking at her battered arm.
“Everybody out! Now!” His voice boomed through the room as everybody scurried off like chickens who lost their heads. Rick muttered a quiet apology but Daryl stayed silent. He just grabbed the bandages, cleaning her injury as he tried his best to help out with her thumb with what he knows. He looked down at her old scar around her wrist.
Now he knows how she got it from.
.
After the whole ordeal, Daryl carried her unconscious body back to his house. He carefully placed the fragile girl on the bed as he cleaned off her sweat from her face. He cursed to himself as he felt pointless. He didn’t know what to do.
When she woke up again, she was scared but she looked around the room to see there was only Daryl there. Despite what happened, a little part of her still trusted Daryl.
Because Daryl had made her feel safe before. Daryl was safe.
However, she was slightly wary of him now, and betrayed.
“I had to bring you back” Daryl tried explaining, “If I don’t you were going to die”
She said nothing, she stayed silent with a blank look on her face. The face that Daryl had recognized from the start.
“I can’t have you dying, YN. You’ll be safe here. You’ll stay with me, just until you fully recover and then if you want to leave, you can leave” Daryl suddenly placed a key on the nightstand, “This is a key to the front door. If it makes you feel safer I will always leave it open, but if it doesn’t you can shut it and lock it. This is the only key, I don’t have another one”
She briefly glanced at the key then back at him.
“You need to stay, if you leave now—you’ll get hurt. If it happened again, I would do the same thing–wouldn’t have done it differently””
There was a moment of silence, the progress he made was all gone. She had decided not to speak to him again.
So instead she nodded.
Relief washed over him as he closed his eyes and gave her a small smile. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt”
She nodded again.
Daryl managed to fully absorb the situation. She had injured both of her arms, that meant he had to fully take care of her. He didn’t mind that, he was worried about what she would think.
When he stepped out to get some air, Carol was already standing there with a plate of food in her hands.
“Hey” He pulled her aside, just far enough so the woman inside his house wouldn’t hear Carol nearby.
“I brought her food, I was going to pass it to you” Carol stated meekly as Daryl took it off of her hands, “Listen, I saw the state that she was in–I understand, I recognized what it was”
“Yeah?”
“Hers was a lot worse” Carol admitted with a frown on her face. “It was good that you brought her back. She needs to heal–and I don’t mean it physically”
Carol smiled at him for the last time as she patted his back and left. Daryl took the freshly made food to her as her eyes peered to see what it was. When Daryl showed her the plate, her mouth watered. It was eggs, with tomatoes and pieces of bread. She had thought these ingredients had gone extinct.
“It's uh… powdered eggs. Carol made it for you, she’s a good cook” Her face was full of wonder and she eagerly looked at the plate Daryl set in front of her. “I can help you eat, but if you don’t want to you can do it however you want”
She shook her head pointing at the food and pointing at Daryl. He understood that she was comfortable letting him feed her.
And so he did. He scooped a little of everything as he held it in front of her mouth, she hesitantly took the food in.
When she did, her eyes widened in delight. Daryl chuckled softly to himself, “It’s good?”
She nodded eagerly as she pointed at the plate again, wanting more. Daryl’s heart felt full. She finished up the whole plate as she gulped down the tea that Daryl had made for her. She had thought those had gone extinct as well.
Daryl had spent the rest of the week taking care of her. She didn’t want to move from the bed for the first few days but after a while she slowly started to explore his house more. She had noticed how the house smelled exactly like him, the smell made her feel safe. She would find herself smelling his blanket when Daryl wasn’t looking because it gave her comfort. Whenever Daryl had to leave, she would grow wary. Daryl had to explain that he had to keep the group fed by hunting. She would offer to help but the arm where she broke her thumb took longer to heal. Soon she realized, no matter how many times Daryl left–he would always come back to her. That’s when she started to feel comfortable.
However, there was one day where Daryl had to leave for a few days. Longer than usual as he would usually leave and return at the end of the day. Daryl had reassured her it would not take long and she believed him.
When he left, she left his front door open so that she could see him coming in when he came back. She would sit there, patiently waiting. But then, she saw the woman Carol instead with a baby in her arms. Carol had usually passed the food to Daryl, she would make it so it was enough to feed her the whole day. But since Daryl was leaving for a while, he had asked her to place the food in front of the door and leave it there.
Carol was definitely not expecting to see her just sitting there on a chair looking out the door and it was a bit scary. It made her jump.
“Jesus, I didn’t expect to see you there–sorry” Carol apologized as she cradled the baby in her arms. She got curious so she stood up from the chair and walked slowly towards Carol. Carol could see that her attention was set on the baby. She stood a safe distance away from Carol. “I brought you your food, I’m gonna put it here”
Carol was about to leave when suddenly she spoke up.
“Stay?” That was the first word she muttered in weeks ever since she came to Alexandria. Carol stopped in her tracks as she turned around and smiled softly, nodding her head.
Carol didn’t move, instead she had let her move closer towards her. Her eyes never left the baby, and Carol immediately noticed her curiosity.
“This is baby Judith, you want to hold her?” She looked at Carol and she looked back at the baby, she shook her head.
“Don’t know how…” She whispered. A small frown carved on her lips.
“It’s okay, I’ll teach you. You just have your arm to support her from underneath and you can use your forearm to hold her close to you, you can hold her even when your hand is like that. Just need enough support so she doesn’t fall back.. You want to try it? She’s very friendly with everyone” Carol explained as she listened carefully, practicing the gesture as it made Carol smile. She held her arm out as Carol passed her the baby, she held her carefully in her arms. The baby started smiling at her and as if it was contagious, she had smiled as well, “See, Judith likes you”
She copied Carol’s cradling motion as her eyes never left the beautiful being that was in her arms. Carol looked at her, eyes full of sadness and understanding. After a short moment, she passed Judith back to Carol.
“You know you can always come to my house and play with her. I usually babysit her when Rick is gone,” She visibly flinched when Carol mentioned Rick’s name and Carol noticed it. “Not a big fan of men?”
She shook her head.
“Yeah, they can be assholes. But I promise you, the men here are nice. You are allowed to come out and explore, no one will bother you” Carol stated.
“Daryl?” You suddenly asked.
“Yes, you can go out with Daryl as well if it makes you more comfortable”
“Kay” Carol chuckled at the response, it was sometimes how Daryl would say it.
“You like Daryl?” Carol insinuated but she did not understand it, instead she just nodded her head eagerly, “Daryl is very nice, and very handsome don’t you think?”
“Don’t understand,” She responded.
“Daryl is nice to look at because he has a pretty face right?” Carol rephrased her sentence, a grin carving on her lips.
She thought deeply for a while, “Pretty eyes”
Carol chuckled again as she hummed in response. Suddenly Judith started crying.
“I have to go, she needs to eat” She nodded, “Bye YN, enjoy your food”
Her heart twitched when she heard her name coming out of Carol’s mouth. She had never heard anyone in the world say it, other than Daryl.
“Bye Carol…”
.
The night had fallen as she still sat there on her chair waiting for Daryl’s arrival. She realized she was not good at sitting still. So she carefully walked towards the front door as she looked out. She took a deep breath as he contemplated whether or not she should go outside. She took the courage to take one step outside as her heart pounded in her chest.
She wanted to see what Alexandria looked like.
When she walked the streets, her face was full of wonder. The place was beautiful, the houses were beautiful and she didn’t understand why Daryl lived underneath the houses. She liked it either way because it smells like him. The place did not look like where she had stayed before, it looked safe.
“Hey” A voice called out, a voice of a man. She got scared as she tried to find where it was coming from. Then she saw him, he was standing in front of his house and he had his hand held up. “Hey, I’m Aaron–Daryl’s friend”
She was about to run back to Daryl’s before he called again.
“Wait, stay!” She didn’t know why she stopped in her tracks, she didn’t know why she listened to him. “Have you eaten?”
She hesitantly shook her head.
“I made spaghetti, it is really good–come and have dinner with us” He gestured her to come in but she just stood there, looking at him with fear on his face, “Okay, wait”
Aaron slowly pulled out his hunting knife as he tossed it on the grass in front of her. She looked at it confusingly.
“You can take that, so you can feel safe. If anything happens to you–you can use it” Aaron did it to gain her trust and he knew that securing her safety was one of them. She carefully walked up to the knife as she held it in her hands but not in a way to attack. Like Aaron mentioned, just to feel safe. “Have dinner with me and my partner, and then you can go home”
Home.
Daryl’s house was her home.
She finally caved in as she stepped inside. When she did, she got scared to see another man there smiling at her.
“It’s okay, it’s just Eric–he is my husband” Fear turned into confusion. Aaron laughed.
“I-in love?” She asked carefully.
“Yes, in love–we got married before all of this happened” Aaron wrapped his arms around Eric as he kissed his head. Just from that alone, her gaze softened. She took out the knife as she threw it on the floor. Pointing at it for Aaron to pick up, “Hey, no… You can keep it… It’s a gift”
“Gift?” Aaron nodded reassuringly as she picked it back up and placed it on her belt. That was the moment she realized the place wasn’t so bad. Maybe just maybe, not everyone was evil. Just because of this realisation doesn’t mean she will let her guard down, she will always think of the worst.
Aaron had gestured for her to sit at the dining table as he served her a plate of spaghetti. She looked at it as if it was some alien food. She cautiously took a strand of the pasta and put it in her mouth. When she got a taste she gobbled the whole thing down as Eric and Aaron looked at her amusingly, “Good, right?”
She nodded as she finished the whole plate in seconds.
“It’s funny because when Daryl first came here he sat where you sat and ate it the same way as you. We’re glad you both find it delicious” Her eyes widened as she pointed at the spaghetti. Aaron understood that she wanted more, so he gestured for her to take as much as she liked.
She took another portion as she sets it aside, she pointed at the plate, “For Daryl”
Aaron and Eric’s hearts warmed at the realization. Eric told her to wait as he went into the kitchen to find a container. He put all the spaghetti inside and passed it to her.
“Thank you” She muttered softly. They nodded as the room went silent for a while.
“I was a politician before all this, wanted to make the world a better place–I guess that didn’t work out” Aaron joked, Eric immediately recognized what he was doing so he just sat back and not interrupted him, “What did you do before all of this? Where did you come from?”
“Cage…” She mumbled without a thought as she kept eating more spaghetti. Both of them looked confused.
“What do you mean?” Aaron’s voice trembled as he felt horrified.
“Dad put me in cage, I live there” She answered as if it was normal, “He turned into monster and I left cage” The room went silent. Aaron and Eric looked at each other as he took his husband’s hand. Both of their hearts were physically broken at what she just said. “Stayed there since little”
Before Aaron could ask her any more questions, a loud knock can be heard from the door. It startled her as she cowered away in the corner.
“Aaron it’s me, Daryl!–She’s missing, have you seen her?” Daryl shouted as he banged on the door desperately. When she heard his voice, she took the container as she ran towards the front door and opened it.
She did what she had never done before.
She attacked Daryl with a tight hug.
“Missed you…” Daryl was surprised but he had also felt relief. Aaron and Eric came behind her afterwards as their gaze softened. She pulled away as she held out the container in front of him, “Aaron’s spaghetti”
Daryl chuckled breathily as he took it from her hand, “Thank you” She hummed in response.
“Daryl, can you come in? I need to talk to you” Aaron had a serious look on his face as Daryl nodded, pointing at her to sit in the living room as Aaron brought him to the kitchen.
Aaron explained what she had told him and his heart dropped.
They had assumed that she had been held captive her whole life by her father, which explains the way she acts and speaks. They had also theorized that he had severely abused her, which explains all the scars that she had. She had never come across society before. It dawned upon them that she had a terrible life before the outbreak.
“You can’t let her leave, she’s safe here–she can reconnect again” Aaron urged.
“S’not up to me, but I’ll try to convince her” Daryl grumbled, “Did she tell you where she stayed? Is the bastard still alive?”
“No… I think he turned, that’s why she managed to escape” Daryl felt anger and rage consumed him whole. If there was one thing he hated, it was abusive parents. He hates them with all his heart and if he was still alive, he would make him beg to end his life.
Aaron consulted Daryl on how to help her. It was best if he encouraged her to go out more and maybe even do a job to help her assimilate.
Daryl looked at her as she stood patiently by the door, holding the container in her arm. He exhaled loudly as he walked towards her.
“C’mon, let’s go” He ushered her out.
“Home?”
Daryl looked at her for a moment as he fully took in how important she was in his life now. He gave her a small smile as he nodded,
“Home”
.
Daryl closed the door behind him as she ran towards the bed. He had been silent ever since Aaron had told him what happened to her. He contemplated heavily on what he was about to do next. She sat there on the bed, pointing at his spaghetti as he told her to wait.
“I want to show you something,” Daryl sighed as he took a deep breath.
He turned around and slowly unbuttoned his shirt as he let the shirt fall onto the floor. She was confused but when she noticed all the long scars on his back, she was shocked. They were splattered all across, long and deep.
“My dad used to do this to me” Daryl explained, “He was a bad man and I’m glad he is dead”
Something ticked inside her heart as she rushed behind him, she held out her finger as she slowly traced the deep scars on his skin. Daryl’s breath hitched as he closed his eyes.
“We have the same” She frowned, the sadness was evident in her voice. Suddenly, she hugged him again from behind, “I’m sorry”
“S’not your fault” He grumbled, “Some people are just not meant to be parents”
Daryl turned around, his heart was pounding in his chest as they stood close–his height towering over hers as his fingers found her chin, tilting her head to meet his eyes.
“I will never…” He paused as his voice cracked, “...I will never let anyone hurt you, ever again”
At that moment, it was as if the time had stood still. She was there, looking deeply into his eyes–the eyes that she called pretty.
“I want you to stay with me, so I can protect you” Daryl muttered, caressing the scars on her cheeks. “This can be your home, our home”
“Home…” She trailed off as her eyes flickered to his lips, “...is where you are”
pairing: rick grimes x daryl dixon x afab!reader
word count: 1.8k
summary: surprising your boyfriends with a set of red lingerie. inspired by this post and @rickgrimes-cupid <3
warnings: coarse language, mean-dom!rick, soft-dom!daryl, degradation, praise, p-in-v unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex, eiffel tower type shit, belt used as a restraint, overstimulation, nicknames (mostly 'princess' and 'pretty girl'), minimal aftercare (rick kinda acts like a dick)
“Darlin’...whatcha’ wearin’?” Rick questions aloud, eyes dark and heavy as they stare at your figure.
You’d been waiting for Rick to come home for a while now, stood at the top of the stairs to catch him by surprise. It definitely worked. Rick barely pressed one foot to the bottom step before his eyes recognized your silhouette looming ahead. He let out a low whistle and adjusted his pants a moment later.
“Waitin’ for the sheriff to come and rescue me,” you tease in a sultry tone, twirling slowly to show how the lingerie hugs your curves and compliments your freckled, honeyed skin tone. All the hours spent outside fighting walkers would do that, you suppose. Well, you think your appearance looks lovely in this tight, red fabric. Rick seems to agree; the motion of your hips leaves little to his imagination.
“You’re such a bad girl, you know that? Thinkin’ I’m gonna treat you like a princess after teasin’ me in those damn clothes. I oughta have my way with you, ya know,” Rick licks his bottom lip, eyes roaming your body up and down without haste.
“Ah, spoken like a true man.”
“It’s why you love me.”
“Very true. So you comin’ up or what?”
Without warning, you see another figure join Rick at the bottom of the staircase. The conversation is cut short but only momentarily.
Daryl huffs something under his breath about being tired and ready for bed, not realizing what had been unfolding before him this entire time. Then the rest of his words are caught in his throat at the sight of lace wrapped around your smooth thighs.
“Fuckin’ hell- ya been waitin’ for us this whole time?” Daryl asks.
Batting your eyelashes innocently, you reply, “I’ve been real lonely, Dar. Need some help.”
Daryl rarely smiles anymore, let alone let his lips quirk even slightly at something amusing. However, he’ll never deny any opportunity to beam at something you do to make him feel special or wanted, especially once you lift your pointer finger in his direction and motion the men to join you upstairs. That little expression of his makes your heart soar no matter how many times you’ve seen it before. Rick, meanwhile, still looks like he’s got a certain fire brewing within him, making the man’s trigger finger twitch and spine shudder in anticipation of what was to come next.
Both of them don’t bother wasting another second. They rush up the stairs, staring at your ass the entire time.
A while later, you find yourself nearly face down on the mattress. Your chest is pushed into the matted sheets as Rick took the opportunity to tie your hands behind your back with his belt. He’s rutting into you now, slipping his thick member in your wet heat at a rhythm that leaves you a moaning mess. At the edge of the bed, where your head practically hung off the side, Daryl was kneeling on the floor in front of you, both hands cupping your warm cheeks and wiping away stray tears.
Not that you were crying out of discomfort; it was the contrary. Your entire body was on fire from overstimulation. Daryl’s thick digits occasionally pinch the fat on either side of your mouth so he can pull himself in and kiss you feverishly. Any moment he’s not talking to you is spent shoving his tongue into your cavern.
Rick’s hand collides with your sweaty skin. He admires the way your ass ripples against each thrust. Your heart skips a beat, and now you’re smiling real loopy like you’re satisfied with how the ex-sheriff uses your body. He has always loved fucking you in this position, eager to get you into a stance that results in his power shaking one orgasm after another out of your abused cunt, but something about the lingerie that still clung to your shape makes the man’s cock harder than he thought possible.
He groans in a husky voice, “Wanna fill you up, princess. ‘M gonna fuck you all night long. Ya hear me? Speak up.”
Another smack echoes off the walls when he hits your bottom a second time. His pace never falters, making you cry and tug at the restraints around your wrists. Daryl, meanwhile, drinks up all the expressions you give him, pleased at the way you fall apart so easily beneath Rick’s cock, which continues to slide in and out of your pussy at such a rapid rate.
Daryl watches your eyes begin to gloss over; a sure sign you’re losing yourself more and more to the pleasure. He presses his lips to yours again, almost laughing at how you barely have the energy to kiss back. The hunter still holds your head up as his mouth trails your jaw, leaving wet kisses in his wake. He hums at the salty taste atop his tastebuds, gently telling you, “Such a pretty girl. Don’t deserve ya, princess. Shit, gonna make me bust before I even get to use ya.”
“Nngh! Fuck!” you squirm at his words, pressing your bottom harder against Rick’s hips so that the tip of his cock hits that spongy spot inside you repeatedly. This triggers the familiar knot in your stomach to undo itself. You clench around Rick with vigor, your entire body shaking from the fierce orgasm. The man behind you almost chokes on his spit. You can feel him begin to twitch inside your pussy.
“Nuh-uh, don’t push on me like you’re in charge. I’m the one fuckin’ ya,” Rick practically snarls, fingers digging into your flesh so hard, you’re sure it’s going to leave bruises later tonight. You can hear how his breath begins to grow more and more ragged, and his rhythm staggers only by a fraction.
“Damn, ya killin’ me, pretty girl,” Daryl admires your face. His eyes dart down to your lips, lined with a mixture of his spit and your own. Then, he lets go of your jaw carefully and begins to rise. “I gotcha, jus’ gimme a sec’ here, princess.”
He fumbles with his jeans a bit since there was a rather large, painful bulge indicating he was in desperate need to relieve himself. Rick doesn’t care to be as tender as Daryl. He pushes himself into you so harshly, you cry out. He demands, “Yeah, just like that. Take it. Take my cock.”
“Oh-Oh, right there, sir-” you whimper at the end, trailing off to release a string of moans.
“Well ain’t that somethin’. Can’t even talk straight, fuckin’ you too damn hard.”
Before you can retort with something snarky, Daryl interposes your space with his heavy, aching length, dripping with pre-cum and already making a direct connection with your lips.
He holds your head up by clutching some of your hair. His other hand guides himself into your mouth, hissing at the sensation of your warm tongue running alongside his cock. For a fleeting moment, you wish to hold him in your palm, so you accidentally pull on the belt once more. Rick smacks your wrists as a silent warning to be still and take him as he is. That alone makes your velvety walls tighten around his cock. A second orgasm washes over you like a crescendo in your favorite song.
Your jaw slackens to take Daryl further down your throat, and it’s only then the hunter begins to fuck your face with vigor. Still, he praises you for doing such a good job.
“Mhm, keep goin’. So good for me. Gonna make me cum here real soon.”
Strings of spit dribble down your chin. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight, but then you start swirling your tongue around at the base of his member, and Daryl swears he sees stars. The fingers closest to your scalp strain their grip. Meanwhile, Rick’s thrusts start to piston in and out of you at a pace that leaves even him gasping for air. He ruts inside you, his body weight pinning you down further into the bed as he reaches his climax. The position makes your back ache, but you ignore it to the best of your ability as you bob your head up and down. Daryl isn’t far behind, whispering to himself, “Fuck, so perfect, so damn perfect.”
Just as Rick pulls himself out of your heat, watching his cum slowly pool onto the sheets, Daryl throws his head back and shoves himself further into your mouth, your nose coming into contact with strands of hair that run along the man’s lower stomach. He finishes with a low grunt, making you squirm with excitement to taste him.
Daryl’s upper body shudders at the sudden sensitivity. He only pulls out once he knows for sure you’re comfortable enough to do so. Meanwhile, Rick undos the belt and discards it elsewhere. Without another word or offer to check on your well-being, he then leans against the headboard in an attempt to catch his breath.
You fall onto your back, staring at the ceiling. Daryl inspects your wrists, muttering in an angered tone, “Ya put these on ‘er too tight. She’s fuckin’ red all over.”
Rick raises an eyebrow, then juts his chin out so that Daryl shows him what the hell he’s even talking about. Still limp and utterly lifeless, you let the hunter grab your arm and shove it in Rick’s direction. Something about the way they continue to use your body in such an innocent, nonchalant way continues to increase your heartrate.
“Ah, damn, I’m sorry princess,” Rick murmurs half-assed, scooting towards you to plant a chaste kiss to your sore wrists, “damn near as red as your lingerie.”
“Did you like it? The lingerie, I mean”
“Like it? I fuckin’ loved it,” Rick exclaims, his thumb caressing your shoulder as you remained completely still.
“Yea’, that was hot. You need to wear that shit more often,” Daryl chimes in.
Daryl, at this point, had pulled his boxers and pants back up his legs. He wasn’t the type to continue sitting around with his dick out. He isn’t really sure why the hell Rick likes doing it so much. He pets your head, then leans over to kiss your temple, then your nose, then your lips. The two of you do this sort of tango each time you finish hooking up or messing around; the kiss starts with three quick pecks, then a slow dance against one another to rekindle the intimate moment. You hum hungrily, unintentionally spreading your legs ever so slightly as your pussy throbs for more.
“Princess, I wasn’t jokin’,” Rick says, breaking up the time shared between you and Daryl.
You pull away from Daryl, tilting your head to the side at Rick’s random comment. “What?”
He’s staring at the wetness between your thighs, the slick that glistens in the moonlight from the nearby window, his eyes full of mischief. His cock, which had been soft just moments ago, begins to slowly harden and rise to attention. Then it dawns on you exactly what he meant. It seemed you had a long night ahead of you. Daryl chuckles slowly and whispers in your ear, “Good luck, pretty girl.”
summary: after another long shift of pretending you both don’t feel the way you do, robby takes you back to his place for some much needed comfort behind closed doors
tags: established and secret relationship, age gap, fluff, smut with plot and feelings, dry humping, p in v, unprotected sex, gentle sex, brief mention of the time it takes for robby to get it up but it’s nbd (he’s 50..ish, like c’mon), slight cumplay, pet names, praise, rainy autumn coziness — 18+ ONLY! MDNI
note: guys….. it’s so bad for me. i miss this old man so much. and need him even worse. and i hate summer so ofc i couldn’t help but write about him in the season i long for in this unbearable heat and humidity 🍂 cross-posted on ao3 ✶
Exhausted doesn’t even begin to cover the way you feel after a long shift. Bleary eyes, blinking heavy and slow as you try to focus on the screen to finish up your charting before you finally get to go home.
The sun set hours ago; not like you get the pleasure of seeing, or even enjoying, many sunsets these days with how busy it’s been in the ED. With breaks being such a rare occurrence, you’re even more grateful for another day coming to an end.
You inhale a deep breath, rubbing a hand over your eyes and down your face as you exhale, trying to will them, and your brain, to work despite their stubborn uncooperativeness.
“You did good today.”
That voice, low and all too familiar, reaches your ears and it’s restorative, perking you up just enough that you turn your head towards it, unable to resist the draw of the resonance. His hand settles steady on your shoulder, warm and reassuring with a soft squeeze and a smile to match.
Robby’s ready to leave himself, with that backpack slung over his shoulder and his nearly empty travel mug in hand, wearing that brown jacket you’ve grown entirely too attached to. It’s the one he’s set atop your shoulders when you were cold while he walked you home, and the one you buried your face in when he gave you a hug after your first difficult shift. The smell of that same cologne he’s worn for decades still clings to the inner lining.
He looks worn out too but he carries it better than you do, in your eyes at least. The greys in his beard are more prominent in this light along with the crinkles by his eyes, and his gaze is a bit softer. From feeling just as weary as you, maybe. But maybe it’s just because he’s looking at you.
You shake your head, a slight movement of disagreement as you gaze back towards the monitor, clicking the mouse with your chin in your palm.
“Doesn’t feel like enough,” you murmur, a bit of dejection hanging on each word.
“Never does.”
He gives one last squeeze to your shoulder, letting his thumb rub a soothing but fleeting pattern, before he inevitably takes his hand away and you’re left with the lingering warmth that fades all too quickly. Of course even tired and during shift change he’s aware of all the eyes, not wanting to risk anyone picking up on his softened demeanor with you.
And you understand. It still makes something ache in your chest just that little bit, but enough to ignore and hide away from him, anyway.
There’s a few moments of silence between you, though it’s filled with the hum of nurses and doctors, machines beeping and the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, that they’ve all blended together after hours of hearing it in the back of your mind. Until he leans in just that little bit closer, feeling his eyes still observing you as they often do, with his hip against the desk. His hand adjusts the strap on his shoulder so it doesn’t slip when he bends over just low and indiscernibly enough to be discreet about his next words.
“You wanna come over tonight?” He asks it quietly so that nobody not paying attention would hear it, a secret just for the two of you like things have always been.
It’s not actually a question though, and you know it isn’t. Sure, he frames it as such, but you know better. You two have been doing this for too long and you recognize that tone in his voice, making it seem like he’s giving you the choice when, really, he’s telling you: ‘Come home with me. You need it. Don’t fight me on it.’
It’s like your entire body breathes out a solaced and resounding ‘yes’, your belly doing that annoying little fluttery thing it does when you think about getting to sleep beside him.
You wish you had the backbone to at least try and resist, to put up some sort of front as if you’re contemplating long and hard about it just to make him feel an ounce of what he makes you feel.
But you don’t have the energy for that. Not tonight. Not ever, really.
“Two minutes?” You ask in a murmur, tilting back your head to gaze up at him, your heart feeling like it’s being pulled towards him when your eyes meet his.
He glances down at his watch, the worn band of it slightly frayed at the end as he hums.
“Thirty seconds and coffee’s on me tomorrow.”
You exhale a breath through your nose, fighting back a grin before you turn your attention right back to the screen.
By the time you’re done and signed off, you’re sure you have time to spare. But Robby gives you a little half smile and a tut, his hand dropping back to his side.
As if he would actually let you buy your own coffee, though.
You walk side by side towards the exit, his arm brushing against yours not-so-subtly, although you’d be the last person to complain about such an indulgent comfort. And the silence between you isn’t unpleasant, it rarely ever is. It’s a mutual understanding, having gone through the same twelve hours and knowing neither one of you can stand the small talk even on a good day.
By the time you get to his parked motorcycle you’ve already grown tired of being on your feet again, having gotten a small respite while sat at the computer but, walking the short distance lets the soreness really settle in. It’s bone deep, eliciting a slight pout of discomfort with every formidable step you take.
You want so badly to just lean into him and close your eyes, put your weight on him to feel lighter somehow. And, fortunately, it’s within reach when he swings his leg over the seat and hands you his helmet without even thinking twice, like it’s second-nature.
The first time you got on his bike you’d side-eyed him about his lack of protection, but he insisted he’d get another one and in the meantime it’d be on your head instead of his. “Precious cargo,” he’d said, with a smile that was both charming and vexing.
He has yet to actually get another one, though.
But you’re too tired to lecture him about it tonight, knowing he’d just brush it off like he usually does with a shrug and a not-so-convincing assurance. So you just get on the seat behind him with a drawn out exhale, scooting closer to him while sliding the helmet onto your head.
Instant relief fills your body when you finally get off your feet and press your chest against the broad expanse of his back, the consoling warmth of him permeating through your clothes.
Finally.
The engine roars to life, rumbling under you as your hands find their home against his abdomen, your fingers clutching onto his jacket securely before he starts driving you both to his place.
The wind this time of year bites at the peeks of your exposed skin as it whips around you, causing you to shiver just enough for him to take notice when you cling to him.
It’s starting to get colder, with leaves of yellow and orange hues fluttering through the night air from the trees they’ve fallen, littering the pavement and sidewalks he drives past. They fly up and around from the speed you’re moving, a dance that puts even more ease into your body as you admire the scenery.
Pittsburgh is beautiful this time of year, you’ve always thought so, even at night. And despite the chill in the air you can’t help but smile to yourself, just a little, at getting to see the leaves change even if you only get glimpses when the street lights shine just right.
When he gets to a red light Robby sits up a little straighter and pulls off his coat, shrugging it off of his shoulders and handing it to you without even so much as sparing a glance towards you. You’ve got a sweater of your own, and a soft protest at the tip of your tongue. But he already knows it’s coming.
“Don’t need your teeth chattering against my back,” he teases, but there’s also a tenderness there that nearly does all the work of warming you up that his jacket would. But you pull it on anyway, not bothering to hold back a smile this time as it brings relief almost instantly.
“Thank you,” you say, soft and as sweet as can be, letting you get a glimpse of Robby’s own little grin as he keeps his eyes forward.
He then gives your thigh a soothing rub, both a silent praise and consoling gesture that you’re not immune to no matter how hard you’ve tried to be otherwise. You’ve given up feigning it by now, your faint trembling quelled and now waining. And you can’t help but lean into it, nudging your leg just a fraction forward against his palm for the few seconds it lasts before the light turns green again.
The heat from his body is what keeps you grounded, able to endure it for the remainder of the ride, snuggling up that much closer to him as if you’re trying to become one with him somehow.
The autumn air is crisp and clean, and incredibly restorative after having the aroma of hand sanitizer and blood in your nostrils for hours on end. You breathe in deeply, letting yourself revel in it with the sounds of the city fading away.
That is, until you feel a single droplet of cold water land upon your knee, and then a few more on your shoulders and arms, until it quickly devolves into a downpour that falls in sheets around you. It has the potential to soak through your clothes entirely if not for how quickly he pulls up to his condo, parking the bike and cutting the engine as quickly as he can for your sake.
It’s icy and you’re shivering, but you can’t help the giggles of newfound adrenaline that come up from your chest when he takes your hand in his and you both rush to get inside, pulling off the helmet while hastily ascending the steps, the rain dampening your hair.
Your laughter dies down as you get the front door shut, dripping lightly onto his doormat as you use your hands to wipe the moisture from your skin. The entry way illuminates in a warm incandescent glow when Robby turns on the lamp and drops his keys onto the side table, both of you catching your breath.
“Ah, m’sorry honey,” he sighs as his hands find your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks and forehead, unable to stifle a soft chuckle himself at the state of you. There’s so much affection in it that it nearly makes your knees weak. As if he had to apologize for something so incidental, and call you ‘honey’ while doing it. Hearing the ease in which it leaves his mouth never fails to make your whole body come alive.
There’s a caring regard in his gaze as he catches the tremble in your limbs before you can assure him you’re alright.
“C’mon, let’s get you in somethin’ warm.”
You’re no stranger to borrowing Robby’s clothes, but that doesn’t mean you’ve gotten used to it just yet. Every time you get to put on one of his shirts or hoodies it fills you with a depth of repose, feeling connected to him in some way when you get to smell the faint scent of his laundry detergent and that lingering cologne that’s laced through every single thread of each garment, stubbornly still there through every wash.
You don’t even have to say it for him to know your feelings. He sees it on your face when your fingertips fiddle with the bottom hem of the pullover sweatshirt he’s lent you, the insignia of his alma mater across your chest. A little bashful, gently biting at the inside of your lip while you stand there before him in his bedroom.
It’s cozy and clean, an air of sophistication about the simple but refined decor that’s just so him. When you first stayed the night it was hard to not feel a little out of place, much nicer than your own apartment, but also you were uncertain of just how far this would actually go with him, and what work would be like after. But now it’s like a second home. Even if some of that nervous energy that was coursing through your veins then is still present, even now.
The rain continues falling outside, the white noise of it filling the quiet as he takes in the sight of you for a moment. He exhales a breath through his nose as his shoulders relax in that way they always do when it’s just the two of you like this. It’s like he can finally bask in the stillness, not concerned about the two of you getting caught and he’s able to just breathe.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as he finally averts his gaze, like it’s taking him effort to do so, while he takes off his watch and sets it on the right side night stand - the side he sleeps on when you’re spending the night.
“Don’t have much,” he never does, “but can whip somethin’ up… or order something.”
The offer is thoughtful. He’s thoughtful. But in all honesty, the only thing you crave is being near him while the distant rumble of thunder echoes across the city and through the window panes, and the rain cascades down onto the streets below, and you’re wrapped up in his clothes, his sheets- in him, completely.
When he looks at you again he can tell what your answer is without you even verbalizing it. It’s in how you hold yourself: slightly swaying in your stance, how you breathe slower with every inhale and exhale in your chest, how your half-lidded gaze holds both fatigue and contentment. He’s never had to question if you want to be here with him or not, and you don’t know just how thankful he is for that.
“Alright, well, ‘still got your toothbrush in the bathroom,” he says with a faint smirk as he turns down the bed, pulling the fluffy duvet aside.
He doesn’t try to admonish you for not taking him up on his offer, or try to get you to open up about your day. You love that about him- that he knows when to push it, and when to just be there. You two are the same in that way.
And maybe somewhere deep down in this moment you realize you love so much more about him than that—a list so long it would sound ridiculous to lay it all out without even giving him some sort of warning. You decide to push it all aside for the time being, giving him a small but grateful smile before heading to brush your teeth.
You swear to yourself that the conversation will happen eventually.
If you ever get the nerve, that is.
By the time you’re done he’s got most of the lights shut off, the front door locked, and the bed ready for you. It almost feels like it’s calling to you, the softness beckoning you, promising you safety and relief from the frigid air hitting your bare legs. Just a few more minutes and the heater will fully warm up the room but you don’t waste time waiting for that as you climb into the bed right beside him like you’re meant to be there.
At first he’s gazing down at his phone, probably checking his email or your schedule for the next week, knowing him, with the light illuminating his face and the faint reflection showing in the lenses of his reading glasses. You only get a moment to admire the sight before he locks it and sets it off to the bedside when the mattress dips under your weight, because why would he pay attention to anything else but you right now?
He takes off his glasses too with a satisfied exhale, seeing you look so comfy in his sweatshirt, in his bed. It’s a muscle relaxant like no other.
“You okay?” It’s not meant to be a question that delves deeper than the surface- just him checking in on you, making sure you’re comfortable and ready to put this arduous day behind you. With him. He asks it with his arm slightly outstretched to make room for you, inviting you to cuddle up to him.
It’s nice, what you both have; to be able to fall into each other, lean on one another when the rest of the world feels too loud and too much.
What started as fooling around just to take the edge off has turned into something else entirely. Domestic, and calm. Serious, maybe. But neither of you are ready to actually put a label on this, wanting to just exist in it for a little longer as what it is.
A few flashes of lightning illuminate the walls for only a few brief seconds as you hum quietly and nod. You normally would find your place at his side to snuggle up to him and close your eyes, eventually falling asleep in his embrace. But tonight, as fatigued as you are, you also need his attention that you’ve grown pretty reliant on.
You never blamed him for the busy days. When he can’t make time to check in on you, or steal a few moments with his lips against your neck pressed against the bathroom wall before you inevitably have to go right back to work so you don’t raise suspicion. Sometimes he’s all over the ED, and the only time you even get to talk to him is over a patient.
So when you straddle his lap, moving your hands slowly up his bare skin, exhaling a soft little breath at the feel of his chest hair under your palms? Robby just falls into it with familiar ease and lets his large hands rub listlessly along your thighs, those knowing eyes peering into yours.
“Hate to see you take that off,” he croons, his voice low and gravelly with a faint upturn of his lips. Despite his illusory reluctance he has no issue with you needing him, something more. His hands move up under the sweatshirt concealing your body from his gaze to caress your sides, pulling you as close as he can get you to finally press a kiss to your mouth.
You both sigh into it, your muscles going lax at the immediate alleviation you feel. It’s the one thing that you’d needed all day, gone without and nearly gone through withdrawals over after only getting a few glimpses of him throughout the day, only a few spoken words. But Robby’s the same way. Ever since you started this thing he’s slowly become dependent on your time together, needing it just as badly, if not more.
In the beginning when he started to think too much about it he considered ending it. He’d be lost in his thoughts, rubbing a hand over the back of his head and neck, telling himself you deserve someone better, someone your own age. But then it was like you were conscious of his state of mind somehow, and you appeared in his line of sight… and all that rationale completely melted away.
There’s no way he can let you go now. And maybe he’s selfish for it, but he can’t bring himself to actually care when he’s got his hands on you.
His hands span up your back, laying flat and mindlessly caressing any bit of you he can just to be able to feel you while your hands move up the nape of his neck. You part your lips with no hesitance to let him slip his tongue inside, eliciting a muffled little moan from your throat when the muscle glides against yours.
The way he kisses you isn’t like anybody else has kissed you. He’s got decades of experience, sure, but he’s spent so much time with you like this and he’s adept, having caught on and observed what gets you all pliant and eager that by now its as easy as breathing.
It should frustrate you how effortlessly he can read you sometimes, and it does in other contexts, but when it’s just the two of you like this it’s cathartic to know you can put that kind of trust in him. To let every bit of stress or worry go to the back of your mind until you lose sight of it all, and let the only thing that matters come into focus: Robby.
His lips only part from yours when he’s pushing up the soft fabric and pulling it off your body, letting it fall to the side to really feel you in the way he wants. His large hands move up your chest, only skimming over your breasts briefly before taking your face in them to guide you back into more languid kisses. It’s almost lazy, no rush, just wanting to taste you and get you completely out of your head and in the moment with him.
And it doesn’t take any time at all. It never does.
“S’this what you need?” he rasps against your mouth, messily trailing his lips down your jaw, towards your neck, his beard grazing deliciously against your skin and making your fingers tighten their grip. His moan in response against your neck goes right through you, down between your legs, the ever growing ache made even more elevated with such little effort.
“Robby…” You gasp his name melodically, your head falling back and your eyes closing, arching into him as he kisses the newly exposed skin of your throat. Your hips grind down against his, not bothering to be coy even though you couldn’t really control it if you tried.
“M’right here, honey,” he assures you, but he’s also teasing you a little, feeling the faint upturn of his lips against you when he gives your skin another kiss with a light sweep of his tongue. The tone of his voice makes you squirm, breathing out a ragged exhale as you tilt your head right back down upon his. You need to lean on him when his hands guide your hips in a more coordinated way, aiding you into firmer grinds.
“Don’t gotta think at all… I’ll do it for you.”
You breathe out a stunted whimper, the sound from your mouth morphing into a dulcet moan when he spreads your legs a little more so you can really feel his bulge through your panties. Slowly growing in firmness, and warm, sending a shiver down to your clit that’s only gotten more sensitive from the escalating stimulation.
Another resonant boom of thunder bellows, reverberating through the windows and the walls, letting you feel it faintly through your bones when it travels through the bed frame.
“Oh, my girl deserves to be taken care of, isn’t that right?” he continues, murmuring the words low in between kisses. His breaths are more controlled than yours as he keeps up the slow assistance, rocking you against his clothed dick with precision you just wouldn’t be capable of without his help right now. You’re too needy for it, unable to be patient on your own. He knows that.
Your heart nearly soars when he calls you his girl, too. It’s the one of the closest things you’ve gotten to some semblance of confirmation that this isn’t something entirely casual. Although you hardly even need it when he calls you such sweet names.
The only time he ever actually uses your full name is at work. But in the walls of his condo? You’re always his girl.
“Did so good today… Doin’ so good for me now…” his tongue swipes over your skin again, “Always so good.”
The praise elicits a gasping whimper from your parted lips to the edge of his ear, clinging to him all the more. Your clit throbs against him, blood thrumming and rushing through your veins and filling your cheeks. Your abdomen grazes his, so soft and yielding against yours with every rut of your hips that it’s nearly your undoing. The friction is both relieving and torturous—just enough to keep you on edge, but nowhere near enough to get you over it.
But that’s because Robby isn’t trying to get you to come, not yet at least. He wants to draw it out a little longer, make you feel that pleasure for as long as he can, really and truly believing you deserve it after the day you’ve had. His goal is to relax you, get you to release all that lingering tension that still clings stubbornly to your muscles. And going slow means it’ll give him plenty of time to get hard for you, to get you nice and ready for him by the time he’s ready for you.
He lets his teeth graze against your neck before trailing his mouth lower, his lips lovingly pressing to your collarbone, your shoulder. His breath fanning over your skin gets you to arch just that little bit more with your fingers gliding through the short tresses of his hair.
It feels too good to think straight, so lost in every single sensation as you writhe helplessly in his lap. Your soft moans fill the air between you, gasping for the oxygen your lungs just can’t seem to get enough of as his hands get a firmer hold on your waist. Back and forth, over and over, letting him feel the growing dampness in your panties seep through the cotton of his sweatpants.
“Easy… s’okay, you got it, honey.” The encouraging lilt to his voice only further aids you, fully enraptured as you start to move your hips in the rhythm he’s set for you.
Even at work you’re a great student, one of his favorites and one of the brightest. You’ve always taken direction well, and of course it made its way into your relationship with him, along with in the bedroom. All it takes is some light coaxing and you listen.
Your hips move with your newfound clarity, undulating with his hands still guiding you, keeping you present and fully in this moment with him. His head dips lower until his mouth finds your chest, his tongue laving over your nipple before taking it between his lips. The gentle suction makes your eyes flutter closed and your head falls to rest against his, with your brows furrowed and your own lips parted in a silent whine.
The position makes it all feel even more intimate. The closeness of being in his lap and in each other’s arms as he steers you closer and closer to that pinnacle verges on overwhelming.
Your feelings for him have only grown and intensified in the months you’ve spent with him. He was once just your mentor, your attending. Now he’s the man you let yourself lean on when the days are hard to bear alone, letting yourself find stability in his hands, and comfort in his voice.
There’s no one single word that really encapsulates what he is to you- what you are to each other. All you know is it’s fervent, and impassioned, and you wouldn’t know what to do if you ever lost this.
The rainfall and wind grow more turbulent just outside, inundating the panes of glass, pelting down on the city. It very nearly mirrors the ever mounting pleasure inside you.
Your movements grow more needy, chasing that euphoria that builds inside you with every single grind. He picks up on it, so attentive, and cradles your body to switch the position and lay you back on the bed to do the rest of the work himself.
You let out a quiet whimper but you’re grateful for it as soon as he grinds his hips down against yours more thoroughly, the firm friction getting your thighs to part to give him more access. Your head gently lolls back against the pillows, but you still keep your eyes on him now above you.
“That’s it… Keep lookin’ at me, just like that.” The sigh he lets out is one of satisfied pride, getting to watch how you open up for him from this angle and have full control over the pace.
He gets even more determined, his eyes taking in every inch of you with palms splayed over your hips, going down your thighs, using his fingers to pull your panties taut to get a better view of just how soaked through they are. It’s obscene. Saliva pools under his tongue, his adam’s apple bobbing from swallowing down his own moans from coming up from his throat.
“Oh, I know you’re close now,” he rasps with the faintest scrunch of his brows, his jaw clenched for a brief moment with the effort it’s taking him to not just rip that measly piece of fabric from your body right here and now.
“C’mon… C’mon, honey, let it all go for me. You deserve it.” His pace quickens just that little bit more, growing more insistent and emphatic, urging you with every roll of his hips and unyielding squeeze of your waist.
With Robby leaning his forehead gently against yours, breathing with you with words of slightly strained praise, the band snaps inside you and it hits you in a wave that washes right through you, down to your toes. Your hips rut just so, helplessly from faint aftershocks. He curses under his breath at the wet heat he feels through his sweatpants, every nerve alight.
Your whole body warms at the elation that tingles down your spine, blissed out with soft moans as he kisses up your chest and your throat with such affectionate praise falling from his lips.
You’re laid back with limbs that feel weightless, your insides thrumming from the intensity of something so intimate and carnal as you just let your eyes stay unfocused for a few seconds without any attempt to help them. All while Robby breathes heavily against your skin, so turned on and hard just from getting to witness such a sight right before his very eyes.
He tugs down his sweatpants and boxer briefs restlessly, his gaze never leaving your pliable body as he gets right back between your spread thighs like he’s sliding home. He manages to still be careful with you while sliding your damp panties off too, despite his own prevalent desire.
He uses his fingers to gingerly prod at your puffy folds, gliding delicately, mindful of your sensitivity. But he still elicits a broken whine from you that he soothes with soft assurances, “shh, shh, it’s alright, so pretty f’me,” while he pumps his cock with the lubricant of you, groaning a pathetic sound that you feel in your entire body.
He takes a second to get his bearings, his eyes squeezed shut with a rough exhale, acclimating before his attention’s right back on you.
“You still with me?” He doesn’t bother attempting to suppress his affinity with you when he ducks his head to try and meet your dazed eyes, his eyebrows slightly raised in fondness. Not that he ever really could hide it very well, even around others.
God, his forehead creases and crows feet in this light nearly do you in, a reminder of his maturity over your own. You exhale a breath that doesn’t bring very much relief when your eyes focus and meet his gaze, a small smile of your own that he shares.
“Always.” The single word comes out quiet, just for him, giving him an uninhibited nod while your hands find their way back to him. You reach for the nape of his neck to pull him closer, feeling the way his forehead falls against yours, yielding to you- to control.
He closes his eyes once more, just for a moment, like he’s trying to take it all in. Then his hips move forward in one slow movement, the thick tip of his cock sliding through your slick arousal. You inhale a quick, sudden breath at the sensation but he’s receptive to you, and his nose brushes against yours to soothe you before he finally presses inside.
He kisses you to muffle the moan that comes right up from your throat, so wanton and overwrought with sensitivity. But you melt right into it as your fingers grip his hair, tugging just a modicum as if it’s somehow going to aid in a reprieve. The action earns you a low sound of approval from Robby though, before his tongue glides past your lips and into your obliging mouth.
The first time you two had sex it was all hands and mouths; months of pent up desire with no outlet satisfying enough for either of you that when you finally got your hands on each other… you left marks.
It was hot and torrid, having given him scratches down his back while he gave you hickeys and soreness. The next morning he’d felt apologetic about it, massaging and kissing your thighs with eyes that held a humility despite you finding it gratifying after the fact.
Eventually he grew more comfortable with letting out his stress on you, not needing to be so gentle when he found that you actually rather enjoyed it. Needing an outlet after a double shift, dealing with the fucked up healthcare system and patients he couldn’t save- it all piled on his shoulders more and more. Relieving even just a fraction of the weight he always carries, while also being railed through the mattress, was something you’d do happily.
But, tonight’s not that.
Tonight isn’t him fucking you with stress and frustration that needs to be quelled. He’s fucking you with unhurried intention, with deep strokes that reach depths in you no one else has come close to, eliciting noises out of you that you weren’t even aware you could make before him. It’s way beyond having sex, but the name feels premature to let yourself even think.
When he finally pulls his mouth back you complain with a whimper, lifting your head in an adorable yet feeble attempt to follow him for more. He hums at that, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. His hand presses your hip to the mattress to keep you where he wants you, and try as you might to rut up and meet his thrusts, he keeps you pinned with a gentle insistence.
“That feel good? Hmm?” He murmurs against your cheek, leaving messy kisses as he trails his mouth back down toward your neck, withholding what you yearn for.
“Fuck, it— y-yes…” You gasp it, teetering off into another debauched moan when your hands move down to his shoulders, his back. You feel the muscles contract, gripping tight with your jaw slack, long past the point of keeping your sounds of pleasure subdued.
“Always so good,” you whine, breathy and soft, your fingertips pressing into his skin just that little bit more.
“Yeah, I know… God I know, honey.” He rasps out the words before he licks at your neck, feeling that faint beat of your pulse under your flesh.
“Lose my mind every time I’m inside you… Feel so perfect takin’ me.” His groan is guttural and low, barely finishing the words before he hooks your thigh up and around his hip to reach an even deeper angle.
You swear you see stars.
“Missed you so fuckin’ much today,” he grunts between kisses, breathing ragged when your walls flutter around him so sweetly, another resounding rumble of thunder joining in the sounds of you.
“Barely even saw you- your pretty face… Hated it.” His pace stays constant despite himself, still taking his time and making you feel every inch of his cock dragging against your walls. He pulls out just until his thick tip is barely inside, just to hear the needy complaint from your lips and bear witness to the sight of your entrance pulsing around him, before thrusting in completely once more. Over and over. Committed and unwavering.
“Bet she missed me too, huh?”
The rush that moves through you nearly takes your breath away. Referring to your pussy as ‘she’ twists something tight inside you. Your walls clench down on his cock with a sound so high strung that his hand grips your hip stiffly, on the verge of bruising for only a moment until his hand loosens with his own groan of ecstasy.
All you can do is give a little nod, and more pitiful whimpers, before burying your face in his shoulder while heat permeates your cheeks, progressing down your chest. You wrap your other leg around him, one hand in his hair while the other holds onto his back like your life depends on it.
You think about begging. It’s too much, yet not enough, and all you want is more. Not even just for him to go faster, or deeper, or harder, or to put you through the mattress until you’re crying. It’s so much more than that. So much more intense.
You want all of him. Every single part.
Every heedless, headstrong word he’s said out of frustration that he’s taken right back when he’s had time to regain his composure. Every gentle caress of your face when it’s just the two of you in the break room, risking it for just one single moment to console and comfort you. Every look of pride when you help a patient, getting them stable with his hand squeezing your shoulder in silent veneration. Every slow morning with his sleepy grumbles and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you in closer. Every scoff when you make a joke that he pretends isn’t funny, only to poorly hide his smile over the rim of his coffee mug. Every lecture he’s given you when he knows you’re better than your hard days, seeing so much potential in you that you didn’t quite yet see in yourself.
Every second of every day of every month you’ve spent in that hospital; learning from him, growing into your own… falling for him.
“Please…” The word slips out of your mouth like you’re saying it both to him and to yourself, your thoughts. It all washes over you at once, overwhelming and all consuming, barely able to handle the emotions of the realization hitting you so completely.
That’s the thing with keeping it all pushed down, is that it all comes rushing to the surface eventually.
“What d’you need, honey? Talk t’me.” The gentleness in his voice makes it all worse, or better. He brings his thumb down between you and gives your puffy clit the attention it so desperately needs and you mewl, nearly wailing in desperation at having to spell it out when he should just feel it and know.
And maybe he does. Maybe he has, for a lot longer than you’ve even realized.
Your lips drag against his collarbone, messy and uncoordinated, letting him fuck you like you’re his and he’s yours. Because you are, and he is.
“More… Oh, f-fuck— more, just…” Your voice comes out desperate and wanting against his skin, the pleasure coiling inside you with a heat you can’t possibly bear for much longer. It’s coming on so rapidly, so sudden.
But it isn’t sudden, not when you really let yourself think about it. The feeling’s always been there; at the back of your mind, suppressed for the sake of your job, uncertain of how Robby feels in return and too scared of losing this to ever question it.
But deep down… you’ve always known how you felt about him. It just took you a bit of time to catch up to it, to have it break down that wall you spent so much effort in putting up. And it’s enough to bring annoying tears to your eyes that you can’t seem to just will away anymore.
“Harder… please, harder…”
“Oh, I’ve got you, baby,” he promises, exhaling like he was just waiting for you to utter the words, before kissing your neck like it’s a sacred act in and of itself.
“I’ve always got you.”
You don’t last much longer, not when all the sensations and your emotions are heightened with want, need, desire, lust, love.
It hits you so hard you feel it all through you. Your body’s humming a song of his name, warm and euphoric as your walls tighten around him in drawn out pulses. Your gasping whines and cries fall upon his shoulder, eyes clenched tightly, nails digging into his skin like part of you is afraid this might all just be some dream.
It coaxes him to come just as hard, spilling inside you with deeper thrusts, breathing harshly against your throat. His own low whimpers get hastily stifled against your mouth, kissing you so firm and messy it makes a few tears finally fall.
Your hearing’s slightly muffled, ears ringing for only a few moments until his head finally drops to your chest in a huff. Both of you are so worn out you just lay there with each other, silent save for your panting and the white noise of the downpour that’s still ever present.
Your fingers run mindlessly through his hair, needing the repetition of the movement to bring you back to yourself, self soothing as you sniffle and keep your eyes on the ceiling. Focused on the softness while he breathes against your skin, nuzzling his face into your chest before pressing his lips to each of your breasts, then your sternum, slowly migrating up to your neck, then your jaw.
His thumbs brush away the trails of tears that fell down your temples, so delicate under your eyes as he looks at you with such tender regard.
“Ah, honey… You alright?” There’s a quiet reverence in how he asks it, not necessarily overly concerned but aware that it obviously affected you this time. You don’t normally get emotional like this.
Your heart feels constricted by the question, in turn giving him a small nod before leaning into his touch and letting your lips graze his palm, his wrist. You exhale, breathing through your nose and closing your eyes as you attempt to wade through the thoughts in your mind. There’s so many it’s like they’re all up to your knees like water, making it difficult to really answer.
But is it time to have that conversation? To broach the subject of what you’re both doing, prying into his psyche to see what Robby himself is thinking and feeling, attempting to put a label on this? When, in reality, things are good between you two. Stable. Comfortable. You’re basically dating without calling it that, anyway. Do you have to ask?
He’s sweet to you, and patient. You know deep down he wouldn’t have an adverse reaction, but the fear of it all imploding still sits right at the forefront of your mind regardless.
Before you, Robby wasn’t a relationship guy, not really. A few here and there but when you met him he didn’t really do commitment, six to eight weeks was usually the cutoff. But you’ve been sleeping with him for much longer than that.
And in that time it took only one month to get him to keep your toothbrush in his bathroom, and two to keep the coffee you like stocked in his kitchen, and three to have a drawer in his dresser just for you so you don’t have to go back to your place to change before a shift.
He’s thoughtful and caring, silently doing all these things for you, to make it all easier. If he really only saw this as temporary, would he go through all that effort?
You can’t bring yourself to say any of it aloud, not just yet. You will, though. Eventually.
When the moment feels right, when you’re both fully clothed and haven’t shared a hard day, when you’re both rested and the morning light streams in through his kitchen window, when he’s sitting across from you drinking his coffee on the rare occurrence you two share a day off, when he looks at you with that domesticity that fills your heart as you take a bite of your breakfast—that’s when you’ll tell him.
You’ll lay it all out for him, not feeling even an ounce of uncertainty, wearing that pullover sweatshirt of his and a tranquil smile. And the tops of his ears will flush a faint pink, the corners of his lips will upturn only slightly before he tells you to move in with him like it’s the most casual thing in the world- the natural next step he’s wanted to ask of you for weeks, having already obtained a key for you.
It’ll all work out, and you’ll look back on these moments of reservation with a fond roll of your eyes, wondering how long you’d been clueless to his considerable affection for you.
But until then…
Your voice is quiet against his skin, with your tired eyes looking up into his once more, a contentment in your soul as you smile, blissful and sweet.
Content & Warnings (mdni): noncon, glory hole, unprotected sex, revenge plot, multiple creampie, oral sex, rough sex, sex toys, fingering, anal, pregnancy, squirting, reader is General Shepherd's adopted daughter
This is a work of noncon. Please use "cw: noncon" or "dark fic" to filter. Heed the tags. I warned you.
A/N: for the anon who asked for noncon with Price (have a few more) and for @quarterlifekitty who offered up additional brainworms to chew on.
Word Count: 2.6k
A death for a death. An eye for an eye. That’s how revenge always goes. But there is no death to avenge, only betrayal. Price will tarnish the pretty thing General Shepherd loves most.
ao3 // main masterlist
Behind the tree line is a motorway, the distant roar of cars barely audible given the natural barrier. The sky is dark. No stars. Simon’s cigarette is the brightest thing on the lot beside the lone bulb affixed to the building in front of them. It’s above the faded wood door, unprotected from the weather. The bulb is slightly blackened, dampening the light.
“Think he’s trying to kill us?” asks Kyle, eyes narrowing as he observes the worn wood.
Simon exhales, smoke curling around his face as it dissipates into the air. “Price?”
Kyle turns to Simon, top lip curled in disgust. “Fucking look at this place, mate.”
Johnny sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Not up for getting ya’ dick wet?”
“Fuck off,” groans Kyle.
“Think he’s on to something, Johnny,” croons Simon. The behemoth of a man inhales the last of the cigarette, tossing the butt in the gravel, extinguishing the embers with the toe of his boot. “No windows. Weird lock. Metal walls. Fucking murder shed that is.”
“Think there’s a dead body in there?”
“Limbs hanging from chains?”
“Captain Price, the serial killer?” Kyle’s fist lands on Johnny’s shoulder. “Fuck me. That hurt.” Johnny lunges, the two men wrestling for a headlock.
Rolling his eyes, Simon kicks at Johnny’s shin. “Grow up. Fucking children.” Lighter in hand, Simon clicks it open. Shut. Open again. “Rather do this in the club?” He nods toward the secondary building, the larger one to the left. Muffled, pounding music oozes from the building, growing louder when the entrance door opens. “Where everyone can watch? You into that?”
“Piss off.”
Johnny throws up his hands. “No judgement, Kyle.”
“Price wants us to blow off some steam,” says Simon. “We’ve been pent up. Aggressive since the mission. He’s fucking right.” He side-eyes Johnny. “Also felt bad you almost died.”
Johnny sighs dreamily. “Loves me more than my own, Da.” Johnny throws his arm over Kyle’s shoulder, drawing him in. “Probably bought us one of the bonnie lassies in there. Or three.”
Simon growls low in his throat, eyes on the door. “I have the code.”
Kyle’s head tips back, gazing up into the starless sky. “Let’s have it off then.”
Johnny hollers, shaking Kyle like he’s a ragdoll before taking off to the murder sex shed.
“Out the way, Johnny,” scolds Simon, elbowing him.
Simon punches in the code, the red light flipping green. Twisting the knob, he shoves open the door, revealing darkness. It takes a moment for their eyes to adjust, to unwrap the present inside.
“Fucking hell,” murmurs Simon, stepping into the small room. Johnny and Kyle slide in on either side of him. The door shuts with an audible click. “Is that—”
“It is,” says Johnny, clearly surprised.
No bed or lounge decorates this room. No scantily clad women ready to offer themselves. There’s a hole in the wall. A cutout. Large enough for a human to crawl through. Breeding Hole is painted in glowing green neon above it. Two arrows curve inward to point at either side of the hole. The lettering oozes downward like fresh paint.
The hole is not unoccupied.
Johnny’s surprise turns to lecherous glee. “It’s a fucking glory hole.” He slowly strides forward, gaze sweeping over exposed skin and spread legs.
A woman, but only half, sticks out from the wall. You’re on your stomach, a black board with a red cushion supporting your weight, top end covered by a black curtain. Black stilettos, strappy with a razor-thin heel, is all you wear. The rest is exposed and open for them.
Beside the glory hole are two sets of ankle straps. One set is higher than the hole itself, allowing for legs to be locked open and wide. The second set are level with the support cushion. They can bend your knees, force them open, keep you restrained as they fuck you.
Price didn’t buy one or even three of the workers in the club for a quick fuck. A countdown on the wall denotes the remaining time.
Three hours.
Three fucking hours.
Price bought a session.
Graffiti covers the remaining three walls. Several television monitors play porn without sound. Overhead, music blares, a thudding rhythm that shakes the bones. Light comes from a few stray bulbs in the ceiling, each covered by a clear glass box in different colors. The set-up bathes the space in a kaleidoscope, heightening the pulsing intensity of the room.
Simon, Johnny, and Kyle circle you but don’t touch.
Glancing at a nearby rolling cart, Simon grabs a bottle of lube. “Look here,” he says, nodding his head.
It’s packed with silicon dildos of various shapes and sizes, anal plugs, vibrators, a variety of stimulation toys from a feather to a wooden paddle. There are extra bottles of lube, individually wrapped sanitation wipes to clean themselves, or you, off, and beside that are two rows of disposable cameras with extra film. A sticky note next to the cameras says “Use Me.”
“No condoms,” muses Simon, finding them absent after a second perusal.
“Says breeding,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t need condoms for that.”
“Think she’s clean?” asks Kyle.
Johnny turns on him. “First you think he’s trying to murder us and now you think he’s going to give us STDs?”
“Not intentionally,” mutters Kyle.
Simon snorts, placing the lube back on the cart. “Think Price is the type?”
Kyle inclines his head. “Maybe to his enemies.”
“Be real shite of him,” laughs Johnny. “After feeling bad for me and all.”
Stepping forward, Kyle traces the lines of your body, fingertips hovering millimeters away from skin. “Hand me the lube,” he demands of Simon, not looking at him. “And a plug,” he adds as Simon places the lube in Kyle’s offered palm.
Johnny claps his hands together, grinning madly. “Aye. That’s how it’s done.”
Gripping the plug in one hand and the lube in the other, Kyle squirts a generous amount. As he places his hand on your ass, you jerk as if surprised. Kyle gives you a generous, reassuring squeeze before sliding his hand between, easing you open wider until your pussy and anus are stretched and exposed. Both tense and flex, and Simon groans.
“Fucking gorgeous sight,” murmurs Simon, rubbing his hand over the front of his dark jeans.
Kyle aligns the plug, pressing the tip against the puckered hole. There is resistance but it pops in smoothly. Your thighs shiver followed by another jerk of your body. Kyle fills his hands with you, squeezing, some of the remaining lube transferring.
Squeezing both cheeks, he settles his clothed hips in front of your exposed pussy. “Perfect height,” he says, lightly thrusting. He backs up, gesturing. “Try.”
Johnny takes his place and then Simon. Height won’t be a problem. They’ll be able to fuck you with ease.
“Who’s starting?” asks Kyle.
When no one moves, Johnny aims for his belt buckle. “Aye. I fucking will.”
Johnny releases his semi-hard cock, easing his pants open and down enough to keep the zipper away from his dick. Fisting the base, he jerks himself, pressing the head of his cock to your clit, rubbing against it. A sharp smack echoes with the music as Johnny’s free hand comes down on your ass. A few more send your thighs twitching.
Kyle licks his lips, joining Johnny, occupying his hand with the other cheek. Simon lingers at the cart, picking up different toys and vibrators, clicking them on and messing with the settings.
Beads of precum bloom in Johnny’s slit. He paints your clit with them, smearing it around to act as lube. A few more beads and he playfully teases your pussy, easing the tip in and out, all while jerking himself to hardness.
“What about this one?” Simon holds up a small vibrator no larger than the palm of his hand. It’s on, shaking wildly, nearly jumping around from the speed setting.
Johnny smacks his dick against your pussy a few times and steps away as Simon approaches with the vibrator.
“Too much?” asks Simon, switching the speed down a level.
“Not enough,” replies Johnny, slowing his hand movements to strokes.
Simon ups the speed again, firmly shoving the vibrator against your clit. Your ass bucks into the air. Kyle lunges forward, placing pressure onto your lower back, forcing you back to the cushion. You writhe under Kyle’s hold, attempting to escape the sensation. Simon, with the continued pressure, swirls the vibrator.
Another jerk, and they all jump back.
“Fucking hell,” laughs Johnny. “Got ourselves a squirter.” Simon is already reaching for a wipe, patting down your skin to clear the excess. Johnny inserts two fingers into your pussy, pumping slowly. “She’s dripping.”
“Need us to hold her?” asks Simon
“Aye,” and Johnny nods at the cameras on the cart. “Want a picture of this slick cunt taking my cock.”
Simon chuckles, handing off a camera to Kyle as he readies his own. He holds it up, snapping a photo as Johnny’s cock disappears.
“Fuck,” groans Johnny. “Tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked.”
Simon snaps a few more photos and sets the camera aside. “We got her, Johnny.”
Together, Simon and Kyle grasp your legs, pulling you toward them and further onto Johnny’s cock. They move as one, adjusting the ankle straps, locking you in as Johnny rests his hands on your back, putting his weight behind it.
Hips sharply jerking, Johnny drives into you, only chasing his end. Lips parted, panting, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Simon and Kyle watch intently, their eyes lust-laced and eager, each of them stroking themselves to hardness as they wait their turn.
Johnny groans out his pleasure, grinding his hips against you as his balls tighten. Kyle already has the camera ready as Johnny slips out. Simon moves when Kyle does, spreading your pussy wide with his fingers. Kyle waits a beat, snapping a photo when Johnny’s cum appears.
“Not enough,” observers Simon. “Needs more.”
Kyle takes position. He doesn’t fuck as wild and hard as Johnny, but his strokes are deep and deliberate.
Johnny smiles behind the disposable camera. “Hold that pose.” Kyle eases your leg up a bit, giving Johnny a clear view of how Kyle’s thick cock stretches your pussy.
The camera goes off and Kyle starts to fuck you again. When the creampie happens, they snap another cumshot photo.
“Not enough,” repeats Simon. “Not nearly enough.”
With three hours on the tab, they rotate, take pictures, make you squirt a few more times. Kyle removes the anal plug, going up a size, insert it while they turn you onto your back. Ankles are secured in new restraints, toes pointing toward the ceiling, legs stretched.
Simon hooks his arms around your legs, hands firmly gripping your thighs. He cares little for ceremony or niceness. Their mixed cum is smeared all over you pussy and ass, overflowing whenever one of them fucks your cunt.
Johnny aligns the camera perfectly, angling just so to capture the position without Simon’s head in the photo and the television monitor off to their left. It’s showing a gloryhole similar to this one.
“Turn her on her side,” instructs Kyle, indicating how with a flick of his finger. “Think that tight ass is ready.”
Unhooking your ankles from the restraints, the three of them turn you onto your left side. Simon eases you toward them a touch. Lifting your top leg, he plants it on his shoulder. He straddles your other leg, aligning his cock up with your pussy. Johnny spreads your ass cheeks for Kyle; the plug removed with a wet pop.
On the other side of the partition, you cry out around Price’s dick as not one but two cocks enter you. They fuck rough. Hard. Whoever they are. Not that you can ask. Not that you can say anything. All you can do is stare daggers at the man keeping your mouth occupied.
Price tuts as you choke on him. “What will your daddy think of you?”
Daddy won’t know about this at all.
You’re taking this but you’ll never speak about it. Whatever your adoptive father did to earn Price’s ire is unknown to you, and you don’t wish to know anyway. General Shepherd never brings work home, but you’re aware of his power, and that he likely has enemies everywhere.
When Price took you from your apartment in Washington D.C., you thought he’d kill you. Make you an example to your father.
“Apologies, love,” murmurs Price, using his thumb to wipe away smeared cum on the corner of your mouth. “But your father’s a bastard.”
There is cum in your hair, on your face, all over the cushion, spread over your breasts. You’re not allowed to swallow. Your mouth is a hole for Price to come in. Nothing more.
Price palms your breast, squeezing, teasing your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “Glad my men are having fun.” Price eases the rest of his cock into your mouth until you gag. He retreats slightly, but only enough for your breathing to return to normal. “They deserve it. After what happened to them. What your father put them through.” He sighs. Shrugs. “Not that they know who they’re breeding.”
Unable to move, unable to speak, you only stare, narrowing your gaze to stinging venom. Price brushes it off like it’s nothing.
Insignificant.
Killing General Shepherd was Price’s gut reaction.
Soap shot in the head, bleeding out, barely clinging to life. They thought him dead. His recovery, as slow as it was, surprised them even more. If Johnny had been killed, if he hadn’t survived, General Shepherd would feel lead, too. Know death was coming for him.
The sole reason Price didn’t fill General Shepherd full of holes is because Johnny lives, and lives well. Price’s revenge requires a different taste, and before him, the spread is bountiful.
A few favors are all it took to put Price in Shepherd’s office at the Pentagon. Place is a fucking fortress but it’s just a building when people owe you. Shepherd will know it’s him. There’s no doubting that. But Price wants him to know.
Price leans against the front of the desk, lightly tapping the final nail against his palm. Around him are pictures. Took a while to develop them. Can’t walk into a store, hand over rolls of film full of cumshots, and ask for them to be developed. He had to do this quietly. Discreetly. Took a few months of planning, but it’s here, in front of him.
Each and every picture is from that night. The only face that appears in any of the photos are of yours. Boys were smart about how much of themselves they revealed. A few didn’t make it, but there were plenty in the end.
Price admires his work, at how the photos cover nearly every surface. Shepherd will walk in, and everywhere he looks, they’ll be a picture of his daughter taking cock.
But there’s one final piece.
Something he didn’t expect.
Something that happened just this morning.
You should have killed me. You should have fucking killed me!
You were angry, standing at Price’s doorstep. Don’t know how you fucking found him, but your Shepherd’s, and he likely taught you well.
Beating on his chest, screaming in Price’s face, you raged, and then you spit out the real truth, the reason you even went looking for him in the first place.
The pregnancy test stares up at Price.
There are three possible fathers. All of them still ignorant about you and what Price did.
He’ll disown me. Did you know that? He’ll force me out of the family over this.
Price won’t put it past Shepherd to act so harshly, but you’re with him now. Left you asleep on his bed, curled up under the covers. He’ll have to tell the lads eventually, but not right now.
Pushing off, Price turns, placing the pregnancy test down in the center of General Shepherd’s desk.
There’s a farmhouse on the edge of a loch, nestled against a cluster of old trees, made of stone and thatch, set within a hill that overlooks the crisp, clear water. It’s silent except for the wind and the birds, peacefully disconnected from the rest of the world. That is how they like it. That is how it’s been the last four years until a distress call sounds in the endless silence over the radio.
read the companion piece: Flint
ao3 // main masterlist // Eyes of Lilith Collab
There’s a farmhouse on the edge of a loch, nestled against a cluster of old trees, made of stone and thatch, set within a hill that overlooks the crisp, clear water. It’s silent except for the wind and the birds, peacefully disconnected from the rest of the world. At the bottom of the small hill rests a wooden dock with an aged rowboat tied to a post, the shallow hull creaking with the rippling water.
All outward appearances speak to abandonment, that its previous occupants died along with everyone else, drifting into history, forgotten and alone. Unreachable by road, not for lack of path, but lack of maintenance. Rain has washed away the gravel, allowed grass to grow, removing all traces of tire tracks.
No one lives here. Nothing stirs.
And that’s exactly how they like it.
A door stands open to the enclosed garden. Simon, with apron on and arms covered in blood and stag entrails, works a hunting knife between skin and meat. One stag is done, its parts separated and cleaned, taken away by Price to be stored properly. The second stag hangs from the ceiling by its hind legs, a bucket beneath its head to catch what blood still drips from its open neck.
This is silent work. All precision. Keeps his head clear.
Johnny is out in the garden. Simon can hear his Scottish lilt as he talks to the chickens, complimenting the hens’ feathers and scolding the rooster each time it attempts to take flight and land on him when his back is turned. Kyle’s been missing all morning, likely at the long-distance radio, listening for any outside communication.
They’ve grown fewer over the years. Months pass in complete static. Still tries though Simon sees no point in it. People are gone. People are dead. People are feral, surviving, or rotting above ground in piles. War machines churn, spewing bullets and disease, creating bioweapons meant for the enemy, only to lose control of the beast they’ve birthed, dissolving humanity with it.
Simon clears away the fur, hanging it on nearby hooks next to the other stretched stag hide. Price will clean it, turn it into a coat or a throw for one of the beds. Bone is separated from the meat, each section placed in a specific spot on the butcher table based on use. Simon’s knife is sharp. Cuts clean. Makes the work easy.
“Simon.”
Though Price calls his name, Simon keeps his gaze on removing the stomach.
“Simon.”
“What?” questions Simon, severing the connecting tissue. Holding the stag’s stomach in both hands, he sets it gently on the table.
Price stands in the doorway, his own butchers apron slick with gore. “Nearly done?”
“Just about,” replies Simon, observing the carcass.
He aims for a joint.
“Kyle picked up a signal.” Simon’s knife pauses. Falls to his side. “Distress call.”
“Close?”
Price nods. “Not far.”
“They’re out front. Surrounding the car.”
“How many?”
A scope sweep over the jerking bodies, and Simon answers. “A few dozen. One on fucking fire. Nasties don’t seem bothered.”
“Any movement inside?” crackles Price’s voice in Simon’s earpiece.
Waterproof, solar-powered, short-range walkies turned out to be a goddamn blessing after the apocalypse.
“None,” replies Simon, checking the windows not covered in newspaper. “All quiet.”
“Never a good sign,” Johnny grumbles.
To Simon’s right, Old Chap, the stray Scottish Deerhound Price found on a hunt and brought back, is all silent statue, unmoving like Roman marble, waiting for the signal. Pup was bred to hunt deer, and on a hunt, Old Chap is lethal, herding them out of hiding and into the range of their rifles. Infected meat falls under his maw, too, ripped apart by Old Chap’s teeth. The Wasting Disease rots the flesh and curdles the blood in humans or transforms them into a fleshy bullet, shambling and twisting, throwing themselves forward, hungry to bite bite bite and spread.
Creatures like that don’t last long. They’re fast but mindless. The Wasting Disease controls the base motor functions but not much else. Machines of a bloody caliber, made to ignore pain, breaking down into ripped limbs and gory stumps until the thing eventually dies. Could survive a few days. At most a week. A disease made in a lab for American Imperialism, only to backfire, spreading to enemies and friendlies. Destroying fucking everything.
“They’re fascinated by the fire,” murmurs Simon, aiming the sniper rifle, transferring the scope to each rotting head. “Strange,” he drawls, a hint of confusion in his tone.
Price’s voice again. “What’s strange?”
Simon sniffs, leaning to the left and away from the scope. The diseased, human torch topples over, still, remaining alone, its companions keeping distance.
Is he fucking seeing things?
“Simon,” prompts Price.
“They’re avoiding it,” answers Simon after a brief pause.
“Avoiding what?”
“The fire.”
Car overturned, engulfed in flame, but only one burned. The rest linger nearby, observing the vehicle and fire but refusing to draw closer. Inconceivable years ago. Wankers threw themselves at everything in their path in their need to bite. Bullet, car, train, tree, building—anything.
Simon returns to the scope, watchful of the gathered horde. Breathing widens, becoming loud in his ears. One of the nasties breaks away. From the length of the hair and the gentle flare of the hips, it might have been a woman once. She drifts back, focusing on the building, head tilting skyward.
“Price,” speaks Simon into the mouthpiece, “use caution when you enter.”
A pause. “What do you see?”
“Consciousness.”
Old Chap blinks, revealing teeth as he senses the change. Simon gently turns his head. “Still,” he softly croons, and the deerhound becomes stone.
Price sighs before he speaks. “Clear in the back. We’re entering. Rear door.”
“Copy.”
Price, Kyle, and Johnny are alone in there. Simon cannot rush to their rescue, only give them time if they require an exit. Silence for nearly three years then a distress signal from a tiny town thirty-two kilometers away. Something stinks about it. Simon fucking hates surprises.
Crackling words push into Simon’s eardrum as he counts and recounts the shambling group out front. A pop. Hiss. Little sparks burst upward from the car, flares of light that turn the nasties heads. Back when the Wasting Disease raged, any sound sent the slobbering masses running to investigate. Here, they almost admire.
“Fucking gross in here,” comes Johnny’s voice, a breath of sound.
Another pop. Another spark.
“Three. Round that corner,” growls Price.
Silence as they work. Silence on the roof. Simon sniffs, runs the scope over the crowd. Counting. Counting. Counting.
“Shit,” he mutters. Simon shifts his focus, looking for the wayward enemy.
It’s the infected woman again, dragging her right foot behind her as she lurches forward, aiming for the alley. Not a wide opening, certainly wide enough for a human to navigate quietly but not a fucking diseased shamble.
“Ones on the move,” Simon softly speaks into the walkie. “Heading to the back.”
Through the earpiece, Kyle, Price, and Johnny relay signals, mere whispers of instruction and confirmation, moving through the building as Simon readies his rifle. If he’s careful, Simon can take her out as she hobbles into the alley. He’ll have a few seconds of space before she disappears.
Simon lines up the reticle. Finger tightens.
Not yet. Not yet.
The woman turns, her gaze focusing in Simon’s direction as if she can see his hiding place.
Trigger pull—and the gun is silent, but not from a suppresser.
A wave of intense heat explodes up and outward, creating a mushroom shape that dissipates, leaving a roaring inferno behind, knocking down or incinerating the nearby nasties. Half of the building catches flame, the windows blow, bits and chunks of wood flying.
“Fuck!”
As the horde stirs, Simon snaps into action, taking out one then another, aiming for the heads if possible, taking out knees if a headshot remains blocked.
“Talk to me,” Simon says into his walkie, desperately attempting to cover the panic in his voice. “Price, do you copy?” Silence. “Johnny?” More silence. “Johnny, do you copy?” Quiet except the heated maw of the fire. “Gaz? Gaz! Fuck—Kyle!”
Old Chap is up, teeth bared, stance locked for violence though Simon hasn’t given the signal. The extension of himself is the rifle and the burst of gore from heads. It is his voice calling their names, limbs itching to fucking risk it and go after them.
Most of the horde is on fire or dead, the rest drag themselves around, limbs broken or blown from Simon’s bullets. Dreary doubt chews at the hope.
“Simon?”
Johnny.
“Soap? Do you copy?”
A pause. “Aye.” Johnny coughs. “I copy.”
“Where’s Price? Kyle?”
All that comes over the walkie is a low groan.
“Soap! Listen to me. The building’s on fucking fire. You need to get up—”
A familiar click. Simon remains perfectly still, perfectly calm as he slowly pivots to glance over his shoulder.
Man or woman, hardly matters. Some wanker has a gun pointed in Simon’s face. They’re covered, head-to-toe in black tactical gear. Shit looks nearly authentic to what he wore in the field.
“Get that gun out of my face,” growls Simon. They don’t. “I said—”
“Heard what you said.” A man’s voice. “Not here to harm you. Or those with you.”
Simon sneers behind his balaclava. “Have a funny way of showing it.”
The tactical-clad man nods toward the ground to Simon rifle. “Bigger gun. Had to be careful.”
In Simon’s earpiece, Johnny is talking, talking about Price, talking about smoke, and coughing hacking coughing.
“We can help them.”
“We?” snarls Simon.
The stranger takes a step back, shows his hands, lowers his gun. “Received a distress call. That you?”
“No. We received one, too.”
Johnny is shouting at him. Price is down. And Johnny can’t bloody see. “Let us help,” repeats the man. “Let us help.”
Jaw clenched and grinding, Simon looms in the corner like a waiting reaper.
Price is hooked up to a bunch of machines that fucking beep constantly and mean fuck all to Simon. Med was never his thing. He was a hunter. Silent stealth and bloodied knife. Johnny holds vigil beside Price’s bed, fists clenched on the chair arms, gaze sadly intense.
Kyle is missing.
Gaz is fucking missing.
Four down to three but doesn’t mean he’s dead. Johnny is here, and Simon can slip away, search for Kyle in the wreckage, unless the fuckers found him and are holding him here without telling either of them. Entirely possible, but Simon has always seen the worst in people.
Ash clings to Johnny’s face and clothes, a hint of smoke lingers in the air, Simon untouched by both, watching from afar as Price and Johnny were pulled from the burning building by strangers. They’ve relieved Price of his fatigues, swapped for plain, clean clothes, washed his face, neck, and arms.
Johnny and Simon weren’t allowed in at first. Both fought, Simon swinging on a few armed men, knocking them to the floor before he was subdued. Johnny, still with smoke in his lungs, fell easily, unable to breathe right and exhausted. Put him on oxygen for a while, fluids for hydration, refusing a bed because Johnny didn’t want Simon out of his sight.
“Need to find Gaz,” growls Simon, voice scratchy from lack of use.
Johnny sighs heavily, keeping his gaze on a snoozing Price. “Think he’s here?”
“One floor down at the bottom of the stairs. He stopped to check a room.”
Simon’s head snaps to Soap. “He wasn’t with you?”
“He was—”
“Not behind you.”
Johnny remains mute, lips pinched. Simon crosses his arms over his chest, tucking them in until it’s a hug. Whatever anger dwells in his bones isn’t for Soap.
“Glad you’re alive, Johnny,” sighs Simon, the cloudy temperament lifting.
A swarm of tactical-clad men emerged after Simon stood down. Like beetles from a drain, they scattered, mowing down infected, storming the house, sparks from gunfire illuminating the few windows not blown out from the blast.
Old Chap, the good pup, wrapped himself around Simon’s leg, baring his teeth at any of the men that drew near, following Simon to the truck they put him in, and hasn’t left Price’s side since. The nurses even brought him a dog bed.
“We have to find him,” whispers Soap. “He’s out there.” Johnny glances at Simon. “Kyle isn’t dead.”
“No,” agrees Simon. “He’s not.”
Kyle, the bastard, is indestructible.
A soft knock at the door draws their attention to the right. In the open doorway, a woman with dark hair pulled back into a tight bun smiles, her white doctor’s coat perfectly pressed and clean. Simon inhales sharply, momentarily stunned by the sight of her. Simon hasn’t seen a woman in damn near four years. It was him and his hand and pictures. Johnny is as startled as Simon, grip loosening on the chair arms, falling into his lap as he discreetly tries to hide the obvious bulge.
All Simon has seen of this place is men. Men in tactical wear, men in scrubs, men in civilian clothes. Men men men fucking everywhere. This is the first woman, which, why wouldn’t there be? If they’d ever come across one during these long years, Simon knows he’d have taken her. Probably what they’ve done here. Perhaps allowed a few to retain their previous jobs, just like the doctor standing in front of him.
That how these things go. In war-torn areas, it’s always the women and children who suffer the most.
“Hope I’m not disturbing,” she says softly, taking a few steps inside, heading over to Price’s beeping machines. With clipboard in hand, she makes a few notes, murmuring under her breath as her pencil scratches across the page.
The doctor turns, her smile remaining soft and professional. “The good news is that he’ll recover.”
Johnny blows out a ragged breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he leans forward, groaning, resting elbows on knees.
“There’s a but, isn’t there?” asks Simon. There always is.
She inclines her head. “Several bones in his legs and feet are broken. Some with smaller fractures. We need patience and time while he heals. No internal bleeding but lots of bruising. A few burns. Those are only first and second degree. They’ll heal and likely won’t leave scars.” She turns toward Price. “He’s incredibly lucky.”
He’ll live. Price will live.
But they know nothing about Kyle.
“There was a fourth with us. Is he here?”
The doctor frowns. “I’m only aware of you three. It’s possible he was brought here as well, but I haven’t seen anyone else from…outside.”
“But he could be here?” Simon adds pressure to his voice, an authoritarian air he hasn’t used since the time before.
She clocks it immediately, her smile disappearing. “I’ll find out what I can.” She nods at Johnny, disappearing through the open door. A minute later and one of those gnarly wankers that stuck their guns in Simon’s face appears. Big and broad but not as large as Simon. He could take him. The man’s eyes narrow, laser focused as if Simon personally slighted him.
Answers.
Simon will have them, even if it takes some broken teeth.
“This place is weird. I don’t like it.”
Between the slats of the window blinds, Simon observes a group of laughing men walking by. Johnny grunts, and Simon turns. The Scot is lying on the floor, fighting with the laces of his boot.
“Johnny,” snaps Simon.
“Fucking help me,” he grumbles, loosening the laces of one boot, sticking it out toward Simon. With an annoyed huff, Simon grasps the toe of the boot and yanks. “Bloody Jesus, Ghost. Trying to take my leg off?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Aye. I heard ya.”
“Said this place is weird.”
Johnny manages to kick off the other boot and sit up, arms on his knees as he looks up at Simon, bewildered. “That’s what you’re on about right now?” Johnny extends his palms upward, fingers splayed. “Give it a rest.”
“Give it a rest?”
Johnny frowns at him. “We’ve been awake, what? Forty-eight hours now?” Simon tuts dismissively and Johnny snorts, clearly fed up and irritated. “We need rest. We need a plan.”
“We need to find Kyle.”
“I know, Simon,” hisses Johnny. “Think I don’t care?”
Simon crouches. “I think you’re too calm about this.”
Johnny’s frown becomes sour. “Not looking for a fight, Ghost. I want to sleep.” He pauses, growing grim. “And to clean off Price’s blood.”
Simon can’t sleep. He’s on edge. “There’s something not right about this place.”
“Not disagreeing,” groans Johnny as he shifts to his knees and then his feet, joints audibly popping as he stretches. “But what are we going to do about it?” Simon opens his mouth, but Soap holds up a hand to silence him. “Nothing. We need sleep. A shower. Won’t do Kyle any good if we’re tanked.”
Johnny is already removing his clothes, discarding them one by one, bare ass giving Simon a show until he disappears into the bathroom. The shower turns on, and Simon considers his options. A quick walk won’t hurt. In and out.
Simon leans against the doorframe, knocking. “Soap! Going for a walk!” Johnny responds but it’s muffled by the falling water. “Be back in ten!”
A quick look. That’s all.
That’s what Simon tells himself as he steps out into the cool night, as he walks to the fence line, as he strolls casually, pretending he’s out for fresh air when it’s to spy. As Simon strolls and observes, all he notices are men and their smiling faces. Bizarre, like someone cut out lips and glued them on. No air of oppression or authority, no one making themselves appear small, and no lingering sense of tension. It’s off-putting and unnatural. Aside from that, Simon hasn’t noticed a single woman.
Are they separated? Could be. Would explain their absence. The doctor is the only women they’ve met. The nurses that came in to check on Price, the security guards, and the patients, were all men.
Simon continues to walk, passing by a few guard gates. There are only glimpses of what’s beyond, hints of what might be a town, of other people. The men standing guard there nod their heads at him before continuing in their chatter, completely relaxed, not worried that Simon is out and about this late at night. That’s strange, too. It all is, and it sours Simon’s stomach.
One lap and Simon trudges back to the small cabin he and Johnny have been given. Johnny is out of the shower, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, on his back in bed, eyes closed.
“What’d you find?” asks Johnny, not looking at him.
“They’re guarding something.”
Johnny snorts. “From your weird arse.”
Simon side-eyes him but leaves it. Exhaustion is setting in, muscles sore. Rolling his neck, Simon removes his boots, his clothes, plunging beneath the warm water of the cascading shower.
Simon lights up, blowing smoke into the air.
“Price is well,” says Johnny, squinting as he looks up into the sky. The sun is beating down, warming their faces, but the wind whips, bringing a chill. “Checked on him this morning.”
“Doctor find anything out about Gaz?”
Johnny shakes his head. “No. Kept it brief.”
“See anything while you were there?”
Johnny sucks his teeth. “Saw mostly men again. More women though. All in doctor’s coats.”
“How many?”
Soap shrugs. “Least six.”
“Six? And no female patients?”
“Nope,” quips Johnny. “But I was watching them because shit—how long has it been?”
“Four years,” Simon answers instantly.
Johnny elbows him in the arm. “Been counting?”
“Fuck off or talk.”
Johnny cracks a smile like he’s been holding on to a juicy secret. “Forty-eight hours and I’ve seen six female doctors. Six, Simon. Means there could be more.”
“Has to be,” mutters Simon, not really speaking to Johnny but to the cigarette smoke drifting in front of his face.
Johnny grins wider, lightly smacking Simon’s arm with his knuckles. “What if we free them? Have ourselves our own little harem.”
Simon smirks. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Johnny?”
Johnny sighs dreamily, resting his head against the wood wall of their cabin, eyes closed. “I can picture it now.” Holding out his hands, he makes a cupping gesture. “Big bouncy tits. Something I can suckle on while she’s on top.”
Simon snorts, choking on smoke. “You’re a dog, Johnny.”
He opens one eye, his smile growing larger. “Oh, aye. Even since I popped out of me ma.”
“What else did you see?”
At this, Johnny’s amusement softens. “Strangest thing. Around the women, all the men were…polite.”
“Polite?”
Johnny’s face pinches, lips pursing. “Wrong word,” he mutters, taking a moment to think. “Respectful,” he finally says.
“Respectful,” Simon repeats.
“Hanging on their every word. Doing what they’re told. No arguments. No joking. No backtalk or attitude. Totally compliant. Fucking bizarre if you ask me. All smiles. Some Stepford Wives bullshit.”
“Robots?” deadpans Simon. “You think the men are all robots?”
Johnny throws up his hands. “Or lobotomized.”
“Fucking hell, Johnny,” growls Simon. “They’re doctors. Course they’re being spoken to with respect.”
“No. No. You didn’t see what I did.” Johnny swallows. “Men moved out of their way. Did things without asking.” He imitates a walking robot and stilted voice. “Obedient and without soul.”
“Be fucking serious,” huffs Simon. “Respect doesn’t mean brainwashed. I’ll admit the place is weird. Think they’re hiding things. But this isn’t sci-fi movie.”
Johnny scratches the side of his nose. “Think it’s odd the only women we’ve seen are doctors. Where are the rest?”
“If we ask, might find out where Kyle is, too.” Simon puts out his cigarette with the toe of his book. “Since we’re idle, should make conversation. Learn what we can.”
Johnny nods. “Agreed. Not sure how you’ll manage it.”
“I’m not that scary.”
Johnny places his hand on Simon’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. “Course not. You’re fucking Mary Poppins.”
“Get moving,” growls Simon, shoving at Soap, who dances out of reach. “Be back here in two hours. No more.”
Johnny mock salutes and disappears, leaving Simon to contemplate his next move. Could walk the perimeter again, but he’s far more interested in those gates and whatever the hell they’re guarding.
Retracing his steps, Simon reaches the first gate he came across in the night. Closed and guarded in the twilight hours, it stands open with a different set of guards. Two of them, chatting and smiling, leaning like they haven’t a bother. Simon strides forward, relaxing his body to appear less threatening.
One of the men, a redhead with freckles, nods in Simon’s direction, unfazed by his appearance. “You’re one of the new ones.”
Simon’s reply comes sharp. “What of it?”
Redhead shrugs, still amused in the face of Simon’s attitude. “Can I help you find something?”
Kyle. You can help me find Kyle.
“Bit turned around,” answers Simon, forcing his voice into a neutral tone and fails completely. It’s gruff and brisk. Not friendly at all. “Haven’t found my way yet.”
Redhead’s companion, a lanky man with dark hair and grey eyes, nods in understanding. “Happens to everyone that’s new.” He clears his throat, tucking his thumbs behind his padded vest. Striding toward Simon, he points back the way Simon came. “You’re that way.”
Back to the little cabin that hardly fits him and Johnny.
“I know where we’re staying,” Simon replies dryly. “Looking for a friend.”
“Thought your friend was in hospital?”
Fucking gits.
“Four of us—”
“Four!” exclaims the redhead, slapping his companion’s arm. “Hear that? We’ve gone and lost one!”
It’s not worth a goodbye.
Simon moves on, gaining little information. Nothing about Kyle. Nothing about what’s behind the gates. When he brought up the lack of women, most of them looked at him funny, explaining he was “on the men’s side.”
Is the place split in two? Men on one side. Women on the other. What about children? Families? People who identify as neither? Where are they? Is the place larger than Simon first thought? Smaller?
It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. Simon isn’t the friendliest but everyone he talked to appeared to assume that Simon would already know this information because they do, too. But Simon, Johnny, Kyle, and Price are not from here. They’ve known nothing but the four them these long years, interacting with few people, nearly all of them set out to harm them for what they have.
Two hours and Simon is back at the cabin, having another cig, waiting for Johnny as he stews over the lack of fucking everything. Breathless, Johnny rounds the corner of the cabin, moving so fast he might have popped into existence.
Voice high and excited, Johnny blathers, shifting between English and Gaelic, waving his hands in the air.
Johnny grasps Simon’s upper arms, shaking him. “I know where Kyle is.”
“He alive?” asks Simon, trying not to remain hopeful.
“Injured,” nods Johnny. “But alive.” His hands squeeze, going in for another shake. “You’ll never guess where he is.” Johnny pauses like he expects Simon to play along. When Simon doesn’t, he continues. “They have him with the women.”
“Johnny—”
“All this time we thought they were hidden and they’re out in the fucking open, walking around like you and me.”
“Johnny—”
Soap chatters on, ignoring him completely. “The men at the gates aren’t guarding anything. It’s to keep women out.” He releases Simon’s arms, speaking so ferociously and quickly, that Simon has to dodge Soap’s flailing arms.
“But they have their own side. They have gates, too. To keep men out. Separate spaces. Private spaces. And in between,” Johnny swirls his hands together, mixing the air, “is everyone.”
“Johnny,” growls Simon. “You’re not making sense.”
Soap’s chest heaves as he inhales deeply, calming himself. “It’s all divided up. Men have their space. Women have theirs. Between that, it’s for everyone. That’s why we haven’t seen any women walking around. They aren’t allowed here without explicit permission, but it’s the same for their space. Men aren’t allowed to walk right on in. They need to have a reason.”
Separation. Intermingling. Simon could give a shit. Kyle is here and he’s alive.
“We have to see him,” states Simon.
Johnny’s enthusiasm wanes. “Don’t know if they’ll allow it.”
“We have reason,” emphasizes Simon. “And what’s stopping us?”
Enthusiasm returns to Soap’s face, along with a nefarious smirk. “We’ve infiltrated tougher places.”
“That we have, Johnny.”
Bending at the knees, Johnny checks the pulse of the guard Simon headbutted. “He’s fine.”
Grabbing the guard’s shoulders, Johnny hooks his elbows under the armpits while Simon grabs the feet. Quietly, they bring the downed man into the guard box, dropping him out of view of anyone passing by.
“Too easy, Ghost. Didn’t put up a fight.”
Simon frowns down at the unconscious guard. “No gun.” Using the toe of his boot, Simon eases the man over on his side. “Just a baton.”
Johnny straightens, chuckling. “Think others might be packing?”
“Don’t know.” Simon steps out of the guard box, Soap on his heels. “Need to use caution.”
Like a gate at the entrance and exit of a parking garage, it’s nothing more than a piece of treated wood lifted by a hand crank instead of sensors. Johnny and Simon simply slip under it, approaching the next on silent feet. Simon’s focus is on the two guards with their backs turned toward them. Johnny, on the other hand, slows, gaze focused on the buildings beyond. A quick tap on the arm and Johnny’s back on track.
They pounce together. Covering mouths. Choking them out.
Johnny’s target succumbs easily but Simon’s is a fighter, twisting his body to jab his elbow into Simon’s ribs. It takes nothing for Simon to snap the man’s neck.
“Jesus, Simon,” mutters Johnny, dragging his unconscious guard into the box.
“Had to be done,” states Simon, dragging his guard by the wrist, uncaring of gentleness now that he’s dead.
Slinking into the shadows, they melt into the darkness for cover, taking refuge in a small alleyway between two buildings.
“What the fuck is this?” breathes Johnny.
Simon lightly chews on the inside of his lip, assessing their surroundings. The zone he and Johnny were in before, the “male only” zone, looked like any other military base, unassuming and familiar. Johnny’s intel earlier starts to make sense. A space for men. A space for women. And a space between.
In front of them is a town center, maybe a main street, but a communal space all the same. Like an old western movie, the building facades are made of wood, their bodies composed of tougher material. Some brick. Some stone. Splashes of paint and signage to differentiate between what might be found inside. Simon can’t recall noticing the transfer of money or any form of currency. No one traded anything either.
“What direction?” whispers Simon, scanning the corners and rooftops.
No movement. All is quiet.
Johnny nods toward the right. “See that opening?”
“It’s in front of us, Soap.”
Johnny pinches his arm and Simon glares at him. “We take that. No turns. No stops. A direct shot.”
“It’s too easy.”
Behind Johnny’s balaclava, the corners of his eyes wrinkle, indicating a smile. “Firepower’s at the gate and perimeter.”
“Put your wiles on ‘em, Johnny?” teases Simon.
“Not even men can resist my charm.”
Simon bites down on his snarky remark, stepping out from the shadows, crouching low, checking both ways before darting across the street. Johnny follows, back turned to catch anyone coming up behind them.
There is no cry of alarm. No shouts. They are sightless phantoms, invisible to the living even as they exist among them.
Only one guard stands watch at the gate to the women’s side of the compound. He whistles, tapping his foot, staring up at the stars. Simon subdues him easily, he and Johnny slipping under the gate.
Simon didn’t know what they’d find. Would it be nicer? Worse? The reality is that it’s almost the same.
As Johnny and Simon move from shadow to shadow, they discover cabins like the one they were given. Several are larger, perhaps for a family, while others are lined in stretches of three or four like a row of townhomes. The paths are the same, as are the lights that illuminate them. Of all the similarities, the starkest difference is the green spaces. Trees, flowers, potted plants, and gardens.
Simon steps around a bed of bluebells that curve around the side of a white-painted cabin, nearly colliding with a garden chair and the woman reading in it.
Startled, eyes growing wide, it takes a moment for her to realize the danger of Simon’s intrusion. When she does, the shift is instant. Surprise to fear is like an unexpected splash of cold water.
Her mouth opens. A scream is coming.
Simon’s hand is around her throat before it blooms, smothering her voice and ability to breathe. “Be silent,” he whispers, staring into her watery eyes. “Won’t hurt you. But don’t give me a reason. Nod if you understand.” Takes a second, but she does. Simon eases his grip on her throat. “We’re looking for a man. He’s hurt. Being cared for here. Do you know where?”
Again, the woman nods her head.
“Good,” coos Simon, easing his grip further until his hand rests against her skin. “Tell us.”
Her chest heaves with each gasping gulp of air. “Med bay. Not far.”
“Direction?”
She nervously glances to the left before dropping her gaze downward in submission. “It’s—”
Simon tightens his grip just enough to make her whimper. “And don’t lie.”
“Go left,” she murmurs. “Follow it all the way. You’ll find it.”
Simon drops his hand. “Good girl,” he purrs, lightly patting the side of her cheek. At this, she scowls but remains mute. Smart, this one. Knows better than to poke. “After we’re gone, go inside. Do not come out. Do not talk to anyone. Tell no one we’re here.” He pauses, waiting for confirmation.
“I understand,” she replies, scowl still present.
“If you do, we know where to find you.” Simon straightens, glancing around at the array of flowers. “Hate to return and,” Simon reaches out to rub a delicate petal between his fingers, “trample all over your bluebells.”
By the deepening of the crease between her brows, Simon knows she understands the deeper meaning. Flowers are flowers. They can grow again. Limbs, fingers, toes, and teeth cannot. Simon drops the flower, stepping backward.
Johnny, remaining silent the whole time, finally speaks once they’re out of earshot. “How’d you know they’re bluebells? Didn’t take you for a man of the botanical variety.”
“I contain multitudes, Johnny,” he says casually.
Keeping out of sight, they weave between buildings, keeping a close eye on the path. Takes a few minutes but the path widens. Johnny grabs Simon’s upper arm, bringing him to a halt. A jerk of his head and Simon stills, creeping slowly to glance around a corner.
Outside the medical bay are a couple dozen security guards wielding batons. Either that woman snitched, or someone saw and reported.
Simon draws back, quietly pointing at Johnny, indicating he should circle to the other side while he does the same on the other. Johnny nods, shuffling backward, checking all directions before disappearing into the night. Simon mimics him, circling to the opposite end, crouching behind the closest structure to the medical bay.
Their gazes meet across the expanse.
A signal. Quick jerk of the head.
Simon rushes forward, aiming for the closest guard, a scrawny thing that’s more twig than man. The guard staggers forward as Simon collides with his back. Baton slipping from the man’s hand, Simon snatches it up, kicking out with his boot, jabbing the steel-toe into the man’s ribs.
Down he goes, Simon swinging the baton outward, the end clipping another guard’s chin. A loud crunch. Blood and teeth fly out from his open mouth. A sharp punch to the chest, Simon stepping to the side as the man crumples.
Simon purposefully ignores Johnny, holding his focus on the men charging him. Stumbling buffoons. They are untrained, unbloodied, and lack discipline. Worms in the dirt. Easily crushed under Simon’s heel.
Broken noses. Punches to the throat. Simon fells them one by one with minimal effort. A few of the braver ones still block his path, believing they might have a chance. Others hang back, refusing to come closer unless they have to.
Simon hears crying, wailing, and a few pleading women telling him to stop. He doesn’t. Violence is an extension of himself. A constant companion.
Raising the baton, Simon steps on the man’s chest beneath him, his weight crushing rib and lung. Blood bubbles between the guard’s lips. A killing blow.
The baton falls, coming down down down—
A hand grasps the baton, soft at first appearance, absent of hard work. Simon stares at that hand, how fragile it is, how easy he could break it. His gaze finds wrist, forearm, elbow, bicep. Up it goes, landing on a face.
No guard. No man at all.
A woman with fire in her eyes and a deep, angry scowl upon her face. Your lip trembles, not from fear of him, but from the scene of violence.
Brave. So brave you are standing up to him.
“Ignorant brute,” you growl at Simon.
When he remains still, you smack his chest. Again. Again. The next smack and your wrist is caught in his grip. Tugging, Simon draws you close, peering into your face.
He can’t help himself, how his gaze drifts to your lips, to admire the quiver, how they might do the same from pleasure and not anger.
More men appear, wielding far more dangerous weapons than a feeble baton. Soap is on his stomach, arms behind his back. It takes five grown men to keep him there.
There is no space to fight, to keep going.
Simon steps back but doesn’t release your wrist. The baton slips through your fingers, and Simon drops it as dozens of hands descend.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Simon squints at the analog clock high on the wall in front of him, surprised that they found working batteries.
“We helped you.”
Simon’s gaze slowly descends, landing on the woman behind a plain, wood desk. Nice enough, clearly handmade, not pieced together from wordless instruction manuals. It’s hardly a statement piece just like the rest of the room. Simple and unassuming, yanked out and dropped from any corporate office building.
Desk. Lamps. Filing cabinets. Bookshelves.
And a woman, Isla, seated behind the desk, with a commanding presence that could rival Captain Price.
“Gave you clothes,” she continues, counting. Her fingernails are cut short and scrubbed clean. “Food. Shelter. Rescued you. Gave medical aid to your friends.” Behind her and to the right, stands an armed guard, staring down his nose at Simon. Fucker acts tough but Simon can see the bruising beneath the collar. Simon had his hands around that one. “And how do you repay us?”
“That rhetorical?” mutters Simon and the bruised neck guard scowls.
“Show some respect,” he growls but Simon remains unflinching. His voice is weak and scratchy, detailing Simon’s handywork.
Even with his hands bound and seated in a chair, Simon is dangerous. Probably why there are not one but three guards in the room. One to guard Isla, the presiding speaker for The Council of Women, the ruling leadership of the settlement, and two guards stationed behind Simon and Johnny. One man each.
“Five men are dead,” she snaps. “More injured.”
“You hid Kyle from us,” accuses Simon coldly. “What were we supposed to think.”
“Hiding him?” she repeats, head tilting slightly as if it isn’t the fucking truth. “We weren’t keeping him from you.”
“That right?”
Gleeful screaming, that of children, carries in from the nearby window. Large and covering the entire left side of the room, it looks out onto the communal space Simon and Johnny crept through the other night. It’s full of people now.
Isla spreads her hands, forearms resting on the desk. “I understand your frustration,” she begins, retaining a calmly professional tone. “But that doesn’t give you the right to trespass. To threaten citizens. To break our laws and murder multiple men who risk their lives to keep us safe.”
Johnny speaks up. “Think we can just shut it off?”
“That is not—”
“You’re strangers to us,” interrupts Johnny. “We don’t know you. Your intentions. We’re surviving in the way we know how.”
Isla’s expression remains neutral. Always calm. Always professional. Simon admires her for that. Easy to see why The Council selected her as their representative.
“That is precisely how this mess started in the first place. The arrogance and selfishness of men.”
Johnny scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Can’t put that on us. Blame the Americans.”
“And we were their allies,” shrugs Isla. “We are just as responsible.”
Simon is sick of this conversation. It’s word circles leading nowhere. He and Johnny were held prisoners below. A floor down is the council chambers, where the Council of Women hold hearings. Beneath it, under the ground in a damp basement, is the jail. Counting the days was pointless, and Simon isn’t interested in returning.
“Think we took joy in it?” counters Simon. “Killing those men.”
Isla turns her gaze on Simon, the middle of her brow creasing. “From eyewitnesses to the brutality, one would think so.”
Simon leans forward. The guard behind him seizes his shoulder, roughly yanking him backward. People don’t touch him. Ever. When they do, they lose fingers.
Simon jerks his shoulder out of the man’s grip. “The violence meant nothing. We were after Kyle.”
“You’re keeping him on the women’s side,” adds Johnny. “Why not the men’s? Why not with Price?”
“Suspicious,” seethes Simon. “We wanted answers. And you’re strangers. Why would you not hide him?”
Isla’s nostrils flare. It’s the only show of emotion Simon’s seen from her. “One murder would be banishment. Two, a hanging.”
“And what’s a few more?” chuckles Johnny. “Cut into pieces?”
Isla hardly blinks, unamused by Johnny’s quip. “That is what the law states.” She sighs deeply. “But the Council thinks different.” Pushing up from her chair, Isla strides to the window, watching the people below. “They voted to show you grace.”
Johnny smothers a laugh, forcing out a cough. Simon’s gaze narrows. Showing grace? No one shows grace unless they want something.
“What’s the catch?” sneers Simon. It’s irritating they removed his balaclava when they subdued him, easier to hide his disdain behind fabric.
Shifting away from the window, Isla strides to the side of her desk. “You’re capable fighters. Strong. Organized. If I’d hazard a guess…ex-military?” When neither Simon or Johnny speaks, she arches an eyebrow. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” answers Simon. “Not wrong.”
Isla crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the desk causally like Simon and Johnny aren’t tied up and at their mercy. “We don’t have the resources for proper training,” she says slowly. “The men who oversee our soldiers and guards were military themselves but low on the chain of command.”
“Cannon fodder,” Simon clarifies because he knows the truth.
Those in power and in leadership positions are long dead or hiding or scheming somewhere to bring this disaster under control. Nothing has happened. It’s been quiet. They are looking after their own survival before anyone else’s.
Isla inclines her head but it’s no confirmation. “The Council is showing grace to extend an offer. You won’t be punished but you are also not allowed to be idle. While we look after your friends, you will train our soldiers and advise those we have in charge of how we can improve. Whether you stay or leave after they’re healthy is no concern to us. You have experience and training. That is something the Council values.”
Johnny’s mouth hangs open, glancing between Simon and Isla. “Could be naval officers. Won’t help you much.”
Isla holds her gaze on Simon. “You’re not naval officers.”
Simon holds his tongue. It’s a good offer. They keep their heads, do what they do best, and leave when it’s done. Not ideal but better than corpses.
Slowly shifting his attention to Johnny, they make eye contact. No words needed. Only silent understanding.
“We were part of the Special Air Service,” Simon admits. “Handled hostage rescue, covert reconnaissance, counterterrorism.” Isla’s eyebrows rise at this. “Not what you were expecting?”
Clearly not, but that’s good. They have greater leverage now. Their skills and experience far exceed what the Council is after.
Isla ignores the question. “What of your friends?”
“The same,” he answers.
“We’re a team,” adds Johnny. “Always have been.”
“What do we receive in return?” asks Simon. “For lending our skills?”
Isla glares at them. “You receive your lives.”
“No.” Simon shakes his head. “You will take us to Kyle. I want to see him myself. Reassurance without evidence means nothing.”
For a moment, Simon believes Isla will accept. Her stern expression becomes motherly, almost pitiful. “You could have asked to see him.”
“Would you let us?”
“No,” she says automatically. “Probably not.”
“That’s my fucking point,” growls Simon. “Bring him to the men’s side.”
The guard behind Simon grasps his hair, yanking his head back to expose Simon’s throat. “Speak like that to her again and I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Careful,” chuckles Johnny. “Don’t tease him. Shit turns him on.”
The guard’s upper lip curls, roughly shoving Simon’s head forward.
Isla’s frown deepens, unamused. “Transferring your friend is not my decision to make. I can assure you he’s well cared for. He needs rest and time to rehabilitate.”
Simon runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting blood. “Let us see him and we’ll accept.”
Refusal is not survival. It is negotiation. The Council needs them, these women who oversee everything, control everything. They need tools. Simon will be that tool.
It’s a stretch of silence, of Isla’s intense gaze as she considers, purposefully withholding an answer to fuck with them. “That can be arranged.” Victory swells in Simon’s chest. “However—” Johnny groans with a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “However,” emphasizes Isla, “after your violent display, the little trust you did have is broken. If I allow you to enter the women’s side, even with supervision, there will be pushback.”
“You speak for the Council,” replies Simon. “Think you can quiet a few disgruntled women.”
Isla’s face scrunches like she’s smelled spoiled milk. “Kyle is healthy and will recover. You are to stay on the men’s side and within the bounds of the communal spaces. You are to train and teach our soldiers. You are to follow our laws. You will show respect to everyone, equally.”
From the protruding veins in Johnny’s neck, the man is ready to spit venom. Soap’s temperament sometimes gets the better of him.
The corner of Simon’s mouth twitches, but he holds his tongue. “And what are the laws?”
“Knew this place was fucking odd.”
“Scared of some women, Johnny?”
“Now you’ve got jokes?”
At the edge of the training grounds, Simon and Johnny observe the ongoing drills. First impressions are important, and these men hardly come close to proficient. Lack of experience and skill was an understatement.
Johnny rolls his shoulders; arms crossed over his chest. “We were bested by this?”
Simon considers the men before him. “No. Wouldn’t trust them to hold a gun. And you were bested by a fire. I had the gun in my face.”
“Aye. That’s true.” Johnny falls quiet, tapping his foot against the ground, shaking his head when a dozen men topple off the top of the climbing wall, knocking down more as they fall.
“Fucking shambles,” mutters Simon as two of the men shove at each other.
“If only Price were better,” sighs Johnny. “Have them in line by end of day.”
Simon huffs in agreement, digging in his pocket for a cigarette. Years out of date now but Simon hardly gives a shit. Still hits the same.
Johnny lightly elbows Simon in the shoulder. “How you feel about it?”
“What about?” exhales Simon, curls of smoke dissolving into the air.
Johnny gestures vaguely. “Their rules. Council of Women. Separate living spaces. Can’t even flirt with a woman unless she approaches you first?” He shakes his head in disgust.
“That’s what you’re upset about?”
“A bit,” he grumbles, and Simon chuckles. “But you heard what they said. About the division of labor.”
“Makes your lobotomy theory more believable.”
Johnny smacks Simon’s chest, catching Simon on an exhale. “Fucking right!”
Simon coughs, clearing the smoke of his lungs. “Or,” he counters, because he’s slightly miffed at Johnny for hitting him, “you’re experiencing what women have their entire lives.”
The deadpan stare Simon receives could cut glass. “You don’t like it either,” drawls Johnny.
“No,” agrees Simon. “I don’t.”
Simon considers the soldiers before him, how they all appear content with their lives. Lobotomy or no, dissent and discontent is common amongst large groups of people. Human history is a recording of those disagreements.
“Others likely feel the same,” murmurs Simon. “Just have to find them.”
Johnny’s expression grows sour—angry. “Don’t like their rules about children. It’s not right.”
“I’m not disagreeing.”
They aren’t paying attention to the soldiers running drills. Not worth it at this point. Johnny’s ready to boil over.
“Isla worded it like men aren’t part of the process. Except—” Johnny jerks his hand. “As donors.”
Simon aims for lightness. “Keep your prick in your pants then.”
Johnny cracks a smile, some of his anger melting away. He sighs deeply, thawing his mood. “I miss my chickens.”
“We’ve left them for longer. They’ll be fine.”
“The hens aren’t getting their morning compliments.”
Simon shakes his head as Johnny chuckles to himself. “Should go. Take care of this lot tomorrow.”
“They don’t want us here,” says Johnny as they turn their backs. “Ordering them around.”
Simon shrugs. “Don’t blame them. I’d hate it, too.”
“Can see it in their eyes.”
“We killed some of their brothers.”
Johnny doesn’t disagree. “Wonder how Price is doing,” he muses.
It’s a good change. A nice shift from reality. “Maybe he’ll be more alert today.”
Price is walking. Small steps. Not fully load-bearing yet, but he’s recovering quickly. Leaving is tangible and not figurative.
The entire week is cyclical. First half of the day is training, lending skills and expertise. Second half of the day is for Price, Johnny and Simon sitting at his bedside, chatting with him, keeping him updated on the situation. Like them, Price is skeptical, but more worried about Kyle than settlement dynamics.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
It’s a routine that begins to feel normal which is exactly what Simon didn’t want. Most of the men don’t talk to him. They’re nice enough. Polite. But they prefer Johnny more. Simon understands. He’s not easy to approach even on his best days.
A hawk flies overhead, curving with the wind, wings outstretched as it soars. Simon follows the bird, admires its freedom, wishing that he too could rid himself of this place.
“Fucking starving,” groans Johnny, crossing his arms and resting them on the ledge.
They’re at the main gate today, observing the day-to-day duties, overseeing safety specs, and what the settlement might improve on. Thing is made of solid wood. A shame, really. Someone with enough fuel or a fire-happy substance could set it to torch.
“Could use a meal,” mutters Simon, rolling his neck, sighing with each little crunch and pop.
“Think they trust us now?”
Simon glances at Johnny. “Happy to have something familiar in your hands?”
Johnny lovingly taps the side of the L85. Not the best, but it’ll do. Their arsenal back at the homestead is better, and what the settlement has in theirs is an assortment of “take what you can and go.”
With them are four others: Charles, Henry, Kit, and Michael. Men with more skill than what Johnny and Simon have observed previously. Better shots from a distance that can only improve with practice. Not one carries a rank. They don’t do that here. It’s the men on the ground and the ones in charge. Only those giving orders have the right to use a title.
A response blooms on Simon’s tongue, quickly extinguished by a burst of masculine laughter. Johnny and Simon turn at the same time, and Simon’s throat drops into his stomach.
That night comes roaring back, of the baton in his grip, the blood on his face and fingers, of the blow meant for the man beneath Simon’s boot but stopped by a womanly hand.
Ignorant brute.
You’re here with a smile and not a scowl.
“Thank you,” says Charles, matching your smile, reaching out for the wrapped item you hold out to him. “Was starving.”
Simon instantly hates him.
Next to him, Johnny groans, rubbing his stomach. “Lass is an angel.”
Food. Sandwiches by the look of it. You move from man to man, handing them a sandwich each. As you approach, Simon’s stomach twists. It’s a growing flutter that strengthens with every step you take. Johnny happily takes the sandwich you offer him, opening the wrapping, inhaling deeply.
Your body shifts in Simon’s direction and his back straightens as your eyes meet. The smile fades, becoming a fierce scowl.
There is no goodbye.
And no sandwich.
Simon stares as you turn your back, sauntering away like he isn’t there at all. Out of habit, Simon’s gaze drops, admiring the sway of your hips, and an ass he wants to sink his teeth into. Sandwich in hand, it hovers in front of Johnny’s open mouth. The others also stare in disbelief, glancing between you and Simon until you disappear, descending the stairs.
Johnny’s surprise slowly melts away, open mouth coming together to form a mischievous smirk.
“Don’t,” Simon warns.
Snorting, Johnny offers up half the sandwich in amused silence. Simon snatches it, taking a bite, chewing with irritation.
Annoyed? Yes. A bit turned on? Simon won’t deny it.
The afternoon gives way to a chill and overcast skies. Simon and Johnny don’t linger, taking note of visible improvements and hidden weaknesses of the gate and surrounding fenceline.
It’s the walk back that intrigues him, that tugs on a primal part of Simon’s brain.
“Can’t tell if she wants to kill you or fuck you,” chuckles Johnny, lightly shouldering Simon.
You’re in the communal space just as they are, listening but not listening to the conversation you’re having with five others. You’re distracted, staring at Simon, eyes narrowed with suspicion. A deep scowl cuts across your lips. Or is it more of a pout?
Johnny’s head tilts as if considering the answer. “Both,” he says, answering his own question.
“Come on, Johnny,” growls Simon, grasping his arm and leading him towards the men’s side.
Johnny teases him the whole way to their cabin, yapping Simon’s ear off about winning you over. Simon half-listens. He’s thinking of the way your body moved as you walked away from him. How, even disgruntled, Simon wanted to know what you taste like.
“Maybe you need to give her gifts. Women like that. Flowers? Or—”
Simon nearly smacks into Johnny’s back. “Soap,” he scolds. Johnny remains where he is, head turned and focused on something deep within the cabin.
Shifting his weight, Simon leans to the side, peering over Johnny’s shoulder. “Fucking hell,” he mutters just as Johnny launches himself across the room.
“You bastard!” Johnny heaves himself from the floor, sailing through the air, and landing on a large mass laying on the bed. “Been fucking worried.”
“Watch the stitches,” comes a familiar, masculine laugh.
Simon steps through the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkened interior. On the bed, wiggling beneath Johnny, is Kyle. Smile broad, the two men playfully tussle, Johnny shaking Kyle’s shoulders.
“Ease up, Soap,” mutters Simon, pushing at Johnny’s arm.
He falls onto his butt, breathing heavily. “Snuck over to surprise us?”
Kyle’s smile is warm. “Cleared me. Sent me here. Happy to know you’re alright. How’s Price?”
Simon inclines his head. “Better. Walking more. Bones are healing. He’ll be up and himself again soon.”
“Good,” murmurs Kyle, nodding his head.
“What about you?” asks Johnny, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “Had you on the women’s side.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “What’s that like?”
Kyle’s smile shifts, gaze growing soft, eyes glancing downward as if he’s lost in a fond memory. “Nice, actually. Didn’t realize it until someone told me. About the settlement. Rules and such.”
Johnny beams. “Fucking bonkers here.”
Kyle’s gaze snaps up. “How do you mean?”
He starts listing. “Separate living spaces. Unequal division of labor. Men can vote but can’t hold office.”
Kyle blinks, clearly stunned at Johnny’s disinterest in life here. “You’re upset about that?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Makes sense to me.”
Johnny’s mouth falls open. Simon simply stares.
“It makes sense to you?”
Kyle shrugs. “Why not have women in charge? Look around us. We’re here now because of the actions of men. Time for a change.”
“You agree with this?”
“Not entirely,” admits Kyle. “There are a few things I don’t particularly like. But I’m for it.”
“Oh, shit,” murmurs Johnny. He turns toward Simon. “Told you. Stepford Wives. Replaced them all with robots.”
“Lobotomy.”
“They got him, Ghost. We’ve lost Kyle.”
“Kyle is right here,” he huffs, one arm out and bent in a “what the fuck are you on about” gesture. “Haven’t left.”
Johnny and Simon keep talking despite Kyle’s assertion.
“Think he’s pussy drunk?” whispers Johnny, pointing at Kyle as if he’s not in the room.
“Maybe. Or they’ve made him a Ken doll.”
A pillow goes flying, smacking Johnny in the face with a muffled whomp. “Piss off. The both of you,” laughs Kyle. “What a shite greeting.”
Kyle’s jovial attitude about the settlement smells foul to Simon. This place has secrets. It must. The men are always happy. Happy to bend. Happy to fall in line. Happy. Happy. Happy.
And yet, the men possess the weaponry, handle the settlements safety and security. At any moment, those arms could be taken up, used against the women that hold control. That is the part Simon chews on. Women and children are always the first to suffer, but they thrive here, free of threat.
Simon rests his forearm against the base of the top bunk, staring down at them. “Just surprised. Haven’t seen much of this place. And what we have isn’t exactly thrilling.”
Kyle sighs, settling back against the bed, head on his pillow. “I miss home. But it’s not so bad here.”
Simon wishes he could agree.
And that wishing morphs into key observation.
Another week. Kyle rests during the day, disappearing at night, only to return in the early hours. Price continues to improve. Simon and Johnny oversee training. Between these moments there are snippets, teasing and curious. Simon sees you everywhere, sometimes scowling, sometimes not, but always watching. He’s unable to attach a name to it, this constant vigilance.
What the fuck do you want from him?
“Where’s Johnny?” Simon frowns at his empty bed. “He’s been gone for three days.”
“Surprised you just noticed,” chuckles Kyle, stretching, wincing as his torso lengthens.
Simon turns away from Johnny’s bed, heading for a quick shower. “We had split duties. Didn’t think he’d up and disappear.”
“He’s fine,” muses Kyle.
“You know that?”
“Promise.”
“You’ve been gone six days, Johnny.”
Simon is dressed for the day and fuming. Johnny melted into existence, appearing while Simon was in the restroom, relaxed and reclining in bed like he hasn’t been missing.
A bit stretch. A scratching of the stomach. A few slow blinks. “Bout to sleep for six more,” grumbles Johnny.
Irritated, Simon snatches his pillow, bringing it down on Johnny’s face a few times. “Where were you?”
Behind Simon, Kyle covers up a snort.
Johnny grins, almost dreamily. “Figured out why the men are so happy.”
Kyle turns onto his good side, addressing Johnny. “You have it off?” Johnny hums in the affirmative. “One?” No response. “Two?” Again, no response. Kyle guffaws and sits up fully. “More?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” growls Simon.
Johnny remains on his back, staring at the bottom of the top bunk. “Thought I’d just,” and holds a fist over his groin, slinging the wrist to simulate masturbation, “jerk into a cup.” He drops his hand, rubbing his inner thigh. “Think my dick is sore. Don’t know if I could come if I tried.”
Kyle barks a laugh, falling onto his back, covering his eyes with one hand. Johnny turns his head. “Had me rotating between three,” emphasizing his words by holding up three fingers. “Never had it off so much in my fucking life.”
Simon, finally connecting the pieces, blurts, “you were gone six days to get your dick wet?”
Kyle falls into a fit of wheezy giggling.
“Ate,” lists Johnny. “Slept. Fucked. Repeat.”
“For six days?” deadpans Simon.
Johnny nods, snuggling down into the bed, eyes closed. “Understand the compliance now.”
Controlling his giggling, Kyle manages to speak between breathy inhalations. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Don’t know how much you miss it until you’re balls deep.”
Simon rounds on him. “Is that why you disappear at night?”
Kyle attempts to suppress a smile. “That obvious?”
“Fucking hell.”
Johnny cracks open one eye. “You should have a go, Ghost. I’m sure some cute lass will take you.”
“Piss off, Johnny.”
Johnny sits up, resting on his elbows. “I’m serious. They have a whole building dedicated to it.” He shrugs. “Not sure what it’s called. Breeding center? Fertility clinic? The ‘get laid’ office?”
Kyle stabs his finger in Johnny’s direction. “That’s a good one.”
“Thought you hated this place?” snaps Simon. “Or did you forget?”
“In my defense,” begins Johnny, holding up a hand when Simon releases an annoyed groan, “I was asked.” He rolls his shoulders, growing smug. “When three women want you to breed them…you can’t say no.”
Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, using box breathing for the first time in his fucking life. Kyle is still a mess, holding his side where the stitches are, his laughter no longer audible as he loses control of himself.
“And suddenly you don’t care about paternity,” drawls Simon.
After the deal they made with Isla, Johnny had gone off to Simon about how children are conceived and treated after birth. There are few families, and those that do exist within the settlement live in their own private space. Otherwise, children are raised collectively, with the majority residing with the women on their side of the settlement. There are no partners, no relationships, unless it’s serious and approved by the Council.
Creates less drama was the reasoning. Avoids possessiveness and jealousy. They record who fucked who so no genes cross too close, but other than that, most of the men have no say in the matter, and rarely have an active role in the child’s life unless the woman permits it.
Johnny leans forward a tad, pointedly staring at Simon, ignoring his remark. “What about the lass always scowling at you? She’s a bonnie thing.”
Slowly turning his head toward Simon, Kyle’s grin becomes mischievous. “Is that who you’re wanking to?”
“Think she’d rather claw my face off,” mumbles Simon, because there’s no reason to deny it. That pouty, scowling face of yours is easy to imagine while you’re on your knees, begging to suck his cock.
“More like claw your back up,” snorts Kyle as the two men fall into hysterics again.
Simon was over this conversation two minutes ago. “There’s work to be done.”
“If you don’t come back,” calls out Johnny as Simon heads for the door, “I’ll assume you’re sticking your prick in her.”
The door slams shut behind Simon, his hand still clutching the handle, staring off as he tries to subdue his racing thoughts. Johnny disappearing for six days irritates him but it’s a speck of dirt now. Nothing he can’t clean off. It’s the after. What they said about you.
Two words.
Ignorant brute.
Every time you and Simon cross paths, you never speak to him, never approach unless necessary. The fact that Simon is interested in you at all is surprising. There are other women who’ve had their eye on him, approached him to flirt or talk. The attention is nice, satisfying a craving Simon hasn’t indulged in in years.
Rifle in hand, Simon leaves the men’s area, and into the communal space. Though there was pushback by the Council, they did agree that the occasional armed patrol in the communal area could be instituted. Simon suggested a nonsensical rotation. Routine and schedule create pockets of rebellious invitation.
Simon assumes his post near a wooden support pole. Off to the side, Simon can observe the passing people without standing in the way of anyone. Most don’t glance his way, too absorbed in their own lives to notice him. While his training tells him to have his hand in a relaxed, non-lethal position, it still scares people. He’s trying not to be a menace this time. Safety is on, the rifle is attached to a strap that rests on his shoulder. Too relaxed for him, but it makes the Council happy.
Two weeks and Simon finally understands this place. Shaped like a pentagon and divided into seven sections, five of which are residential areas, one communal, and the last acting as an interior storage lot, the place is far larger than Simon first believed. Men and women have their sides, representing a whole and not based on biological differences. Laswell and her wife could have lived together on the women’s side, and thinking of her at all brings a tightness to Simon’s chest. Families take up their own space, seniors in another to reduce noise and maintain a calm environment, and the last for anyone who doesn’t agree with separation. Simon walked that space a few days ago, quickly releasing the people residing there don’t want rigid rules and walls, preferring collective living.
It’s like before, only flipped, removed of certain social parameters. If Simon described it in one word, he’d choose fine. Just fine. Not great. Not special. Not where he’d choose to live. Home is the farmhouse. Home is the loch. Home is the nearby forests. Home is Johnny complimenting the hens and Price’s whistling as Old Chap dances around his legs. It’s Kyle walking around with the wired headphones around his neck, plugged into the radio, the cord trailing behind him, trailing around corners and over the sofa like he’s an 80’s housewife.
Scanning the crowd, Simon observes every passing face. His fingers itch for a cigarette. The one upside to this place is the endless supply. It’s the one vice of the past Simon still enjoys. The occasional whiskey with the boys is a close second.
It’s then that he sees it, a familiar face with a perpetual scowl. Stomach flipping like a gymnast, Simon’s vision tunnels, entirely focused on your forward progression. You don’t notice him at first, clearly in your own head. As you draw close, your gaze shifts, realization dawning. You slow as you approach, and for the briefest moment, Simon believes you’ll stop. That you’ll talk to him.
Your gaze finds his face. Lingering. Lingering.
Simon steps to the right, ready to block your path. There’s the faintest hesitation, feather-soft and nearly imperceptible.
Stop, he thinks. Stop.
His heart thunders and then flatlines.
You step around him, and Simon turns with you, glimpsing the moment you glance over your shoulder at him. There is no scowl. No anger. No suspicion.
The itch becomes an urge.
And Simon is only a man.
Ignoring the voice insisting that he stop, Simon leaves his post, following like a fox hunting rabbit. You’re still looking over your shoulder at him, an enticing glimmer in your eyes. The conversation between him, Johnny, and Kyle churns in the folds of Simon’s brain, urging muscles to contract, lifting leg and foot, shepherding him toward you.
Perhaps you slow, or maybe Simon covers more ground.
His hand seizes your upper arm. A quick tug and you’re off course, yanked to the right, herded between the dividing fence and brick wall.
“You’re following me,” growls Simon.
He keeps his hand locked onto your arm, using the tension to hold you in place. His other hand rests against the brick wall. Leaning in, Simon creates a private cocoon. Anyone walking by will only see him. They’d need to look at the ground to peek a second set of feet.
The scowl is gone. In its place is defiance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fuck me, he thinks, because why do you sound so breathy?
“Let me go,” and you’re perfectly calm. No anger at all.
Blood rushes downward, cock twitching as arousal grows. Starved is an understatement. Simon is back in his teenage years, losing his virginity, fumbling around and finishing quickly. All his experience means nothing. He is a salivating animal, teeth gnashing for a bite.
Simon leans in further. Instead of tucking your chin and hiding, you lift it, meeting his gaze. “Tell me why you’re following me,” he croons. “And I might.”
“Harassment is against the law.”
“So is stalking,” counters Simon.
There’s that pouty scowl again forming on your lips. Fucking cute you are, attempting to act tough. “You want the truth?” you say, arching an eyebrow. “Fine. I don’t trust you.”
“Is that right?” he drawls, gaze focused on your lips. Hesitation is absent as Simon removes his hand from the wall, tracing your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Following me around like a lost little bird.”
“I’m not—”
“Couldn’t threaten me if you tried.” Simon adds pressure then releases, admiring the way your pout pops back into place.
You roll your shoulders, pressing your chest forward, attempting to make yourself big and intimidating. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”
“That’s what you’re doing?” chuckles Simon. “What about the gate? Gave everyone sandwiches. Skipped me.”
“I—I was one short,” you claim, and Simon nearly bursts out laughing.
Simon leans in again, trapping you there, shifting his body forward to create closeness that exceeds casual acquaintances. “You want me attention,” he purrs. “Don’t deny it.”
“You’re full of yourself,” you reply, but it’s breathy and soft, almost sweet like tempered sugar.
“Am I wrong?” he asks. “You have no reason to watch me. Council didn’t tell you to. Know that much. So what’s the real truth, love?”
Your chest heaves, nostrils flaring. You’re about to break or slip into a half-truth. Simon knows the signs, years of interrogation have primed his attunement to the body’s tells. Conquering this is not. Breaking you is easy.
“It’s true,” you admit. “I am watching you.”
“But?” prompts Simon, because he’s going to dig the truth out one way or another.
“But it’s not because I don’t trust you.” You lick your lips, hesitating. Simon takes a chance, pressing his hips to yours. He’s rewarded with a shiver. “You’re…dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“The men here are docile. And I want—”
Behind the balaclava, Simon smirks. “You want it rough,” he finishes for you.
“Yes,” you breathe, and Simon savors the sound. “Want to be fucked out of my mind.”
Fucking hell.
Raging hard and throbbing, it takes all of Simon’s focus to slow down and not pounce on you in this alleyway. It’s been years since Simon has known a woman’s touch, and here you are, presenting yourself as an offering, begging him to fulfill a desire no man here can satisfy.
“Tonight. We can—”
“No,” you say quickly, grasping the front of his fatigues. “Now. I want to do it now.”
Double fucking hell.
Your cabin is near the back of the women’s area, tucked away in a corner. It’s the middle of the day and everyone is out.
Simon takes in the space that isn’t much larger than the cabin he, Johnny, and Kyle occupy. The kitchenette is slightly bigger, the bathroom not as cramped. Around your bed is a makeshift canopy, soft curtains on rods drilled into the ceiling, creating a sense of privacy when there are no walls.
The rifle is gone, returned to its home over on the men’s side. Simon nearly sprinted the whole way, not wanting you to change your mind and leave him.
As you pass in front of him, Simon grasps the front of your throat, palm flat and firm, drawing you against his body. You comply, melting into him, turning your head, chin up to look at him. He knows your name now, and you know his. Simon whispers before he kisses you, leaving no doubt to his intentions.
Not slow or delicate, the kisses come in fierce and hot—messy. Ones that shift into tongue touching tongue, of little whimpers from your throat, of his own muted grunts as Simon’s other hand presses to your stomach, sliding down to cup your sex through your pants.
Simon fingers the zipper. Undoes the button. Slips his hand inside.
The tips of his fingers find curls, find your clit, slide further until he’s teasing your opening. The kiss is broken by your gasp, of a mangled groan as Simon slowly eases his finger inside you.
“This for me?” he croons, grip on your throat tightening slightly.
A withdrawal. A circling tease. Inside once more.
“Yes,” you manage through broken breath.
Simon presses his lips to your ear. “Where you wet for me at the gate?” You nod. “When you looked at me?” Another nod. “When you stopped me from killing that man?”
“Yes, Simon.”
The affirmation shoots down to his balls, full and heavy, wanting nothing more than to spill everything into your tight cunt.
He removes his hand, and the loss of contact makes you whimper. Using the grip he has on your throat, Simon spins you around. Your lips are wet and glossy from his kisses, slightly parted, begging to be kissed further. Painted there is a small smile. Your eyelids are lust-laced and heavy.
“Get on your knees,” he growls. “Show me.”
Retaining your smile that grows hungrier by the second, Simon watches as you descend to your knees, eagerly loosening the zipper and buttons, easing the waistband of his pants over his hips and down enough to reveal his cock.
The way you lick your lips before you deep throat him makes his balls ache. The first press of tongue shifting to the welcoming wet warmth of your mouth nearly undoes him. Everything tightens, priming for release, for his cock to spurt ropes of cum down your throat. Simon thinks of math equations and hard labor, the agitation quickly dissipating.
Enthusiasm and mess. Your hand fisting the base of his cock moving in tandem with your bobbing. Simon, though, knows it’s not enough. You want it rough.
Grasping the back of your head, he takes control, forcing you down until your lips touch his hair. The gag is delicious, your hands grasping his thighs to steady yourself, tears forming in your eyes as he fucks your mouth.
“Look at you,” he growls. “Obedient thing.”
You hum, the vibration making his cock twitch. With a grunt, he forces your mouth off him. You gasp for air, salvia coating your puffy lips and chin.
Smiling. You’re smiling again.
Grasping you under your armpits, Simon hauls you to his feet. His switchblade clicks open, cutting away your clothes, tearing off the remaining shreds until you’re naked. Knife closed and tucked away, Simon shoves you onto the bed, forcing you onto your side, opening your legs.
You’re unable to move as Simon kneels. Wrapping one arm around your extended leg, he holds it to his chest, ankle touching his shoulder.
Simon slaps your pussy, your arousal wetly reverberating. He does it again. Again. Gives attention to your clit.
“Oh, fuck,” you groan. “Feels so good.”
Simon slips two fingers inside down to the knuckle. Curling the tips of his fingers slightly, he uses them like he would his dick, the pad of his thumb rubbing rough circles on your clit.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head and every word falling from your lips is nonsense. Smugness takes root in Simon’s chest. You’re falling apart, fisting the bedding, eyes shut hard in concentration, pussy walls contracting and squeezing around his fingers.
Simon knows when you come. You bear down, squeezing his fingers so hard that Simon wishes it were his dick.
“I can’t,” you whimper after the third. “I—can’t. Too—too much!”
Withdrawing his fingers, Simon slides them over his tongue, sighing when your taste hits him. You press your face into the bed, turning onto your stomach, groaning. Grasping your hips, Simon eases them up until your knees dig into the bed.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, admiring how swollen and wet you are. “You look fucking breedable.”
Simon manages to shove his pants down to his knees, but that’s all he’s able to achieve. He needs to be inside you, to fuck this cute pussy until you’re dripping with his cum. Rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, sliding it up and down your sex to coat it in your arousal, Simon finally gives you what you both want.
No slowness. No gentle touch.
Grabbing both butt cheeks, Simon thrusts, bringing you completely down on him.
You cry out, choke. “Oh, thank God,” you groan as he sets a pounding pace.
Reaching behind you, you grasp the back of one thigh, opening your leg further, giving Simon a better view of where your bodies meet, of the deliciously perfect stretch.
“So good,” you pant. “Simon. You feel so good.”
His name on your lips is a stimulant, driving his need to new heights, ricocheting around in his head.
“Harder,” you moan. “Fuck me harder, Simon.”
He’s done for. Knocked out. Ended.
Simon transfers his weight to one hand, the bed sinking beneath it. His other hand holds the back of your neck. At this angle, Simon can stroke deeper—harder.
Head dipping, Simon speaks between clenched teeth. “Gonna come inside you.” You whimper and Simon tuts. “No protesting, love. You’re taking it.” He leans in further, whispering in your ear. “You’ll take every drop I give you. Staying here in this bed until there’s nothing left in my balls.”
Your hand forms a fist, hitting the bed as if in protest.
Too bad.
Simon doesn’t stop—doesn’t slow. The only sound in the room is the wet slap of skin against skin, Simon’s feral grunting, your muffled cries. Muscles tense, and Simon shivers, his orgasm rising hot and fast. It rushes out of him, and still, he refuses to quit, fucking his cum further into your pussy. Seconds later, you clench around him, squeezing him so hard, Simon momentarily blacks out.
Collapsing atop you, Simon’s heavy breathing syncs with yours, silence all other sounds. You’re both still for a full minute, and it’s Simon that moves first, pushing him up to his knees, hands firmly planted on your ass.
Simon glances down where your bodies meet. Using a single finger, he traces the stretch, gently easing out as he does. His dick is coated in your arousal and his cum. With a satisfied smirk, Simon shifts backward and comes to standing. His muscles ache but he hardly notices it as he begins to strip down. An item at a time. Your legs collapse, followed by a pleased groan. Simon silently observes as you roll onto your back, legs together.
The shift isn’t subtle. You go from hazy bliss to bratty siren.
Biting down on your bottom lip, you spread your legs up and out, hands slipping beneath your knees, holding yourself open. One hand continues, arm hooking under the knee, fingers splaying against your pussy, forcing Simon to focus on the spot where his cum is just beginning to seep out.
“Said I wanted it rough,” you croon, and Simon nearly topples over.
Control? What fucking control? You’ve planned this, plotting from the moment you locked gazes with him.
His lips part in surprise as you wiggle your toes and giggle.
just thinking about jack and frank sharing reader, sorry not sorry, just the need to see that hah
— ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɢɪʀʟ ⸝⸝⸝˙⋆
→ warnings: jack abbot x fem!reader x frank langdon, 1.7k wc of pure smut, mean!frank & mean!jack, daddy kink, nicknames [doll, babygirl, princess] & jack calls frank baby boy once or twice [cause he can + frank indirectly sort of calls jack daddy], small praise, p in v & p in a - double penetration kinda unpreped [they're mean as i said] & def unprotected.
“This is what happens when you’re an ungrateful brat princess, Jackie would much rather play with me” - continuing this thought. from @felix24601
You huff and squirm in your restraints trying to attempt to slip out of them but damn Jack and his stupid military training, his knots are intricate and never loose enough for you to shimmy out of. Your train of thought of how to escape is interrupted by Jack coughing to catch your attention — Frank whines out when the older man stops practically dry humping him. “If you’re a good girl, like I know you can be doll” he stares at you with a pointed look and continues “And watch quietly without another fuss or bratty word comin’ outta those pretty lips while i make Frankie cum” Jack slips his hand past the younger man's boxers and grabs a handful of his ass, making Franks hips jump forward pressing his cock up against Jack’s again, a blush spreading on Frank’s face. “Then and only then will you get both of us, that sound like something you can do for me babygirl?” he questions mockingly with a head tilt like it’ll be the hardest thing in the world for you to do.
Turns out Jack is right, he’s always right. How annoying. You’re still tied up to the bed, your slick is practically dripping down your mound and forming a puddle under your ass. Biting your lip so hard you are sure you’ve drawn blood, trying to hold back any moan or whine that threatens to slip loose at the sight in front of you.
Jack and Frank haven't moved much from their spots at the end of the bed except for the fact now they are both laid bare, ruined boxers thrown off and discarded to the floor where all three of your clothes reside. Jack is sitting, Frank being placed in his lap (which happens to be your favorite spot thank you very much) and their mouths are back to being practically glued together, tongues sliding around together.
Frank's arms are resting on the older man's freckled broad shoulders, his hands running through Jack’s curls and one down his back scratching at him. Jack has one hand rubbing at Frank’s back, his thigh, grabbing at his waist. His other is wrapped around the younger man's throbbing cock, jerking up and down in the perfect rhythm. “Mmm Jack!…” Frank moans out and your hips twitch at the sound, “Yeah? You gonna be my good boy Frankie?” Jack asks as his hand speeds up its movement. Your skin is buzzing and itching watching the two of them feel each other up, it feels like it’s been forever since they’ve touched you. You can feel your eyes start to sting as tears begin to build, your hands bawled into fists as you try your hardest to not let a whine slip out when you watch Frank's hips keep bucking forward lightly.
You know that means he’s close, when his hips stutter like that. Your eyes are glued between their bodies at Frank’s cock sliding up and down in Jack’s hand as he gets closer and closer, the tip of his cock glowing an angry red. “Come on Frankie, please come for Jack” you think in your head on repeat, you weren’t exactly sure if you could speak but with Frank so close to cumming you weren't about to test the limits of Jack’s challenge. “M’ gonna- fuck m’ cumming” Frank whines out in a rather high pitched tone as he rests his forehead on Jack’s shoulder. “Cum f’ me baby boy, come on you can do it” A shiver runs through Frank’s body as he cums in short spurts all over the older man's hand and against his chest. You watch with impatience but also a little love as Jack rubs at Frank’s back while he comes down from his high. Once Frank's breathing is back to normal and he opens his eyes again, they are set on you, Jack following suit.
You lay there still silent, eyes wide with anticipation but also brimming with tears and a pouty look on your face. “Ohh princess” Frank coo’s in that voice of his always dripping in condescension but he is the first of the two to move towards you. Leaving Jack’s lap he crawls down the bed to move between your spread thighs, his leaking and still hard cock landing on your pelvis. You have to resist bucking your hips to practically grind against him, you're supposed to be acting good. “Why you cryin’ huh doll?” Jack questions as he makes his way over to your side and places his hand on your right thigh, sneaking his fingers under the ropes tied around it to rub at the lightly irritated skin.
“Wanna touch you and Frankie Daddy, please? Haven't I been good?” you ask, you knew with Jack it was always better to ask if you’ve been good rather than claim it. That way he can't mock you and say “What, are you daddy now? You decide if you’ve been good enough?” you learned that lesson the hard way.
“She has been pretty good, was so quiet i was surprised” Frank explains, his little praise going to your head and your pussy as it throbs, being so close to his cock and the both of them finally having their hands on you isn’t helping.
“Yes babygirl you were very good, which means now you get daddy and Frankie just like you want” Jack wipes away your tears and you're practically vibrating with excitement now, your eyes glossed over as they flick between the two men. “I think babygirl needs to clean up daddy first" Frank prompts with a smirk, and without question you are already eagerly nodding your head yes. “Good idea, C’mere doll, lets get you untied and then you can lick Frankie’s cum off my chest”
Once you are untied you are immediately on Jack, lightly pushing him down to lay on his back in front of you, hands holding onto his hard forearms. Greddily licking up his stomach, feeling the small hard muscles of his ab’s as you lap up Franks cum. “Oh fuck, there’s our dirty girl just the way we like her” Frank praises as his hands run down your back and over your ash from his spot now behind you. “There you go, clean daddy up real nice, then maybe you should clean Frankie off too Huh?” comes Jack’s praise next and your whole body is now buzzing, you’re nodding in response, eager to please and eager to do it regardless.
After licking off pretty much every last drop of cum from Jack’s chest, his hand and Frank’s cock they position you exactly how they want you. You’re sat in Jack’s lap, with Frank's legs over Jack’s thighs and pressed up against your back. “Think you can take both of us princess?Daddy in your pussy and Frankie in your ass?” Jack asks as his hands smooth over the plush of your thighs before drifting down to slip two between your folds, collecting slick as they go before plunging inside.
“Yes! Yes I can! swear I can daddy” you whine out, hips bucking but Frank's rough hands come down to stop them as he grinds his dick up against your ass. “Good, cause you were gonna anyway” he laughs as he kisses up and down the side of your neck and bites at your shoulder. With that they’re quick to have you spit into their hands, using it to lightly lube their cocks before Jack starts and pushes inside your aching heat. “Ah- Ah- Jackie- Daddy s’ too big” you whine out as your hands come up to scratch at his hips as they meet flush with yours. “Too big? Awww you poor poor girl” he chuckles softly and shakes his head, wrapping his arms around your body and grabbing one ass cheek in each hand he spreads them. “Go on baby boy” he prompts with a nod of his head to Frank behind you, who lets a glob of spit slip out of his mouth and drip at the tip of his cock as it rubs at the rim of your asshole. Frank, deciding to be a little nicer on their girl tonight pushes in slowly, inching his dick inside you at a snail's pace to let it stretch and accommodate his size.
“Oh fuck~ she’s so tight but she’s takin’ it so good f’ me. Good girl princess, good girl fuccckk” he moans out as he slips deeper and deeper in. Jack helping your body relax further in their arms but rubbing circles on your clit and softly thrusting in and out of your pussy as much as he can with the near vice grip it has on his cock. You let out a gasp in pleasure and relief when you feel Frank’s hips and balls met flush with your hips as his cock is fully buried inside. “Oh that’s it princess fuck” Frank groans as his hands come around your body and cup your breasts, needing and groping at them. Jack’s remain on your ass, keeping it spread for Frank to watch as his cock slides out and slams back in, Jack’s hips not far behind as they start thrusting up into your pussy. “S’ so so full fuck! Daddy feels s’ good and Frankie feels s’ good” you cry out as the pressure is quick to build in the pit of your stomach, just about every pleasure synapse snapping in your brain as it grows hazier and hazier.
“See what you get for being good? Isn't this much better doll?” Jack asks in a teasing voice as if he can’t feel the answer when you clench down hard around him every time Frank's hips smack your ass. “Much better, s’ much better, always wanna be Daddy and Frankies good girl” your head is nodding rapidly as you ramble. “Atta girl princess” Frank coo’s and kisses and mouths at the base of your neck, causing your back to arch and your chest to press against Jack’s while Frank leaves hickies down your spine.
This was exactly how they liked their girl, a pliant mess in their arms, all three of your bodies sweat coated and limbs entangled.
→ a/n: should i write more frank x jack dynamic? If so yall should send me more thoughts or thoughts of other poly pitt dynamics.
pairing: frank langdon x resident!reader
wc: 2.8k (this was supposed to be a blurb but i'm a yapper)
the pitt masterlist
summary: your first sleepover at frank's
contains: broken bed (not like that you perv), frank gets a boner, intense yearning
a/n: i hope you enjoy! be sure to check out my y(2k) sleepover event (link at the bottom of this piece) and place your own request! | dividers from @diviniyae
In the overmasking soundscape of the Pitt — beeping monitors, rushing footsteps, and the occasional cry of pain— you somehow manage to take a phone call without having to step outside. Frank watches you from the workstation beside yours, where he pokes at the keyboard in an attempt to type out his notes on his last patient, with little success.
It's nearly ten o'clock, and you're the last two day shift doctors around —besides Robby, of course, captain going down with the ship and all that. An especially long trauma right at seven kept the both of you here past quitting time, which meant that the last hour has been spent in the throes of charting.
Frank's bones feel like they're weighed down by sandbags, and he's only capable of thinking in fragments. Plus, the promise of his empty, divorced dad apartment isn't much of a motivator.
He catches pieces of your phone conversation, mostly frustrated comments on your end. "This is ridiculous, I paid for a room already," you mutter, then ask to speak to a manager.
After another couple of minutes, you hang up the phone and slam it face-down on the workstation.
Frank grimaces. Anyone with half a brain knows not to test you when you're wearing the same exact expression you have now: locked, tight frown, deflated posture, and a sharp crease in your brows.
"What's going on?" he asks after a moment, peering over the top of the divider to find you cradling your head in your hands.
A sharp inhale shoots you ramrod straight.
"Nothing," your insistence comes suspiciously fast as you school your frown into a tight, neutral line. "I'm fine, let's just get the hell out of here, huh?"
"Okay, Karen," Frank teases without thinking about it, shifting his gaze back to the computer, where all the words swirl together. He blinks long and slow. There's a possibility he's reached a semi-delirious point of exhaustion.
"Excuse me?" Your nostrils flare out. Frank swears there's steam shooting out of your ears. "Did you just call me a Karen?"
Blue eyes widen, the reaction more pointed under the harsh hospital lights. "I just mean because you asked for the manager," he gulps, holding up two hands in defense.
You narrow your eyes at him.
"The hotel I'm staying at tonight just called to say they gave my room away," you nearly growl, your intonation making it seem like it's his fault.
"Why are you staying in a hotel room?" he asks.
He's been to your apartment once, months ago, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with half the day shift for a movie night. You'd somehow wrangled everyone into watching Jurassic Park because Whitaker and Javadi said during a shift that they'd never seen it.
You're hard for Frank to pin down. Half the time you scare the shit out of him. The other half you're hosting movie nights, bringing in banana bread, or showing the med students a procedure with gentle, practiced hands.
It wasn't like he made himself easy to get a read on, either. Between the divorce, the kids, and sprinting upstairs after trauma just to make his drug test before the lab closed, most days he'd barely managed to keep his own head above water.
It took a while, but somewhere over the last few months, his conversations with you started getting longer. Less about patients, more about whatever happened to come up between charts.
"My apartment is being fumigated," you slump back into your seat, locking your hands atop your head. Frank has never seen you so… despondent. It's unnerving. "I told the hotel I'd have a late check-in, but they still gave my room away."
After a moment's thought, Frank realizes the bind you're in. You moved to Pittsburgh for your residency. You don't have any friends or family here. If your hotel screwed you over this late in the evening, then you're up shit's creek.
If he's being honest, he's also seeing something in you that he sees in himself, nearly every time he catches his reflection in the mirror.
Loneliness.
His leg jiggles restlessly under his desk. "You can…" he swallows when your inscrutable eyes meet his. "You can sleep at my place, if you want to."
You furrow your brow. "I wasn't asking—"
"I know," Frank cuts in, saving the chart he's working on, then exits out of it. "But I'm offering."
Frank sees the gears turning in your head. You'd rather gnash your teeth and suffer through the plot of Armageddon than ask for help. You nibble on your bottom lip —an expression Frank has only ever seen you make during a complicated intubation. He never noticed how adorable it is until now.
"I don't want to be an imposition," you say, a little quieter.
"You wouldn't be," he shakes his head. "I don't have the kids tonight. They still don't have beds yet, but I've got a sofa. It's yours if you want it."
"Yeah, okay," his heart gives a little flip when you finally relent, a tight, forced smile stretching across your lips. "Thank you."
Langdon flips the light switch once you're inside, illuminating the apartment in a familliar fluorescent glow.
He drops his backpack by the door, then waves a hand at the small, sparsely furnished space.
"This is it," he says.
"It's nice," you nod at the space, noting the distinct lack of anything particularly Langdon.
"No, it's not," he snorts. "But I appreciate the sentiment."
He's right in assuming you're just being polite. A laminate island divides the kitchen from the gray-walled living room. A sofa faces the television mounted opposite it, and a small table with three chairs fills the remaining space. Functional instead of homey.
If someone told you this was a furnished rental, you'd believe them.
The only evidence of anyone actually living here is the little toy kitchen in the corner, decked out in primary colors. A small plastic chest sits beside it, dotted with yellow stars and two names hand-painted on the side.
Tanner & Penny
Your lip quirks up at this.
"Your kids'?" You ask as you lean against the edge of the island, hooking your thumb towards the playset.
"Yeah," he smiles in familiarity, then steps around you to get to the fridge. He pops a photo out from under a magnet, and slides it across the island to you.
You've never seen photos of Langdon's kids before, but they are, without a doubt, his.
"That's Penny," he points to the little girl with a dimple in her chin. "And Tanner," he says of the slightly larger boy with eyes that are bright, clear water blue.
"They're cute," you nod. "They look a lot like you."
Langdon's thin smile lingers, then he clears his throat. "I can get the sofa set up for you, if you want to hop in the shower," he offers. "Or, did you want to get something to eat? I have a pizza in the freezer, but not much else."
"Pizza's good," you reply, then stifle a yawn. Your body aches with the kind of exhaustion that should knock you out cold, but your brain refuses to follow suit. "I might go ahead and take a shower, if that's okay with you?"
He nods.
Frank grabs you a clean towel and shows you how to work the faucet.
The whole thing feels strangely intimate. His razor on the sink. His shampoo in the shower. The towel he'd pulled from his own linen closet. All of it is closer than you've ever thought you'd be with a man who is, technically speaking, your boss.
You skip washing your hair, leaving it up in a clip as you cleanse your body of the day's grime.
While you towel off, you catch the faint hint of something, then realize that Langdon buys fabric softener. It takes a moment for that fact to digest.
You change into your pajamas —a ratty t-shirt and a holey pair of sweatpants. A little embarrassing, but you packed for a secluded hotel room, not Frank Langdon's dad-chelor pad.
When you emerge from the bathroom, there's a distinct smell of pizza in the air. You pad out in too-big socks to find cushions scattered about the living room and Frank hunched over the sofa, yanking at a steel frame. His cheeks have gone red, manipulating the frame with no success.
"I didn't realize it's a…" you lose the word as you join him, tugging at the opposite side of the frame.
"Pull out," Langdon spews, exasperated and cranky.
"I'm trying!" You say as you try from a different angle.
"No," he huffs, out of breath as he stands up straight. His hands fly to his hips. "It's a pull-out couch."
"Then why isn't it pulling out?" You snap in response, peering into the mechanism.
There's no way to tell why, exactly, the mattress isn't extending like it should, so you try pushing it back in.
It creaks in stubborn response, but doesn't budge.
"It's not going back in," you grumble. Langdon grabs his end and also tries to shove the frame back in. Nothing, save for a distinct click. As though the metal decides to lock in place.
"Sssssshit," Langdon drags out the word, staring at the sofa like he might chuck it through the curtainless window. He scrubs his hand over his face, so hard he leaves white fingerprints over reddened skin.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of what to say. Do you apologize for possibly making it worse? Do you just leave?
"I'm so sorry," he bounces on his heels, shaking his hands, expelling all his nervous energy at once. "You can sleep in my bed. I'll take the floor."
"What? No, that's… that's way too much from what you've already offered," you bluster, then hook your thumb towards the door. "I'll just find a hotel, Langdon, seriously. Not a big deal."
You turn on your heel, but a large hand catches your shoulder.
"No, it's way too late for that. You'll end up in some piece-of-shit motel," he says as you spin around. You glance down to where his fingers splay across your shoulder. "And then you'll get murdered, and I'll feel just terrible about it." You roll your eyes, but he presses on. "Please, just… take me up on it?"
He looks so tired, you realize, gazing up into cloudy blue eyes.
The timer on the oven cuts through the moment in a shrill, incessant beep.
Langdon glances down at his hand, then slowly draws it back. As he wanders past you into the kitchen, you brush your fingertips over the spot, catching the residual heat.
He takes the pizza out of the oven, the pan tudding on the kitchen island. Your mouth waters at the sight of steaming, gooey cheese and pepperoni.
Langdon follows your gaze to the pizza, then smiles at you. "Will you stay?"
Every logical piece of you screams to grab your backpack and leave, but you suppose you're too damn tired for all that. "Sure," you whisper.
The pizza disappears within fifteen minutes of leaving the oven, no evidence it ever existed apart from a crumb-scattered pan. Frank changes the sheets on his bed, and tells you goodnight.
Relieved for the shower he's desperately craved, Frank follows a delicious, floral scent to the bathroom, the source of which he quickly finds on the sink.
Rose & Pearl is the scent of your body gel, though Frank's not sure where the pearl part comes into play as he sniffs the open bottle.
He catches himself in the mirror, then slowly sets the bottle back down.
Pervert, he scolds himself. Didn't even realize he picked up the damn thing.
When he steps out of the bathroom later, a trail of steam billowing behind, he exhales at the sight of the closed bedroom door. You're in there, leaving that rosy scent all over his pillowcases. His sheets.
In attempt to distract himself, he plucks his phone off the kitchen counter, only to realize it's nearly dead. "Shit," he murmurs. His eyes dart to the closed bedroom door.
He takes a deep breath before knocking.
"Yeah?" You don't sound groggy, so any potential guilt about waking you vanishes from the queue.
"Can I come in for a sec?" Frank asks.
"Yeah," you reply. The door creaks as it opens.
"Forgot my phone charger," he gestures apologetically to the nightstand on the side of the bed opposite from where you sit, propped up against the headboard.
In his bed. With your hair down, spilling around your shoulders in glossy waves. Always so put together in the ED, Frank's never seen you so… cozy.
"It's okay," you force a thin smile.
You crane your neck when Frank rounds the bed, frowning at his setup on the living room floor. Beside the broken couch lays Tanner's Paw Patrol pillow and Penny's Disney Princess blanket. A bright contrast against the drab, gray carpet. "That doesn't look very comfortable," you assess.
"It's alright," he waves off your concern. As he plucks his phone charger from behind the nightstand, he feels the weight of your eyes lingering on him. Frank turns, and finds you boring a hole through his head with your stare.
"Why don't we share?" You ask, exhaling long through your nose.
"Huh?"
"Langdon," your voice borders on an exasperated mumble as you pat the empty space on the bed. "Just lay down. It's already midnight, we're both exhausted. I don't care. It's fine."
Frank's eyes dart from you to the shoddy setup in the living room, and back. He really doesn't want to sleep on the floor.
Jesus Christ. He gives an appreciative nod. He grabs the blanket off the living room floor, and against all his better judgment, climbs into bed with you.
You turn off the lamp on your side of the bed, leaving the room mostly dark, save for the streetlight peeking in from the blinds.
The mattress is a queen, large enough for the both of you, but the space between your bodies is limited. Frank's nose is clogged with the sweet smell of your body wash. Your heat mixes with his.
Get a grip and go to sleep, Langdon, he thinks.
"Goodnight," you murmur from somewhere beside him. Frank's stomach rolls around in his gut.
"Goodnight," he whispers back. He adjusts so he's on his side, facing away from you.
A strong pair of arms looped through yours radiates warmth. Four legs all tangled up like dock knots, and a nose nudging into your hair. Your hand rests over top of the one on your hip. And somewhere between the small of your back and the curve of your rear, a firm length smushes up against you.
You whine at the feeling, not quite conscious, not quite asleep, and roll over. Your bones feel like lead, but the feeling quickly melts when that hardness rubs against your core. Pleasure shoots up through your veins.
You slowly blink awake to see the snoring figure of Frank Langdon. Your eyes widen.
Fuck, you think. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
You freeze, unsure of how, exactly, to disentangle yourself without waking him up.
He's definitely asleep. You can tell by the slow thud of his heartbreat, and the soft, lazy snoring that rumbles through his throat. Morning light stretches through the slats of the blinds, striking the top of his softly mussed hair.
So peaceful. You blink as the word crosses your mind — peaceful. Something you don't think you've felt since you moved to Pittsbrugh almost a year ago.
It's been lonely, you can admit that, especially since you have no family here, no real friends besides the ones you've made at work. Princess and Perlah, Samira. Mel. Jesse. Langdon.
Langdon, whose dick is pressed right up against your ass.
Shit. You peel away from him, starting with your legs, then roll out of the bed. Somehow he remains dead asleep, pawing at the empty space you left behind. Something self-indulgent inside of you keeps your feet glued to the ground for a moment.
His face is half-squished into the pillow, his t-shirt partially riding up to reveal a slightly hairy tummy. You can appreciate a nice figure, right? Doesn't have anything to do with the safety you felt blanketing your entire body when he touched you.
No, you insist, as you pad quietly towards the bathroom. Doesn't have anything to do with anything.
When you return about ten minutes later, teeth brushed and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, you find Langdon sat up in the bed. Eyes glued to his phone. Pillow placed over his lap.
"Morning," he inhales upon sight of you, a smile stretching across his face so tight you know it's forced. "Sleep okay?"
"Yep," you chirp, forcing a stretched smile of your own. "Like a log."
jamie's y(2k) sleepover - requests for this event are open
Daryl Dixon x Rick Grimes x fem!reader. threesome, penetrative sex, pre-established (poly) relationship, rough sex, light face "slapping" (hardly), light breath play, spitting, degradation, praise, references to free-use, some aftercare.
word count: 1.7k
Usually Rick’s the one who’ll take his anger out on you… and Daryl will warn you. They’ll come home after a shitty run and Daryl will catch your eye the second you open your mouth in case you plan to cop an attitude— “Best not piss him off right now, dollface. Yer in for it as is.”
But tonight’s different. You feel it, distracted as you are, the second Daryl comes home after a late watch shift. He walks in jaw twinging, eyes narrowed, hands clenching in and out of fists down at his side. You can’t miss it even with Rick above you, grinding his hardness against your core on the couch.
Rick, like you, only has to spare one look at Daryl to see it. The older man slows his movements, voice a low rumble. “Rough watch?”
Daryl just grunts and drops his bag by the door. Rick nods his head to the side, urging Daryl over.
“Why don’t you come join in. Blow off some steam.”
Daryl eyes you both for a moment, clearly hesitant. Wary. You watch his hands— clench, unclench, clench.
Eventually he shakes his head. “Naw.”
“Please,” You pipe up, sweet and small and so damn fuckable. “It’ll make you feel better.”
You’re way too precious. Daryl’s never been so hard. His adrenaline’s high and his blood’s pumping in his ears— all reasons why he shouldn’t get anywhere near you.
“Jus’— not now”
“She can take it.” Rick assures. He stares at Daryl, his eyes that steady blue that have never led Daryl wrong yet.
Then Rick looks at you. “Right, sweetheart? Tell him. Think he needs to hear it from you.”
“I can.” You promise with a nod. You sound more than certain. “I like it, Daryl, you know that.”
Daryl’s not sure when he’d stepped closer, but he realizes suddenly that he’s mere feet away from you. Close enough to touch. He swallows thickly. “I ain’t gonna be gentle.”
You let out a soft moan, and Rick can’t help but laugh.
“Jesus, does she have to beg for it?” Rick moves backwards off the couch, separating from you and granting Daryl access. “Get your fuckin’ pants off and fuck her already.”
Daryl’s on you in the next instant, all rough hands and clanking teeth… but you still feel his restraint. He growls against your mouth as he fumbles with the fly of his pants, and you roll your hips up into him.
“Let me have it, Daryl, please.”
“Shit,” the younger man grits out. “Goddamn, baby.”
He thrusts into you with no fanfare once his cock is freed from his boxers. You gasp at the feeling, hands grappling at his shoulders, eyelids fluttering closed. Daryl growls.
"Look at me."
You don't. If anything your eyes squeeze shut tighter at the feeling of Daryl's thickness stretching your walls. His fingers dig into your hips, his restraint waning.
"Fuckin' look at me--"
"Make her." Rick orders from over his shoulder. "Come on, man, buck up."
Daryl grunts and the last of his self-control snaps. His hand comes down to land heavy pats on your cheek-- almost smacks. The closest he's ever gotten.
"I said look at me, girl." His usually light rasp is lower and darker than you've heard it. "Or do I gotta pry your eyes open?"
"Sorry," you whimper, eyes flying open at the light sting on your cheek and Daryl's harsh tone. "Fuck, Daryl, feels so good."
"Yeah?" Daryl lilts. His hips snap ruthlessly in his frantic pursuit of release. The room rings with the sound of skin slapping skin. His eyes flit around your face, then to your bouncing tits, then down between your legs to watch his cock slide in and out of your tightness. He groans low in his throat. "Fuck, missed this pussy. Only fuckin' thing that knows how to act around here. Knows exactly what it's for, doesn't it?"
"Yes, Daryl." You moan out. That’s a far cry from the usual praise that spills from Daryl's lips, and it makes your toes curl.
"Just a hole for us to fuck, isn't that right honey?" Rick pipes up, adding to the mingled humiliation and arousal that pools in your stomach. "Always ready for us."
"Always." You whimper.
You gasp when Daryl's cock hits just the right spot-- but then he shifts, grabs your leg and hikes it up high to change the angle, and your gasp turns into a disappointed keen.
"No-- wait, I want--"
Daryl's hand comes up to cover your mouth firmly, the side of his index finger pressing lightly against your nostrils and making it hard for you to take in a full breath. "Didn't ask what you want, did I sunshine?"
Your eyes widen, your pussy clenches, and you shake your head beneath his hold. Your eyes flit briefly from Daryl's face to Rick's. You catch a glimpse of his smug smirk.
"That's right," Rick murmurs with a nod. "Tell 'er, Daryl."
Daryl grunts, thrusting hard into you. "This ain't about you. You just gotta lay there and take it. Alrigh'? You got that?"
Daryl removes his hand and you squeak out a quick "Yes."
"Attagirl." Rick praises, and when you look at him again he offers you a single satisfied nod. His arms are crossed over his chest as he watches the scene unfold. "He's makin' it real simple for you, kid, you know that? Takin' it pretty easy on ya. Don't find a way to fuck it up."
"I won't." You insist. Your eyes have glazed over the way they usually do when Rick gets rough and controlling, and when those eyes meet Daryl's his cock throbs inside you. "I'll be good, I promise. I'll take it."
"You better." He grits out. His thrusts grow sloppier, losing their quick steady rhthym as his orgasm approaches.
He leans down to kiss you, all tongue and teeth, and you whine pathetically into his mouth. Saliva connects your lips when he pulls away. The sight makes something wild and dark flash behind his eyes. Before you can really identify it, Daryl’s spitting at your parted lips. You moan as the saliva lands, messy, on your lips, tongue, chin, and cheek.
You swallow, making Daryl groan, then your tongue darts out to gather the rest of what it can. Rick’s distant “fuck” barely registers as background noise. You just blink up at Daryl, lower face shining and eyes surely as crazed as his own.
“Shit,” Daryl growls. He’s so close he feels like he could burst right open. “Gonna take my cum like a good girl?"
"Please," You moan out. "Yes, Daryl, please, want you to fill me up, want you to feel good---"
"Fuck, tha's my girl."
Daryl's forehead rests heavily on yours, his intense eyes locked on yours as he drives his hips forward one final time.
You whine lewdly at the feeling of Daryl’s warm cum spilling into you, his thick cock throbbing against your walls as it pumps out every last drop. Your hands grip into his muscled shoulders, nails digging deep crescents
“Daryl,” you whimper. “Ohmygod, feels so good.”
Daryl just groans in lieu of a response. His lips find your neck, kissing and nipping and biting as he rides out his high.
When he does, he pulls out of you quietly, slumping backwards against the arm of the couch. You’re left wanton and panting, cunt clenching uselessy around nothing.
"Here, sweetheart." Rick drawls, settling down on the couch cushion beside your head and urging you over with two fingers. "Want me to help you out?"
"Yessir," you slur breathlessly. You crawl towards Rick, slow and clumsy on shaky limbs, and he chuckles as he grasps under your arms to haul you onto his lap with a gruff “c’mere.”
You let out a tired sigh as you settle onto Rick’s lap. The man’s pent up from watching Daryl take you like that— you can tell by the rippling tendons in his arms and the hard tension in his abdomen as your warm, wet pussy envelopes his leaking cock. He chokes on his groan.
“What a good girl you are.” He murmurs, low and gentle. “Helpin’ Daryl out like that.”
Rick's hand moves between your bodies to rub circles on your clit. It's sloppy, the sound of it all as Daryl's cum leaks out of your pussy around his cock.
“Wanna be good,” you reply, near mindless. Your head falls limp against Rick’s shoulder, and you don’t move aside from the involuntary twitch of your hips at the sensitive pleasure. You just let the man to fuck up into you on his own accord.
“Y’so good, dollface.” Daryl rasps from the other side of the couch. He seems to have settled, his eyes sharp and calm as he watches Rick finish you off. Returned to himself. “Best girl I know.”
That praise does you in. You tremble in Rick’s lap as your orgasm washes over you, slow and tense and long overdue. His hand finds he back of your neck, cradling your head.
"That's it, cum for me, just like that," Rick growls in your ear. Then he presses a kiss to your temple, and his hips jut upwards two more times before he groans and adds his own load to your spent pussy.
You collapse against his chest, entirely exhausted. Another kiss is pressed to your cheekbone, prickly with stubble and making you squirm and let out a weak giggle. Rick smiles into your hairline.
"Tired?"
"Beat." You affirm. Your fingers idly trace shapes on Rick's upper arms as he rubs your back.
Daryl reappears suddenly with a damp cloth in hand. You hadn't even noticed him leave, sneaky bastard. Your smile widens when you look at him.
"Feel better, Dar?"
He grunts as he squats down behind you, waiting for Rick to pull out slowly before he can start wiping you clean. He doesn't verbally respond until you cast a pout his way.
"Yeah, 'm better." He chews his inner cheek, seeming unsure, then deadpans. "Yer pussy... it magic, or somethin?" He flashes you a look, and seems relieved to see you grinning in amusement. "Some kinda drug?"
You giggle outright at that and offer Daryl a noncommital shrug.
"Maybe. Jus' don't go tellin everybody."
Rick scoffs and shakes his head. His big hand goes lower, from rubbing soothing circles on your back to groping at the flesh of your ass. "Sharin' you's hard enough already."
summary – lazy, day off mornings with your boyfriend are your favourites.
warnings – fluff and a shitload of SMUT. day in the life, established relationship and domesticity galore. porn with a sprinkle of plot, fucking with love turned rough, fingering, p in v, cuddle fuck, prone bone, oral (f! receiving), fucked dumb, overstimulation, cum eating and aftercare.
she/her pronouns and afab!reader. reader is described to have soft stomach, other than that, no specific descriptions of body type, race or ethnicity. all lowercase for styling purposes.
a/n – i was listening to a quinn audio (first of the month by AJ – shout out to AJ, love u) as one does and whatever this horny induced piece of writing is came out. this was almost a jack abbot fic but thank @thedamnqueenofhell for talking me out of it, and thank god she did!!! hope you guys enjoy it.
dividers by uzmacchiato and andromeda-graphics
floating.
you are floating. or, at least you feel like you are floating.
you are at that state between sleep and waking up that you hear everything around you; people jogging on the street, the hum of your neighbour’s air conditioning, john’s breathing, but you are still sleeping, still dreaming.
and it is a good dream, it is. john, your boyfriend, and you are on a secluded beach somewhere in cape cod, getting toasty under the warm sun. the warmth feels so good on your skin, a welcome contrast to the cold air the AC has been blasting all night long (blame the unbearable pittsburgh summer). a smile spreads over your lips when you feel john’s skin against yours, lips touching, the wet trail of saliva carving a path from your chin to the valley of your breasts.
it is maddening.
the feeling only gets worse when his soft digits run freely around your body; a light squeeze to your bikini clad breast, followed by a harsher one that makes you moan into his mouth, a bite on your neck synchronised with a pinch on your waist, john’s fingers making their unhurried way across the soft of your stomach to where your pink and orange bikini is tied together, torturously pulling on the strings to undo the knot, even more torturously so making his way down to your drenched heat.
once, twice, three times john circles his index and middle fingers against your clit and–
da-da-da-da
the iphone’s annoying “radar” ringtone shrills around the room, making you jolt awake and scramble to get the device on your night stand, dropping it once before clumsily sliding the “slide to stop” button to the right.
it is your weekly alarm, meaning the sun is about to rise, that five in the morning has arrived and it is time for you to wake up.
or it would have been if it were a normal friday.
after carefully coordinating your days off, you and john were finally able to have a three day weekend off together.
you curse under your breath, silently praying and hoping that your slip up didn’t wake john, as it was a rare occurrence for the man to sleep so soundly at night.
you turn back to your previous spot and try to get cozy again, fluffing and hugging your pillow tighter and covering yourself with your downy duvet, when a pair of toned arms, the ones you love so much, circles your waist and brings you close to a shirtless chest.
“mornin’.” john rasped out.
“good morning, baby. sorry i woke you up.”
“it’s okay.” he soothed your worries, hugging you tighter and kissing the nape of your neck. the action makes you moan softly, and john is quick to let you know how pleased he is that his move got a small reaction from you, with a smile against the same smooth skin he had just kissed. “did you sleep well?”
“mhm.” you yawn. “i was having a really good dream before the alarm scared me awake.” you move a little in his arms, trying to find a more comfortable position, only to feel something rather… sturdy against the bare part of your ass. it makes john groan and you stifle a laugh, pretending to not have noticed his very obvious morning wood. you circle your hips once again to add a bit more fuel to the fire, and john grabs your waist gently to stop you. “what about you?”
“i passed out.” john laughs. “what were you dreaming about?”
“we were on a beach.”
john tightens his hold on you, bringing your body impossibly closer to his and, automatically, you rub your ass against his cock again, with more precision this time. the shuddering breath the both of you let out is a bit pathetic, but nothing you aren’t used to. he sneaks a hand inside your sleep shirt, the touch oh so familiar, running over the expanse of your tummy and stopping right under your right breast, where his thumb is now rubbing against the sensitive skin there. “yeah?”
there is something about john’s touch that acts like a tranquiliser on you, it calms your nerves when you are angry and turns you into putty in his hands when the both of you are horny. it is exactly what it is doing to you right now.
“mhm.” you nodded.
“which beach, baby?” john asks. the arm he has around your clavicle tightens, making you straighten up and giving him enough leverage to bring the same fingers that were playing with your underboob, to the gusset of your drenched panties. you moan a little harder this time, move your ass a little gawkily trying to get some friction. john woke up in a mood, and it is always so frustrating when he does so because he knows how to work you, knows how lazy your brain is when you have just woken up, how annoyed you get when he has the gall to “huh” you, to force you to go on when your brain is still trying to form a coherent thought. and he did it just now.
you groan. “the one i sent you the tiktok of.”
“what is it called?” john prodded, punctuating his question by finally getting his fingers inside your underwear. you tried to answer, but the feel of his fingers going up and down, up and down, from your crying hole to your clit, made you stutter and lose your train of thought. john chuckled. “herring cove, right?”
you nod.
“tell me about your dream, love.”
“we–we were at the beach. j–just us and– god, FUCK!” john slid both of his index and middle fingers inside your heat at the same time. and even with as wet as you were, it was a tight fit. it wasn’t an unbearable pain, john was always careful to never hurt you, but the ache that came with the intrusion was more pleasurable than anything. “go on, baby”
“it was just u–us at the beach. it was so, s–so good. warm and not his awful heat we have right now. i had that p–pink and orange bikini you like so much and we were– we were– john, please!” his fingers are working inside of you, not thrusting in and out like some dudes always insisted on doing, but massaging that sweet spot that makes you see stars with lazy intent.
it is driving you crazy.
“we were what, honey?”
“we–we were making out and it felt so, so good, so real. shit, j–john, i’m gonna c–“
your orgasm washes over you softly. and it feels so damn good. your skin is buzzing, that static feeling only the mix of oxytocin, dopamine and serotonin can give you when it runs through your veins, giving you that same floaty feeling you had when you were dreaming minutes ago.
it is ridiculous how john is the only man that has ever made you feel this way. yeah, you have had others before him, had a boyfriend here and there, random one night stands that you refused to think about because taking your clothes off lasted more than the act itself.
but with john? it was like a whole new world had revealed itself for you.
you met him through a friend of a friend. laura and you had met for your monthly drinks and yapping session. not even thirty minutes in, caleb, laura’s friend, showed up with his cute friend and greeted her. introductions were made, you moved to a bigger table and, next thing you knew, you had a date with john shen the next saturday. what a weekend that was. (yes, weekend.)
the orgasm made you greedy, you had to have john inside of you. your arms are still constricted by his, body so tightly held together by him that you can’t turn around. as usual, john reads your mind, or maybe you beg, your mind is so foggy with a primal need that you are not sure. all you hear is the shuffling fabric of his sleep shorts, his free hand lifting your right thigh, followed by the blunt head of his cock breaching your cunt and teeth and tongue against your shoulder.
“fuck.”
“shit.”
you moan in unison.
john starts a slow and deep pace and it is fucking annoying. not because it is bad, no, never is, but because it is hitting where you need him to from the first thrust. and you know it seems counterintuitive, but you like it when it takes a bit longer to get it right, like to chase the feeling and prolong the act.
“you feel so good, baby.” he murmurs in your ear and you try to answer him, give him one back and tell him he feels the same, but the only thing that leaves your mouth is a pathetic moan. he chuckles on top of you.
“hey, look at me. give me a kiss.” john orders, softly. his thumb presses a little harder against your cheek, just enough to turn your face back to his. you crane your neck and john meets you halfway, in a messy kiss that he has to make it right on his own, since you have already hit a blissed out state that only deepens each time the tip of his cock hits your swollen g-spot.
you can feel it creeping. the tips of your fingers are numb and you are pretty sure your thighs are starting to tremble. john isn’t far behind, he has let go of the leg he was holding and turned both of your bodies face down to the mattress. you tuck your face on your pillow, grab the edge of your mattress so hard that your knuckles whitens.
john is spewing what you assume to be a string of curses on top of you and has lost control of his hips; the once slow and deep thrusts have turned into an unruly staccato rhythm that has turned your brain into mush.
your second orgasm hits you like a freight train. it doesn’t sneak up on you and washes you softly like the first, no. it explodes, makes your vision white out and you a little deaf in your ears. slowly, you realise john has reached his peak too when you feel his cock twitching and the warmth of him emptying out inside of you. he keeps riding out both of your orgasms for five seconds or five minutes, who knows, but it becomes so unbearable you push him out.
john tries to bring you close to him, but the aftershocks of your orgasm are so strong that the contact is almost painful that it makes you whine, and he knows to let you have a second for yourself.
sometimes, an orgasm hits you so strongly that a simple kiss feels unbearable. you cried the first time it happened with john, and the poor guy was so worried he had hurt you that he panicked and got into doctor mode. you still laugh about it years later.
john stretches and gets up, makes his way to the kitchen and comes back gulping down a tall glass of water, also carrying a twin one for you in his other hand that he sets in your nightstand.
he finds you laying face up, staring at the ceiling like it is the most interesting view in the world. john tests to see if you are back on earth with a kiss on your forehead and a whispered “are you ok?”, to which you nod “yes” back.
he doesn’t give you much time for anything else, only a “john, i’m still sen–sensitive. holy fuck!” after he makes himself comfortable between your legs, grabs your thighs and licks a strip up your cunt. john eats you out, better yet, cleans you up like his life depends on it. it is maddening, it is dirty and pin pricks are starting to stab your skin again.
“john, baby, i can’t cum again.” you sob and push him away.
he rises with the most proud look on his face you have ever seen, and a mixture of both of your spents on his chin.
“what has gotten into you today?” you giggle.
no, seriously. you have gotten two earth shattering orgasms and an out of body experience and it is not even fucking five-thirty yet.
“honestly,” john says and lays back on his side, this time pulling you in to lay your head on his chest. “i was also dreaming we were having mind blowing sex on a beach. thought it was some divine signal or whatever.”
you burst out laughing. “to fuck me until i pass out?”
he shrugs and says “i don’t know.” in that mumbly voice he does sometimes. “you haven’t drank your water.”
“i will.” you yawn.
“what do you want for breakfast?” john queries.
“i could go for that cream cheese salmon bagel from down the street.” you yawn again and continue “but right now, i think we should go back to sleep.”
domesticblisss 2026. comments and reblogs are appreciated.
