Year of Birth 1988. Lover of Criminal Minds, Supernatural, TVD, TO, Marvel and celebrity fanfics(from those movies/shows)of all kinds. F. 🇨🇦 I refuse to take bullshit!
AN: my first ever fic to be posted on AO3! Read the whole fic HERE. I know a few people were interested when I posted about a Fili x Reader fic so here it is. As always, thoughts and comments welcome, requests are open.
A little taster:
As you jumped over a fallen tree your keen hearing picked up the sounds of metal on metal. You came to a stop quickly and quietly, and instinctively reached a hand down and laid it on the hilt of your dagger. Old habits died hard and you were never without a weapon when you were alone. You stood quieting your breathing, straining for the direction the sounds were coming from. They couldn’t be far ahead judging by the clear clanging you could hear, so quietly and with care you crept towards the sounds. You saw a clearing up ahead; two figures were fighting with swords, you could see the metal flashing in the morning sun. Using every single bit of your stealth you crept to the edge of the clearing willing your foot fall to stay light and not betray you by falling into a dwarven thud upon the earth. You peeked into the grassy circle and let out an almost inaudible sigh of relief, the two people sparring were none other then Dwalin, Chief of the Guard and Prince Fili, Thorin’s heir. They fought with breath taking precision. Fili was fighting with his twin swords swirling them around his body and through the air as if he was doing a violent dance. He was an incredible fighter your eyes following his every move as you watched in reverent silence. Dwalin was deftly blocking each one of his attacks with his own blade, as if he was hardly trying. Fili suddenly threw his hands up and Dwalin stepped back.
“What is it lad?” he asked, hardly any strain in his voice considering the effort he had just exerted.
“I’m just a little warm. Hold on a moment.” Fili said, slightly puffing.
He dropped his swords and grasped the hem of his light cotton shirt pulling it over his head in one smooth movement, exposing his perfectly chiselled torso. He flung it away and stretched his arms a little causing his muscles to flex and contract, you watched him now with more than just interest in his sword technique. Light blond hairs covered his muscular chest, and thinned into a single line which dragged your eyes downward over his body, taking note of his defined abs, as you saw the line of hair disappear into his pants. His arms were strong and covered in dwarven tattoos, some of which tangled from his biceps onto his chest and back. You had never seen a form like his while living among the elves. Fili was all defined muscle, body hair and tattoos. Elves were strong but lithe with perfectly smooth skin. You had never once taken any notice of Fili in this way before, you had only ever seen him as a close friend. But now confronted with his exquisite body and skill you couldn’t help yourself. A small sigh left your lips as your eyes burned into his naked back. Fili’s head whipped around at the sound, luckily you were well hidden and he didn’t see you. You had kept your presence a secret too long and would be embarrassed to announce yourself now. Fili’s eyes searched over your hiding place but he didn’t seem to find the source of the noise.
Pairing: Fili x fem!reader
Summary: Fili gives in to his desires, but fears he made a mistake. But you come to him that night, seeking more.
Warnings: smut, fluff, inexperienced reader, implied sort of age gap but not really i just wanted to say it, fingering, porn with a little plot, gentle!Fili
A/N: this actually made me want to write platonic!fili lowkey.
---
Fili had been dodging you all day.
He wasn't sure if it was shame, guilt, fear, regret. No---definitely not regret. The way your hair had glistened in the sunlight as you approached where he sat beneath a tree, your bright eyes, berry-colored lips stretched into that glowing smile, had hypnotized him in that moment as they already had for so long. And how it all seemed to lure him in like a siren song until suddenly his lips were softly against yours.
It wasn't regret. Perhaps he just felt unworthy.
Or maybe it was the shocked expression that crossed your face the moment he pulled away, the one that he couldn't identify. Was it fear? Surprise? He didn't stay long enough to find out stuttering an apology before disappearing. He couldn't get it out of his head, couldn't look at you without remembering what he'd done---like he'd taken something that wasn't his. The feeling settled like a rock in his belly, unshakable.
He felt hot, almost feverish while he tended to his duties. When he returned to his bedchamber that night, he stripped out of his coat and boots and tunic, leaving them strewn by the threshold, and sank into a cold bath. His head pounded, and he couldn't understand why this sickness lingered. It wasn't like he hadn't kissed someone before, and it certainly wasn't that he was bad at it. He closed his eyes, trying to let the cool water soothe his aching head.
He went to bed early that night, shortly after dinner. He'd look on the day with new eyes when he awoke, and surely then he'd know what to do. How to fix this. How to get his friend back.
---
You padded down the halls with bare feet, eyes bleary from sleep, dressed only in your almost-sheer white night dress. You'd tried to rest, to sleep off the spiraling, but your mind just wouldn't shut up.
You kept reliving it. The little crinkle in his eyes as he looked affectionately at you, little white caps of sunlight in a sea of blue, closing as he leaned close to kiss you. Then, the scratch of his mustache against your face, and the cold surprise of the little metal beads tapping your jaw. But none of it compared to the warmth of his lips. How pleasantly soft they were, nothing like you'd expected.
Although you weren't really sure what you'd expected, if anything at all. Before then, you supposed you hadn't really thought about it. You loved Fili, that was for certain. He'd been your closest friend and confidant on the journey to Erebor, and guided you to acclimate to dwarven culture after it was retaken. You'd always loved being close to him, spending your free days roaming the surrounding wilderness, letting him teach you to hunt. Even spending cold nights snuggled up next to him, wrapped up in his cloak because clearly you needed it more. But you'd never even thought of the possibility of a kiss. He was a prince---of Erebor, no less. What could he possibly want with a hobbit like yourself?
There was before the kiss, and now you lived in this endless sea of after. And all you could think about was how badly you wanted more of it. There were questions you had that needed answering, but surely that could wait. Now, you just needed to find him.
The tiny taps of your feet came to a halt suddenly, and a light touch of fingertips coaxed open the huge wooden door in front of you, just enough to catch a glimpse of the glowing hearth at the opposite end of the room.
Mustering confidence you didn't know you had, you pushed the door open just enough to slip through and close it softly shut behind you with a quiet thud. The dwarven prince, sprawled half-naked on the bed, golden curls messy and undone, stirred at the small sound. He was accustomed to such high alertness, even in deep sleep.
You remained pressed against the door, a nervous flicker in your eyes as he slowly woke fully, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. When his gaze fixed on you, his eyebrows raised a little. You were not who he'd expected to see, even though it wasn't the first time you'd awoken him so late at night. Only this time, it wasn't due to nightmares.
Usually he'd be in front of you in seconds, asking if you were okay, inspecting you for physical ailments. Not tonight. Tonight, he eyes revealed a timidness as if he wasn't sure you were really here.
"Fili," you whispered, your voice a tiny peep as you nervously pushed away from the door, walking to his bed. You perched at the foot, your legs folded up beneath you. Fili pushed back the heavy furs as he shifted to sit closer in front of you. In the dim firelight, your eyes traced over his broad, muscled shoulders.
"I---" he began, cheeks flushing crimson as he became flustered just looking at you. "I was out of line today," he admitted. "I shouldn't have done what I did. It was... disrespectful. Undignified."
You cocked your head to the side. Surely he wasn't feeling guilty about this. You were so sure he'd just regretted it. You'd come here tonight desiring more. You wanted him to kiss you again. But you could hear it in his trembling voice. He didn't regret it... he thought you did.
"No," you whispered breathily, taking his warm hand into your colder one. "I... it was... I liked it, Fi."
You looked sheepishly up from under dark lashes. "It felt... good, and I... I want..."---your cheeks flushed a berry color that matched your shivering lips---"I want more. Want you to..."
Fili's entire body physically relaxed as you said the words. He was breathing easier now, rubbing a calloused thumb gentle over the back of your hand---but his heart still raced. He was glad you couldn't hear it. "Tell me," he whispered. "Anything you want, Kurkanukê."
It almost surprised him how easily he was willing to give you everything. Never in all his years had he felt so naturally servient to someone. Like the only thing that mattered to him was you. It made his whole world feel new, like you'd brought him to life.
You gazed at him, all warm and sleepy and disheveled, golden skin and soft eyes illuminated with dim firelight. Lips and cheeks a little flushed, hair curly and tousled. You'd never seen him like this, so raw. Never even thought to imagine it. But now? You wanted to know how every part of him felt under your fingertips. You wanted to know what his touch felt like---those gentle hands that had so often wrapped you in bear hugs or helped you over rocky terrain. What else could they make you feel?
He watched you as if you were a dream, and if he wasn't careful, he'd wake up.
"I've just... never..." you began, shrinking a little. You felt slightly embarrassed, harboring all these thoughts and desires when your first kiss had only been hours before. Your eyes fell away, staring into the dying embers of the hearth.
Fili felt even guiltier when you said it. He would be your first.
"Look at me," he whispered, squeezing your hands. "I do not want anything you're not certain of."
"I'm certain, Fi," you assured. Mahal knows how badly you wanted him to make you feel things you'd never felt before. "I just haven't ever... done it."
He exhaled, smiling softly at you as his thumbs ran over the back of your fingers. "I'll take care of you," he whispered. "Just like I always have. I promise you that, lass."
You breathed out a little sigh. He'd take care of you.
"And you tell me if it's too much, or too soon, yeah?"
You nodded.
Smiling softly, he guided your arms toward him, beckoning you to crawl into his lap. It wasn't exactly new---there were nights he'd hold you as you cried from nightmares, even nights you'd be snuggled in his lap while he read a book to you. But this was different. Almost like he was afraid you'd break or run off like a scared fawn. But his chest was warm and soft and inviting as you settled within his embrace, letting him pull the furs over your bare shoulder.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn't so hasty this time. You felt it all, the tenderness of his lips, testing your waters. Waiting for permission. The soft scratch of his beard and his mustache, a little tickly against your smooth skin. The cold beads that surprised you every time they rubbed against your jaw. The way his muscular arm wrapped securely around your back and held you in place. The comfortable seat of his thighs under you.
He kissed you with reverence, careful fingers tracing the outline of your jaw and the shell of your ear, and then carding through your messy tresses of hair.
His lips trailed then to your cheek, and down the side of your neck. You cast your gaze down to watch him.
"Is this alright?" he whispered, blue eyes catching yours briefly.
"Yes," you breathed.
His hands followed your curves beneath your thin dress. How badly he wanted to run his thumbs over your nipples and hear the little gasps it caused, to cup the roundness of your breasts and watch your bitten lips part in a soft moan. But he kept them safely resting on your hips. He pledged to be slow with you.
Then to his surprise, your hands toyed with the hem of your dress until you got a hold of it, and pulled it over your head. This time, it was his jaw that fell open a little.
He traced the shape of you, running tentative fingertips down the center of your chest and your belly. Your skin was softer than he could have ever imagined.
You were less willing to wait at this point. He'd teased long enough. You just wanted to feel him touch you.
Taking his wrists into your hands, you placed his warm palms over your breasts and leaned in to kiss him again. "Please, Fili," you whimpered softly as you pressed your lips against his. "Need it."
His fingers were buried between your legs in no time, rubbing over your wet pussy, discovering what noises you made at each little touch. Your fingers dug into his shoulders.
"Will you turn over for me, lass?" he whispered.
You nodded readily, flipping your body so that you now sat in his lap with your back against his chest. You let your head fall back on his shoulder, feeling his hands caress down your body again as he planted soft kisses between your neck and collarbone. You could feel how hard he was beneath you, and admired his restraint in doing nothing about it. You stretched your legs out in front of you, hooking them around his as you settled further between his thighs.
"Just lie back," he murmured. "You tell me if you want to stop."
You nodded, arching your back in frustration. You were feverish for him, and the wetness between your legs wasn't going away.
He didn't make you wait any longer. A thick finger dipped gently between your folds again, picking up your slickness before carefully prodding at your hole. You gasped a little at the feeling.
"Shh, shh," he hushed affectionately. "Just one, love."
His steady hand came to rest on your belly, holding you tight in place while he worked on you.
You winced when his finger pushed gently past your entrance, coaxing your tight hole open with careful movements. His voice soothed you in your right ear where his head was tucked against yours, whispering sweet praise at how good you were doing, how wet you were for him.
Before you knew it, one thick finger was submerged inside you, stilling a little while you adjusted, curling against the soft flesh as soon as you were ready.
"Oh, Fili," you cried, your hands clutching his thighs that caged you in. He smiled as you clawed at him, trying to gain leverage.
"Come here, lass," he whispered, gently grabbing your arms and bringing them up above your head, resting over his shoulders where your hands nestled in his hair. His finger plunged deeper and your hands gave a light tug to his hair---just what he'd wanted you to do---as another groan echoed from your lips.
The heel of his hand rocked against your clit, sending little shockwaves against the bundle of nerves, filling you with a delicious warmth. This wasn't unfamiliar---you'd touched yourself before. But it was so different with Fili, so safe. Like you were meant to be here in his bed, surrounded by his smell and his heat.
"Fi, I'm close," you whimpered, feeling that familiar weakness overtake your limbs as you began to tremble.
He hummed against your temple, tracing his free hand back down the underside of your arm, brushing over the peak of your breast and down your side. His featherlight touch sent you over the edge. Your right leg shook uncontrollably as you bit your lip, stifling a cry as the sensations exploded inside you, wracking your body with fire.
Fili held onto you through it, whispering praise as you rode it out. When his finger became too much for you and you squirmed in his embrace, he gently pulled out, tugging the furs back over to cover you.
You lay trembling in his arms for a moment, fearing what would happen next. You'd never done this before, and suddenly you felt overwhelmingly vulnerable. You hadn't realized the quiet tears that had slipped down your face until Fili was kissing them off your cheeks, holding your face in his hands like you were a precious gem.
"Are you alright, amrâlimê?" he looked deep into your eyes for any sign of unsureness, regret, fear, pain. Anything he could make better. But you nodded, your flushed lips curling into a soft smile as you closed your eyes, tucking your head under his chin.
"Sleep, lass," he whispered, his hands moving around you to stroke your back. "And if you need anything, just wake me again."
Born into Middle Earth like a lamb made for slaughter,
A fallen child consumed by the wolf,
Run now child,
Thou Heathen blood shall not return to the earth,
They love you but shall not safe you,
May the earth be your home, Thou shall not escape thy lineage
or:
Dark forces slither out of their holes again, creeping slowly back over Middle Earth. The hard fought peace slightly breaking. When the hearts of all the races inhabiting Middle Earth become corrupt, Gandalf seeks the help of Luelle the bastard daughter of Mîm to help him reclaim the lonely mountain; for if they fail the dark forces succeed and the races of middle earth are doomed. The time when Thorin Oakenshield once again saw light at the end of his grief- stricken tunnel. The time Luelle found out what home is.
! this is a work of fiction, this work is meant to be enjoyed. All credits go to their original creators except from my characters and plotline!
warning: mentions of dead bodies, depictions of fighting & violence!
Stirring the vegetables around her bowl like a small child, Luelle rolled her eyes at Gandalf for the hundredth time. She still for the life of her could not comprehend why her long- time friend wanted her to be apart of the conversation at hand. Hearing the rainfall outside, her mind started to wander, thinking about the fact she now would much rather be sat outside next to the horses, than in the presence of this descendant of Durin.
The ‘’important guest’’ her friend had invited, had introduced himself to be Thorin Oakenshield. He now was sat right across the table, next to Gandalf and carefully eating his dinner. His raven- coloured hair hung wildly down his face, a few beads woven into a thick braid. Strands of grey hair mixed themselves with the others, the light shining from the fireplace reflecting of off them. He held his face down- seemingly trying to not get recognized as much, for the men whom were flanking their table were still sat on both sides opposite of each other.
The grey- hooded wizard silently analysed his friends behaviour. The woman before him looked like a toddler being denied sweets. He found it hilarious, really; having a feared warrior scowl over the presence of a dwarf. They had only been introduced to one another, having not even properly spoken. A quick laugh escaped from the wizard, fully ignoring the two men flanking them.
What a madman, Luelle thought.
Finally having had enough of the uncomfortable silence, and with her patience disappearing, Luelle finally spoke: “ Mithrandir, what business irks your mind?”
At this the wizard looked straight into the emerald eyes of Luelle, narrowing them and moving his head to look towards Thorin- who already looked towards the grey wizard.
“ I wanted us to meet here, because I have recently come across some nasty beings on my way towards the North. They had been carrying a message written in Black Speech, intending to look for the person of whom was spoken. Luckily, when one of them mistook me for a beggar, I managed to obtain the message, and was able to decipher the script.”
The wizard, upon finishing his sentence, threw a stained piece of fabric towards the centre of the table. Luelle’s eyes immediately shot towards the fabric, scanning it and gasping when she read the script. Her eyebrows shot up, resulting in a shocked expression forming on her face. The utensils which had been used as stirring tools, clattered on the table.
“ Why would this be asked now?’’ Luelle asked.
“ Be asked what? ’’ The dwarf responded, not understanding Luelle’s reaction. He thought of her as a strange woman, someone whom should not be apart of the conversation he intended on having with Gandalf. Still, he couldn’t understand why he found her so interesting. Having heard the tales about this silent hunter : Luelle Lorienna , moving through shadows as if they were her home; slaying beasts terrorizing the good beings of Middle- Earth. An elvish bounty- hunter, yet something was different- maybe even slightly familiar, something which contributed in his distrust towards her. Why would an elf feel so familiar?
Both elf and wizard seemed hesitant upon hearing the dwarf ask that question, for they didn’t know how to properly answer it. The message spoke of Thorin’s head; cut off and tied up, as gift for the defiler.
Luelle did not want to think about the defiler. Just the thought of him made her skin crawl. Her gaze became clouded and before she knew it she could not think any longer. A dark shadow clouded her mind and shivers ran through spine, invoking a burning- like sensation which settled upon the scars littered across her back. Scars inflicted by that very orc. A sense of dread filled her entire being. The pale orc, indeed was a defiler; not only of the land but also the living.
Sensing darkness clouding Luelle’s mind, the wizard finally decided to answer Thorin; who, rightfully so, looked very confused at the lack of answers he expected to receive. Having noticed Luelle becoming entirely mute, the dwarf became visibly stressed. What horrors could be written on the fabric, for a feared warrior to become speechless?
“The message speaks of a payment.” The wizard began. Thorin’s eyes locked onto Gandalf.
“What sort of payment?’’
Following these words, Gandalf stared directly into the dwarfs direction.
“Your head.’’
It was as though all air had been knocked out of Thorin’s chest. All colour drained from his face, leaving him as pale as a corpse. Perhaps he had known what was written, perhaps he had wanted to hope; hope he was not hunted. But after all, deep down he knew he would never find such stability.
“Who sends his regards?’’ the dwarf asked mockingly. The wall of broodiness that was shattered moments before due to the shock, was now rebuild and protected him again.
“I think you know who.’’ Luelle suddenly replied. Her voice stern.
“I do not.” Thorin replied annoyed. The woman sat across the table seemed to irritate him more as time went on. What would she know about him?
Not wanting a fight to break out, Gandalf interfered: “ You have a lot of enemies, Thorin Oakenshield. Too many to count if you ask me. A lot of beings are after Erebor’s gold, what makes you think they would not be after the very heir who’s meant to inherit it?’’
Luelle shockingly looked at her old friend. Why would Gandalf refrain from telling Thorin the truth? A truth which he out of all peoples should know?
Upon seeing the puzzled look on Luelle’s face, the wizard immediately began: “ Which is why you must reclaim Erebor. Call upon the dwarf lords and call upon their oath to the line of Durin. Tell them the dragon will awaken, tell them it is time.”
“ Why ask this of me now, Gandalf? This is not the reason I am here. How do you know Smaug will awaken? Thorin asked. The dwarf did not understand what was going on, why he was asked to sit together with an elvish bounty- hunter and talk about reclaiming his home. His people had been in exile for 171 years, rebuilding a new life and silently accepting their home to be lost forever. His main reason for taking a journey towards Bree was because he had heard whispers of his father, Thrain, to be seen wandering the forests. He had been searching, alone, for about two weeks when he came across the grey- hooded wizard. Or perhaps, the wizard came across him.
It finally started to make sense. Gandalf had been looking for him intentionally, it had not been pure coincide; but a decision made by the fates. He was meant to meet the wizard and the wizard was meant to meet him.
“How sure are you, Gandalf?’’ Thorin asked. His brows were furrowed together. If the wizard indeed knew that Smaug would awaken; he indeed must act for he knew it was told so, in a prophecy many years ago when the ache of loosing his home was still fresh. It was his father that had shown him the tapestry, however lost it would be now, he still could remember the glimmer in his father’s eyes when the words left his mouth. Perhaps this is why he heard rumours of his father’s dwellings. He must’ve known about the dragon, which is why he must’ve tried to make his way towards the mountain.
Eagerly looking towards the wizard, Thorin’s hearth located itself in his throat. He was sure his two companions could hear it beating, for he could not control the nerves from forming.
This entire time Luelle had been quiet. Silently observing both dwarf and wizard from her seat. She knew Gandalf long enough to know she should not question him when he was lying, for she knew the wizard was onto something; something which should not be disturbed. She indeed had heard rumours about that dragon, she indeed had seen the growing darkness gathering again in Middle- Earth and as one of the guardians of Arda she knew Gandalf was initiating a quest. A mission necessary. Even then she knew her role in this quest- for she was no fool.
Luelle Lorienna would need to slay the dragon and help the descendants of Durin reclaim their home. Home, a concept so foreign to her, yet a concept so important for others.
Looking quickly into Luelle’s eyes, Gandalf knew she understood her mission. The guardians exchanged a brief glance, giving them both their needed convincement. Now it would only Thorin to be informed ,for it indeed would be a matter of light and darkness- a matter which was well known among the eccentric pair of friends.
~
The informing, and convincing of Thorin Oakenshield would be considered done. Even the companionship of Luelle had been accepted, which had come as much as a surprise to Luelle as to Gandalf. There had only been one rule: do not involve yourself in business which was not meant for you. A rule deemed almost too easy, according to Luelle. She felt no need in middling about in that dwarves’ business. The elf simply could not care less.
He is a strange man. Luelle thought whilst she quickly ducked from a low- hanging branch.
It was still raining, and the sky painted dark with different shades of blue. Grey clouds could still be lightly seen hanging low, hinting at an upcoming mist for the morning to come.
It had been three weeks since the meeting at the Prancing Pony and Gandalf had asked to meet him near the Shire, so they could travel together to meet the last member of the would be company. A place where Luelle had voiced her disagreement for, however the wizard was unconvinced and told Luelle to just deal with it. A perfect summary of their relationship.
“That damned wizard and his love for halflings.” Luelle muttered only for her horse to hear. She did not hate halflings, for she thought of them as lovely beings; lovely and not meant for a highly dangerous journey across Middle-Earth. This explained why Luelle Lorienna was now on her way towards the Shire, a place she almost never frequented; aside from the fact she once almost entered when she was being chased by three werewolves. However that is a story for another time; perhaps if she ever sat around a fireplace with actual beings she would tell it, but now she decides to not linger there with her mind again. After all, those wolves left some nasty marks on her arms.
This was who she was. A woman, hardened by the years of solitude and war. Taking on conquest after conquest just so she could afford some bread. Years of hunting had given her a reputation amongst the souls living in Middle- Earth. A reputation nobody questioned. Yet it would seem not everyone had heard the tales of the assassin in the shadows.
A rustling of bushes echoed from behind the huntress.
Footsteps stomping quickly on the ground.
The sound of iron clanking against armour resonated through the air.
The raindrops now sounded vaguely in the background as Luelle’s ears picked up the noises coming from the great darkness behind her.
Raev, the war-horse from elvish lands shuddered at the feeling of the darkness descending upon him. Walking faster, trying to get his rider far removed from the threat.
Faint voices could be heard whispering. The sound rapidly growing closer.
The huntress gracefully moved her hand towards her belt, moving towards her sword sheeted in a brown holder.
Suddenly, the entire forest grew silent. No raindrops descending down onto the earth, no faint birdsong in the distance and certainly no noise coming from behind Luelle. Everything was eerily quiet, as if all life was sucked from that part of the forest.
Then, a roar.
A screech followed.
Descending from the treeline, four filthy- looking orcs jumped down, attacking Luelle.
From the distance, Luelle’s ears picked up fast pacing paws running towards their owners.
Fuck. Luelle thought.
Come get some.
Swiftly Luelle swung her sword across one of her attacker’s necks. Blood spattered onto the forest floor. A loud scream could be heard wallowing through the forest. The perishing of one of the four orcs made Luelle press her knees and ankles into her horse’s side. One hand holding onto the reigns while the other fought of her assailants.
Raev jumped onto his hind legs and kicked one of the approaching wargs against his snout. A loud cry emerged from the beast and it disappeared into the darkness again.
Biting her lip, the elf fought off two other orcs whilst Raev distanced the two of them from the other beasts attacking. It had been a rehearsed dance both rider and horse had participated in countless of times.
And they always won.
The metal of Luelle’s sword just finished of the last attacker, when suddenly more footsteps could be heard coming from the distance.
Looking back, Luelle quickly formed a new plan in her mind.
Then she softly nudged Raev towards that sounds and quietly murmured: “I think we ought to take a detour, my friend. We first have some friends to greet.”
Sensing the determination, Raev galloped towards the upcoming footsteps. Sensing the presence of a darkness growing, he bowed his head and led his rider into battle.
wordcount: 3677
summary: One of Sammy’s lore yap-sessions leads into your quiet admiration put into actions.
warnings: sam x reader, early seasons sammy in mind, established relationship, smut (oral m!receiving, kind of over the clothes, not quite premature ejaculation but my guy definitely tried his best to hold it for longer, you make him keep talking through it), he’s such a nerd #needthat
Sam once more had that look on his face– same one you’ve gotten more and more used to spotting. Those furrowed brows, the gentle dimples on his cheek and those ridiculously soft puppy-eyes he got when on the edge of one of those obscure rants. That face always meant he was about to go on and on about history long forgotten by everyone else– those weird cryptic legends, myths, ancient texts or hunting overall…
Right now, he’s sat comfortably on the motel bed, long limbs stretched out and back propped up against the headboard and his hair messy both from the nap he’d just taken and your finders carding through it. John’s hunting journal is resting open on the bed beside y’all on the mattress, your legs bracketing his hips and hands resting gently over the warmth of his chest.
“... so the thing with ancient demonology is–” Sam keeps on explaining with that deep concentration he got when talking about these topics. “ –most people confuse the different classes of demons, like Babylonian’s spirits have totally distinct classifications. They have this one species– Assaku, that are more of a disease creature. But there’s others like Rabisu that are fully in the shadows type of entities–” His hazel eyes are bright with enthusiasm, glowing with that professorial knowledge he got when deep into lore. His voice speeds up as he speaks, gaining momentum whenever he remembered yet another fact.
For the most part, you didn’t even follow his trail of thought– not really at least. Sure, you had your fair amount of hunting knowledge but whenever Sam started rambling? The terms and definitions sort of start blurring together, ancient languages mixing inside your head. It didn’t matter though. Not because you weren’t paying attention or interested– God, no. But because you were completely and utterly mesmerized by him. By his hands, intimate and gentle now resting on your thighs as if your presence was something he couldn’t not not react to– even while deep into his lecture. Every once in a while, you’d offer a soft: ‘mhm’ … ‘really?’ … ‘huh’ Not enough to cut him off, but just the right amount to keep him talking, showing him you were paying attention. You weren’t as focused on his looks by themselves as much as the devotion behind them. The reverence and passion behind a man who lived too much inside his head and finally had a chance to open up.
Sam hadn’t even noticed your silence or how you were completely captivated by him– not by his stories but your boyfriend himself.
Finally registering the quietness, he paused mid sentence. Not only the silence itself but how the silence was– that kind of soft, deep silence. Something like wonder, like you thought he was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen in your life. For some reason, he suddenly felt… shy? A rare, slow flush crept up his neck as realization hit him: he’d been rambling for thirty minutes straight about ancient Mesopotamian demon classification without checking if you cared even a little bit.
His hands stilled on your thighs, voice dropping from lecturer mode into something quieter, warmer– a little sheepish now that he wasn’t losing himself in knowledge anymore. “Uh…” Sam said softly, a hint of nervousness to his gentle smile, vulnerable behind all that intelligence and muscle he carried through life. “Was I talking too much?”
There was an endeared smile now pulling at your lips, eyes soft as they look down at him, shaking your head. “Not at all, Sammy” You hum, fingers gently running through his hair, brushing it away from his face.
God. How you called him Sammy– that stupid, affectionate nickname only you or Dean ever used– soft and sweet like honey instead of teasing like his brother might use, Jesus that did things to him. And then your fingers were in his hair again with tender strokes that made his heart squeeze and warmth spread through his chest, he leans into the touch instinctively– like a shelter puppy meeting its person for the first time, eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening them again to look at you properly. That smile of yours… God, that stupidly perfect smile– the kind that could end wars with how much love was packed into it and it was aimed at him of all people.
He lifted both hands to cradle your face and gently kissed you on the lips, before pulling back with those kind dimples of his. “You’re ridiculously cute when you ramble, Sammy” You murmur, fingers brushing the strands of hair away from his forehead. “D’you know that?” Lips brushing his with every amused, fond word.
The hunter froze for a second– not because of the kiss, Hell no, but because your words made something fuzzy flutter in his chest. Cute. You thought his rambling was cute. Him? Sam Winchester? The same guy who could recite entire chapters of ancient Sumerian demonology from memory, the same guy who could bench press a grown man while taking out a vengeful spirit? Was being called cute by his girlfriend. His (usually sharp brain) short-circuited for a moment, face flooding with heat that spread all the way down his neck and probably even to his chest.
And then you kissed him again between those soft murmurs– lips brushing like quiet whispers, shattering whatever dignity he had left. Sam made tiny noises in the back of his throat (the kind Dean would’ve teased him mercilessly if he ever found out) before pulling you closer into him and deepening the kiss slightly– not hungry or desperate, but slow… sweet, full of everything warm and quiet they shared when it was just them like this: tangled up together on messy motel sheets. “Mh” You hum against his lips, pulling back only to press another soft, brief kiss before pulling back once more. Hands gently cradling the back of his neck, threading through the hairs there. “Tell me more, Sammy” You coo, tender eyes fixed on him with a mix of awed fascination and something closer neediness.
Sam’s breath audibly stuttered at the sound of that coo– low and sweet, vibrating against his lips. That last kiss, so fleeting and tender like a bee landing on a flower, he felt something in his chest clench. God, he could never get used to this type of love. And then you asked. Not sarcastically, not politely pretending to care… But like you actually wanted him to keep talking. His throat tightened– for once it wasn’t from nerves, but from sheer disbelief that someone could ever look at him like that… touch him like that… kiss him like that… And still want more of his voice, more of his nerdy rambles about dead languages and ancient spirits.
Someone help him, he definitely wasn’t strong enough.
He swallowed hard, eyes darkening slightly with affection without breaking away from your gaze (those big doe eyes doing things to his very soul), he leaned back into your hands cradling the back of his neck before speaking again. Voice lower now– somehow even softer than before, still brimming with passion for the subject. “The Asakku weren’t just disease demons” He murmurs softly between gentle kisses to your temple, as if punctuating each word against your skin. “They were cursed entities born from sorcery gone wrong” “Mhm?” You quietly egg him on, eyes looking up at him with full, sweet attention while softly kissing down his neck.
The Winchester’s pulse fluttered the moment your lips brushed his neck– soft, featherlight kisses trailing down the column of his throat and he had to focus on physically biting back a groan. Your attention was killing him. Not just because you were kissing him (which okay, Hell yes) but because despite everything else, you were still listening. Big eyes staying locked on him whenever y’all’s faces came close again, like every word out of his mouth mattered more than anything else in the world. It made him want to talk forever.
So in spite of the goosebumps rising along every inch your lips touched his skin, Sam kept going– the scholar in him refusing to stop mid-sentence even as pleasure hummed through his body. “The Babylonians believed an Asakku could be summoned accidentally” He whispered hoarsely between shaky breaths, pushing through your gentle kisses. “By saying forbidden words or touching cursed artifacts…” His voice dipped lower with each syllable– not from boredom or monotony, just… distracted. Distracted by how warm your breath felt against his sensitive skin, how gently those fingers threaded through his hair…
“Really?” You prop him, sweetly keeping him talking as your mouth works over his neck, lips trailing the soft skin– one hand on the back of his head while the other slowly trails down his broad chest.
Sam’s breath came faster now– shallow, uneven breaths, his fingers flexing against your hips where they still rested like an anchor. Every brush of your lips sent electric tingles down his spine. That spot just below his ear? Fatal. You’d discovered it by accident months ago and hadn’t stopped exploiting it ever since. And now, paired with those slow drags of your fingertips tracing over the hard planes of his chest, down the ragged fabric of that same shirt he’s been sleeping in since he was seventeen and hit a growth spurt– yeah, he was definitely losing coherence. But still… he tried. “Y-yeah” He stammered slightly (a rarity for a guy who could quote latin poetry flawlessly), voice dropping into something gravelly and thick like syrup. “Some texts say that if someone finds an Asakku’s name carved in clay, reads it aloud without protection…” His words faltered when you nipped lightly at the responsive patch on the side of his throat– a tiny gasp escaping him before he could stop it, academic rigor crumbling by the millisecond.
“Mhm… What happens then, Sammy?” You murmur softly, kind and curious, bambiesque eyes on him even as your hand keeps trailing lower down his torso– fingers gently tracing the v shape of his abdomen.
Your boyfriend’s abs tensed the second your fingers dipped lower, following the defined line that disappeared into his jeans– his mind was melting. On one hand: ancient Mesopotamian demonology. Important stuff. Dangerous stuff. On the other hand: you, touching him like this. Asking questions with that voice– the softest, most endearing tone as if his every word was sacred while simultaneously reducing him to a mumbling mess. “You uhm, you get possessed” Sam finally manages to answer in a low breath, even rougher than before as your fingers dip dangerously close to waistband territory. “The Asakku gets inside you” He swallowed hard while you traced that damn v line– not rushing but clearly not stopping either.
“That so?” You kept murmuring with calm words, wide eyes never leaving his as your face moves down his body, lips trailing over his stomach.
Jesus Christ. Sam’s body locked– not from awkwardness or fear, just from sensation. Pure, overwhelming, devastating sensation. Your mouth following the path of your fingertips, reverent kisses along the hard ridges of his abdomen where you’d pushed his shirt up. Every nerve in his body screamed in protest because how dare you put him through this while he’s trying to teach ancient demon lore? (And also, how dare you be this good at unraveling him? You were barely even doing anything for Christ’s sake) His breath came in short bursts now– not quite panting but dangerously close to it. One hand lifted instinctively to tangle gently into your hair, not pushing or pulling, just… holding, needing something solid to anchor himself to.
Your name slipped out on an exhale that sounded more like a plea than a protest or anything academic-related. The Asakku could’ve possessed ten thousand people right then and Sam wouldn’t have cared– not when your mouth was moving lower and lower down his body.
“Keep talking, Sammy” Damn, he wanted to do that so badly. Anything you asked of him really– especially with those doe eyes looking up at him. “Wanna hear your voice” And God how you were looking up at him. All innocent, wide eyes staring into his hazel ones while your lips hovered just above the sensitive dip of his navel– asking him to keep talking? Like this wasn’t slowly dismantling every coherent thought in his brain.
His voice, you wanted to hear his voice? Not because you were passionate about Babylonian curses– but because it was his. The sound of him speaking, his rambles, the nerdy little lectures he usually saved for Dean while working cases (who shamelessly rolled his eyes) or his father (who he hadn’t even seen in over a year) and now you. The woman that made Sam Winchester feel like he could both be a scholar and someone who loved without apology– was practically begging for more of him with kisses as a bribe. He opened his mouth, hesitated, then with a voice already wrecked from trying not to groan: “The Asakku, once inside, takes control” Swallow to steady himself, fingers tightening slightly in your hair as another kiss lands on the juncture of his hip. “Makes you sick first, then violent…” Meanwhile, you keep humming soft ‘mhm’s and ‘what else’s encouraging as your hands oh so innocently pull at his jeans, mouth gently kissing him through his boxers.
Sam’s entire body arched off the bed. It wasn’t a full on sit-up, just a sharp, involuntary lift of his hips from the mattress– enough to betray how utterly wrecked he was. Her mouth, through the thin fabric of his boxers. God this wasn’t fair. The soft kiss, right over where he was already hard from this slow torture some might call ‘affectionate interrogation’. After all, it wasn’t aggressive or demanding, just… sweet, curious little kisses like you had all day to unravel him completely with tenderness alone. Hell, it definitely worked better than any other seduction might’ve worked on another man.
He choked out your name again, this time cracking halfway through from sheer desperation wrapped in awe because– holy shit, you liked listening. Genuinely liked it. Enough to be reverently kissing down every inch of his body, which definitely was something.
A needy plea breaks him out of his inner turmoil, a quiet, sweet: “Please keep talking, Sammy” Those damn eyes looking up at him, your mouth wrapping around the leaking head of his dick through the fabric of his boxers in a delicate kiss.
He could’ve died a happy man right then and there.
Your lips had pressed through the thin cotton right over the sensitive tip of him, already leaking with way too much need for a man supposedly thinking about demonic possession. His hands flew from your hair down to grip the sheets on either side of his hips, hard enough for his knuckles to whiten from the strain. “Fucking– Jesus Christ” He whispered hoarsely– not blasphemy because to him this was genuinely prayer worthy.
Those wide eyes were still on him, innocent, hungry attention full onto what he had to say– asking him (more like pleading actually) to keep talking.
Unfortunately, Sam’s brain had short-circuited completely. He couldn’t form words. Couldn’t remember what an Asakku even was. Forgot the word ‘demon’ for a flash. Hell, he might’ve forgotten his own name for a solid three seconds.
All he knew was heat– so much heat, and your mouth. Your warm, devastating mouth– still pressed against him through that thin layer of fabric, completely innocent as if you weren’t about two kisses away from making him cream his pants like a goddamn teenager at prom. His broad chest rose fast under uneven breaths, shallow panting as one hand finally let go of the death grip on the sheets and instead cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over it with reverence. “The uhm… the Asakku, it feeds” His voice cracked between syllables from how his dick twitched under your lips. “On fear– it feeds on fear” He manages to push through. All you replied was a muffled ‘mhm’ against his length, still mouthing at him through the dampness of his boxers.
Sam’s hips twitched once more. A tiny jerk, just an inch upward– not enough to crowd but desperately following your touch. And God, the dampness definitely wasn’t helping. The younger Winchester’s underwear was ridiculously soaked through now with the undeniably slickness of his arousal– his body betraying the restraint he prided himself on as a disciplined hunter able to remain in control under pressure.
Each exhale from Sam’s mouth was shaky, every inhale desperate as all the stimulation slowly built up into something unbearable. He was drowning in sensations. The painful throbbing of his dick, the softness of your lips even through layers of clothing, the gentle hums that vibrated like earthquakes through his spine, the way you kept looking up at him like he was your whole world and not just another nobody in a sea of hunters. His hand (the one not still gripping the sheets) moved again, sliding from your cheek and into your hair once more. It wasn’t pushing or guiding, just… holding there. Then, a broken whisper of your name escapes, accompanied by an: “I can’t” Not I can’t talk, not I can’t think. Nope, just… “I can’t”
“Yes you can, Sammy” You encourage him with soft, honeyed words. “Keep talking please, lemme hear you, sweet boy”
Oh God, the second you called him sweet boy– his heart actually stuttered in his chest. As if your mouth working him over his pants wasn’t enough to drive him fully crazy, you now had to hit him right in the praise kink buried deep inside him.
Sweet boy? Him?
Sam Winchester– the guy who’d punched a literal werewolf so hard its jaw unhinged, the guy who used to go into full on lawyer rants, the same guy who Dean accused of being ‘too uptight’? And here you were… looking at him like he was something tender. Something precious, a sweet boy.
Because you asked, because you said please with those pretty eyes and soft lips– he swallowed hard and forced himself to keep going despite how wrecked he clearly was. “The Asakku, takes over your mind first…” He exhales shakily as another kiss lands right on the throbbing underside of his shaft. “Then it uhm… It makes you forget yourself” Huh. Ironic given it was exactly what you were doing to him right now.
Your boyfriend’s voice was barely above a whisper– thin, trembling with the effort of staying coherent. “Then it uhm…shit… Makes you do things” He continued softly, hazel eyes glazed over as they stared down at you. “Violent things or just like… Things you’d never do by choice” His words were slow– each syllable dragged out like they were pulled from his very soul. Not because he didn’t know the lore, Sam could quote the lore in his sleep. It was because focusing on ancient Babylonian possession rituals required more brainpower than he currently had available, especially because most of his mental capacity was busy trying not to thrust up into your mouth through those damn boxers like some desperate teenager.
And yet you were still listening, still humming little ‘mhm’s against him between kisses that felt too much like worship for something this mundane. Your lips wrapped softly around him through the damp fabric, suckling gently, tasting the sweet muskiness of his precum. It wasn’t demanding or rough, just… tender, almost reverent– the kind of kiss you’d give something sacred. His breath left him in one long rush, a quiet ‘oh’ escaping without a sound, muscles tensing and untensing all at once. Jesus, those wide eyes locked onto his like you adored what you were doing more than anything else in the world definitely weren’t helping his case. Oh God and then you tasted him, didn’t flinch or pull away from the salt-sweetness seeping into the cotton of his underwear. If anything? You seemed to lean into it, enjoying his musk, his taste.
“Keep talking, Sammy” You remind him, voice a delicate whisper while focusing on trailing your tongue over his length through the fabric.
Sam’s entire body arched again– this time more pronounced, hips fulling lifting from the bed and towards your face in a silent plea he didn’t even fully register he was making. Your tongue. Jesus Christ. The warm, wet drag of it over his throbbing dick– he has to forcefully shake his head to snap out of it. “The uhm… The victim loses control…” He stammered out between shallow breaths, voice cracking boldly as your tongue traces another line over the ridges. “Body stops being theirs… the ah, the uhm… Mind goes blank”
The more he talked, the more devastatingly overstimulating your mouth became– slick tongue suckling tenderly over his most sensitive spots, slowly mouthing at his tip. Sam was gone. Not just distracted, completely gone. Vanished. Reduced to a trembling, gasping mess under you.
Every word he tried to speak now came out fractured– half-formed syllables, broken pauses between breaths, choked out whimpers and groans.
The second your lips found that exact spot– the hyper-sensitive junction where his leaking head met the throbbing heat of his shaft– a rush of white-hot pleasure bursted within him. A sharp, involuntary spurt shot through his boxers. He truly tried his best to hold it back, but every kiss was another warm`spurt and another and another…
Sam came.
In seconds. Without a warning, without anything resembling control or buildup just a continuous cascade of sensations finally bursting through. And you felt it– all of it. The damp heat spreading against your lips like evidence, as if Sam coming apart under you was completely normal, beautiful and right instead of mortifyingly embarrassing for him. But you weren’t pulling away– you weren’t flinching, you didn’t look surprised or awkward or even mildly shocked.
There was no judgement in your expression whatsoever. Instead? Your lips stayed sealed around him through the fabric, suckling gently, drinking up every last drop.
Summary: Your first-ever solo hunt with Dean doesn’t go as planned when the ‘creature’ you’re hunting is actually Soldier Boy. The plan changes and goes wrong quickly.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, solider boy x dean x user, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, u pee urself, dean cucking (?) + slightly submissive (?), pussy + face slapping, spit, intox, strip club, drugs, swearing, pet names (sweeheart, doll, whore, bitch), consent mentioned, threats, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 6.1k | no idea what possessed me to do this. enjoy……. Posting older!bf oneshot later tooooo yay!!
“So, why… are we drivin’ this far away?” Dean asks, his hands gripping the steering wheel.
“Reports say… there’s some… man, tormenting people, ruining neighbourhoods, disturbing residents at their homes…” You ramble on, flipping through the small pages of your notebook, squinting in the dark Impala.
“Sounds like the son of a bitch is just havin’ a bad day,” Dean responds, glancing over at your notes. “Doesn’t seem like our type of… deal,” he shrugs, using one hand to rub his jaw.
“Well, reports say… he might have superpowers, or some sort,” you shake your head, flipping through more pages. “Super strength, doing damage to things you shouldn’t be doing damage to,” you explain, glancing over at Dean.
He sighs and keeps his eyes on the road, carefully steering Baby through the winding roads in the night. He glances over at you again, reaching over to lightly tap a page, his ring glinting in the moonlight.
“What’s that about?” Dean asks, glancing over and then back at the road.
You scoff. “It says if we were to find him… he’d be at a strip club, probably.”
“Now we’re talking,” he smiles, tapping the steering wheel excitedly. “Super strength, watchin’ ladies strip… doesn’t sound like he’s doin’ much wrong,” Dean shrugs, and he leans on the gas a bit more.
“Yeah… except he’s tormenting people, and being a complete dick, Dean,” you shoot back, but he still has a shit-eating grin on his face, suddenly eager to get to small town. “It says he’s dangerous, calls himself ‘Soldier Boy’.”
“The song?” he asks, looking over at you, and you immediately roll your eyes.
“No… no, ‘Soldier Boy’, like… a soldier?” you glare at Dean, and he’s smirking, purposely making you frustrated with him. What’s new.
“I say we hit the strip clubs,” Dean declares.
The black Impala winds down the long roads, taking the two of you deeper into the small town, and Dean takes those damn glances at you; constant eyes finding your thighs, and he’s glad Sam is off somewhere, probably doing something with Ruby, and doesn’t have him in his ear, telling him how wrong it is to find you attractive.
You had joined in the little trio when you were old enough to—Bobby’s your father, and trusts you with the Winchester boys more than he’d like to admit. And with your passion for hunting, and how damn well you do it, it would almost be blasphemy for them to ignore your skills.
It left you in an odd place: between Sam and Dean. Dean was always flirting with you, even when he’d bring home some blonde bimbo from the bar, shooing you and Sam out of the motel until he was finished. And Sam was Ruby now, occupied beyond belief, doing suspicious things behind the scenes that broke some brotherly bond you couldn’t understand.
And now here you are, doing a case alone, with Dean Winchester. The first one ever.
Baby rolls to a stop, parking along a curb, bright neon lights casting a constant glow onto the car. The sign is bright and loud, and Dean smirks at the name: Lustful Lounge.
Dean is out of the Impala before you, and you’re scrambling behind him, quickly joining his side. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, only to flash the fake FBI badge at the bouncers, and he nudges you to do the same.
Mister and Misses Smith for tonight, completely unrelated. Very, very believable, Dean.
“This is a job, I hope you remember that,” you mumble to him as you walk down the long hallway, with a red tinge to the lighting, and you hear the loud music growing louder.
“Yeah… a job with strippers,” he nudges you again, smiling and fake-smoothing out his hair, before dipping into the small entrance.
There are several stages scattered around; women on poles move, swaying their hips and shaking their breasts, skimpy outfits bejewelled in rhinestones, and it reeks of marijuana, the smell coming from the back, away from the regular customers. Dean looks like a kid in a candy store, and so does Soldier Boy.
He’s lounging in one of the chairs in the VIP section, a blonde woman doing a solo dance for him, and he’s smoking a joint, nodding. Her hips twist, and her long legs bend, and he’s not even bothering to throw cash, merely observing and taking it in for himself.
“Dean,” you nudge him with your elbow when you notice his eyes straying away, focusing on the exotic dancers instead of the task at hand: operation find Soldier Boy, and get him out of there.
You lightly take hold of his hand and groan in frustration, taking him deeper into the strip club, and a VIP sign flashes. Bingo.
Another two flashes of your badges grant you access into the room, and two bouncers hold the odd beaded drapes that hide it, and your eyes widen the minute you see him: Soldier Boy.
You look at Dean and then Soldier Boy: sharp green eyes, the same sculpted nose, soft lips, a smirk that they both have on while looking at the same woman—Soldier Boy’s hair is longer than Dean's, and he’s bigger than him too, and your lips part in awe. Maybe it’s the light playing tricks on you, morphing Soldier Boy’s face. It can’t be.
Dean hasn’t even noticed.
“Who ordered this whore?” Soldier Boy suddenly calls out, his finger pointing directly towards you. “And… her fuckin’ cuck of a boyfriend, too,” he laughs, barely noticing the stark similarities the two have. But Dean does.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean curses the minute his eyes find Soldier Boy, and it’s like he’s staring in a damn mirror, if the mirror ages you about twenty years. “This son of a bitch stole my face!”
You’re too in shock to notice Dean taking steps towards the man lounging on the couch, and he glares at Dean, eyes narrowing at the younger version of himself. He blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth, but purposely towards his twin's face.
“You stole my face, kid,” Soldier Boy retorts, tilting his head to the side. “Been here for hundreds of fuckin’ years, America’s greatest. Ain’t copying some washed-up pussy, and his slut that’s too much of a bitch to come over here.”
Soldier Boy makes that sound that sounds like nails on a chalkboard–it’s like he’s calling a cat over, a gross kissy noise with his lips, and he’s calling you over with a wave of his hand, and you slowly begin to walk over. You feel like you’re more surprised than Dean is.
“No… no, I have been here for just as long as you have,” Dean retorts, pointing at the man lounging, and Soldier Boy laughs. “You’re just some old shapeshifting fucker.”
“Shapeshifting?” Soldier Boy howls, shaking his head. “Is this some fantasy, role-play kinky shit between the two of you?” he uses his blunt to gesture between your bodies. “It’s fuckin’ disgustin’, and you’re not even strippin’ for me,” he calls directly to you.
“What? I’m not a stripper–” you quickly say and shake your head, but Soldier Boy interrupts.
“With that fuckin’ body? A god damn shame you’re not,” he scoffs, and Dean, well, agrees.
“I’ve told her this,” Dean chimes in, nudging you a little and Soldier Boy narrows his eyes.
“How much you payin’ her?” Soldier Boy suddenly asks, gazing between the two of you. “Prostitutes around here don’t usually look that fuckable.”
Soldier Boy eyes you more closely, and it’s weird—not even because of how filthy he’s being, but because of how closely he resembles Dean, who is currently red in the face from anger, or embarrassment.
“I’m not a prostitute, I’m…” you mumble, fishing out your fake FBI card, and he immediately snatches it.
“Ah, a liar and a whore, Miss… Smith,” Soldier Boy mumbles, his eyes raking over the fake name and shitty photo. “Lookin’ like a real doll in the photo though,” he grins, handing back the ID with two fingers, and you snatch it and shove it in the pocket of your jacket.
“Listen,” Dean mumbles, leaning a bit closer to his doppelganger. “We just wanna know what the fuck is goin’ on, okay? If this is some trickster shit, or whatever the hell,” he murmurs, and Soldier Boy is staring at Dean like he’s speaking another language.
“Jesus Christ, this really is some kinky shit,” Soldier Boy barks, reaching over to grab you by the hip. “He payin’ you? He a cuck?” he asks, eyebrows raised, and he casually hooks his arm around your thigh, drawing you to the edge of the leather chair.
“Yes,” you say softly, nodding and gazing down at the man, and you can feel the look on Dean’s face without looking. “We…are… we are looking for a third,” you grin, and Soldier Boy looks at Dean. You’re trying not to laugh.
“She fuckin’ with me?” he asks, and Dean looks at you–you shoot him a death glare, and he does that face, that stupid shit-eating grin, though it’s mixed with dread.
“No,” Dean says through the forced smile. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Soldier Boy keeps his arm hooked around your thigh, and you mentally curse for deciding to wear a short skirt instead of the usual jeans you stick with. He taps his thumb against your bare leg and looks up at you, his jaw clenching.
“Your fantasy is to fuck a guy that looks like your… boyfriend, in front of your boyfriend?” Soldier Boy drawls, bringing his joint to his lips. “That’s fucked… some real slut shit you’re on,” he shakes his head, looking at Dean.
You roll your eyes, and Dean looks like he wants to kill himself; he’s just staring at Soldier Boy and the firm grip he has on your thigh, the awkward position that puts him eye-level with your stomach. He grits his teeth and sighs.
“So, are you gonna… have sex with my girlfriend or what?” Dean speaks up, his words coming out harsh, like he’s forcing them out of his mouth–he is; he wants no part of this.
“‘Course I am,” Soldier Boy shrugs, sliding his hand out from your thigh to firmly pat your ass. “Would’ve fucked her even if she really was just an FBI agent anyway,” he mumbles, gripping the back of your thigh.
You awkwardly squirm on your feet, trying to ignore the woman who is still half-naked, dancing on the pole before the three of you, the bright, neon lights in your eyes, and Soldier Boy is standing on his feet, sighing heavily.
“We’re parked just outside,” you chime in, and Soldier Boy casually wraps his arm around your waist, looking down at you.
“You got some fuckin’ nerve, doin’ this to a fool like him,” he drawls, nodding towards Dean, who is glaring at you and the overly large version of himself. “Can’t blame you though… looks like he wouldn’t know how to fuck a woman if she came with a manual.”
“We look the same,” Dean immediately shoots, his eyebrows furrowed.
You bite your lip, trying your hardest not to laugh at this interaction–Dean is oddly less concerned than you thought. He’s more so convinced that this is some trickster bullshit, and this entire situation has been planned perfectly, just to get the three of you alone, and then he can finally strike and kill the juiced-up man. He doesn’t believe for a second this is a hundred-year-old superhero who just so happened to steal his face, and slap on some facial hair, and maybe fifty pounds of muscle.
The three of you slowly leave the club, and Soldier Boy nods to the few bouncers who seem to have let the criminal off the hook–probably paid them off with the wads of cash he took from the fucking bank. You had read it in the report: rabid man running through the streets, shouting profanities and threatening to do worse. And now his arm is hooked around your waist, heading towards the impala.
Soldier Boy nudges his broad shoulders into the back of Baby, and you sit in the passenger’s seat, your eyes on the road. Dean looks in the rearview mirror, still trying to shake the feeling of having his long-lost twin in the back, who is around twenty years older than he is. He sighs and turns the key to the ignition.
“We doin’ this at a motel? Or do one of you sick fucks wanna do this in your bed?” Soldier Boy chimes, leaning forward, his eyes gazing at the curve of your neck. “Wouldn’t mind either, just wanna make your girlfriend know what it’s like to be fucked by a real man, you know?”
“Motel,” you say softly, nodding, and Soldier Boy clicks his tongue.
“Thought you’d be more of a degenerate,” he shrugs, looking out of the car windows. “Almost feel bad for this kid–he’s gonna watch me defile you,” he says it so plainly, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“You’re not gonna–” Dean grits his teeth, and he has to stop himself from blowing up the entire plan.
“Oh, yes I am,” Soldier Boy taunts, nodding. “Gonna force you to watch me fuck her brains out–-doll, what’s your favourite position?” he then switches his attention to you, and you blank.
“She likes missionary, all the romance shit,” Dean plays into it, and you furrow your eyebrows, glaring at him.
“I ain’t do the romance shit, but I can put your legs behind your head,” Soldier Boy shrugs, his head tilting to the side slightly. “You flexible?”
“She is,” Dean speaks up for you, glancing in the rearview mirror, and Soldier Boy is smiling, nodding.
“Is some other kinky shit?” he asks, looking at the side of your face. “He does all the talkin’, and you sit here like a sex doll?”
“No,” you cut in, shooting the criminal a glare, and he lifts his hands in defence.
Silence fills the Impala, a brief break, and you swallow hard, trying to act like this scenario is normal. Somehow, fighting vampires and ghouls makes more sense than having a hundred-year-old soldier in the back, with the face of Dean Winchester, with the sex drive of an animal in heat.
“So, Soldier Boy,” Dean starts, swiping his tongue over his lips. “Where did you come from?”
“Why does that matter?” he asks, leaning back into the seats. “Never gonna see me again after this; you don’t need to know lick about me, or whatever else the fuck you two freaks need to know,” he shoots, his eyes noticing the flickering red motel sign.
You glance at Dean, who is already looking at you, realizing this was a lot harder than you initially had thought. Most vampires and demons, whatever the hell you stumble upon, have thousands of years of lore written down in books and on the internet, and you’ve never come across a gem like this, one that seems to be aware of the fact he’s being hunted, but still taking offers to fuck random women. You swallow hard when Baby rolls into the parking lot.
The three of you head into the motel room, and Soldier Boy makes it a point to slap your ass the second all of you are in the small room, and Dean is seething at the constant remarks–if only Dean knew that he sounds the same sometimes, but usually a bit less… filthy.
Soldier Boy sits on the bed, while you and Dean sit on the two small chairs. His brows are forever furrowed, and his arms are crossed, head cocked to the side, realizing this might not be exactly what he expected: a hookup with a girl, while his twin watches. He clenches his jaw.
“We’re just… gonna set some… boundaries first,” you lightly explain and nod, and Dean lifts his hand, half-covering his mouth, trying not to laugh. “To… make it safe.”
“Safe? Is there some fuckin’ waiver I gotta sign before fuckin’ you?” he asks, those green eyes looking into yours, and you swallow hard, shaking your head. “Usually I pay for the slut, and she shuts the fuck up. Nothin’ about a god damn waiver or rules, or safety.”
Dean rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, his legs parting, and Soldier Boy turns his head, gazing at him. He narrows his eyes at the young version of himself, all while he lifts his hand, waving for you to come over. You look to Dean, who is reciprocating the stare-off, and you stand to your feet, walking towards the Supe.
“Isn’t this better?” Soldier Boy asks, and it’s only after he’s pulled you onto his thigh, forcing you to sit on the thick muscle. “Easier to listen when I have a plaything just waitin’ on my lap, you know? You wouldn't,” he grins and looks at Dean.
The sight has Dean’s fists clenching; you’re sitting on this grown man’s lap, his hand wrapped around your waist, a hand against your stomach, holding you up straight, the other hand slyly sliding down to inch up your skirt. It’s barely noticeable, but Dean notices, and he can’t say a word. This is a part of the plan, yeah?
“Soldier Boy…” Dean mumbles through that fake smile, but he’s interrupted.
“Ben, you can call me that too,” he shrugs lazily, keeping you on his thigh, and you oddly adjust your hips, looking up at the motel ceiling. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the firm limb between your legs, and how it doesn’t feel… like the worst thing in the world.
“Okay, Ben,” Dean starts again sarcastically, hastily rolling his eyes, looking at you and then the larger version of himself. “Can’t be beatin’ around the bush, you have to tell us some stuff before I let you… you know,” he mumbles, gesturing with his hands.
“You sure?” Ben asks, raising his eyebrows. “This bitch is already drippin’ all over my fuckin’ thigh; it doesn’t seem like she needs to know anythin’ else,” he shoots, shaking his head.
Your eyes widen, and you shake your head too. “What? No—”
Dean grimaces and looks down at Ben’s thigh and then up your body; the way your chest is heaving, the flush creeping up your neck, the sweat brimming at your hairline. His forehead wrinkles in disgust, and he realizes this man might not be entirely lying.
It’s not computing properly, the arousal you’re currently feeling; the odd ache between your thighs, the way your back is arching lightly, your thighs squeezing around Ben’s, and Dean is disgusted, completely caught off guard by the interaction, and the turn it’s taking.
“What are you doing to her?” Dean asks, his head tilting to the side, and his sharp eyes are looking at you. “Stop whatever the hell you’re doing!”
“Calm down, kid,” Ben shakes his head, licking his lips. “Not doin’ a thing, she’s just a whore,” he hisses, and you don’t even defend yourself–it’s overwhelming, the sudden lust clouding your head, and your eyes are growing heavy.
“You’re clearly doing something to her!” Dean says, standing on his feet, and Ben lifts his hand, shaking his head.
“Wasn’t this the deal? I fuck her guts, and you watch?” he drawls, raising his eyebrows, his large hand gliding down your waist and to your thigh. “Can even teach you a few things; you probably need it, don’t you?”
“I do not need some son of a bitch to teach me how to fuck women–I do it plenty, and the last thing I need is to watch her get fucked,” he groans out, his hand rubbing over his jaw. “We will leave you alone, never come back–just give her back,” he commands, like it’s an exchange, and not your body.
Ben stares at Dean, thinking. “No.”
“No?” Dean asks, a stitch forming between his brows.
“No,” he says smoothly, adjusting you on his thigh. “What do you think, doll?” He then adds, turning to glance at you.
“No…” You mumble and shake your head, and Dean’s eyes widen at your response, and he turns his head to look at the motel door and then you.
“What the fuck do you mean no!?” he practically shouts, huffing and sitting down in the seat. “This was not the plan–this is not a part of any god damn plan,” Dean rambles on, scratching his neck.
“A plan?” Ben asks, his hand sliding up your thigh casually, sliding right between them, lightly cupping your core. “What plan did you and… him have, huh?” he murmurs, turning to press his nose against your cheek.
Your head lazily tips back on Ben’s shoulder, and Dean furrows his eyebrows, quickly putting two and two together; his hand is up your skirt, and out of his eyesight. There’s only one thing that could be happening right now, and he’s in disbelief.
“Just watch,” Ben tells Dean, and you feel that large, warm palm lightly curl, and you whimper. “See? This how you touch a lady, none of that bullshit I know you do,” he curses, eyes narrowed.
Dean swallows hard and watches, unaware of what to do right now; you’re clearly enjoying yourself, and Ben is too, and he’s not sure what the tank of a man would do if he tried to leave, or better yet, intervene. He looks away.
“You ever make a girl nut?” Ben asks Dean, and he’s lightly rubbing two fingers right through your underwear, focused on your clit. “Or you jus’ leave her the second you do?” he asks, that cocky grin curled into his lips.
“What?” Dean asks, trying to ignore the soft noises slipping out of your mouth and how utterly good you feel right now.
“Look at her,” Ben says, nodding towards you. “Absolutely fucked right now, and I’m just rubbin’ her through her fuckin’ panties. Women are sluts in that way, and you wouldn’t have a fuckin’ clue about it,” he shoots.
Dean’s eyes drift towards you; the way you’re panting softly, squirming against Ben’s thigh, quietly whining and biting your lip, helpless hands trying to pull down your skirt. He clenches his jaw and looks back to Ben–the whole twin thing is still throwing him the fuck off.
“She’s not even in her right mind,” Dean says, pointing to how out of it you are; practically drooling, your head slumped back, lightly grinding into Ben’s hand now.
“Yeah, cause of me,” he rolls his eyes, snorting.
It is cause of him, and there are two reasons behind it; one of them being the sick and twisted Soldier Boy he is; telling you to take a sip of a drink back at the strip club, and you, trying to be the compliant and obedient thing you are, took it, and didn’t know what he had slipped in it. And the second reason being him; charming and good with his hands. The combination is making a filthy situation, and you’re unfortunately basking in the attention.
“Now,” Ben starts, lightly slapping your core. “You’re gonna watch me pound her from the chair,” he grins, and Dean listens to you whimper, your eyes fluttering at the light sting between your thighs.
The room is quiet, and Dean sits there, watching the way Ben manipulates your body; carefully lifting you, placing you down onto the motel bed and onto your back. The reports were definitely right; super strength, easily moving you around, like you’re the plaything and doll he speaks about.
“Actually,” Ben starts, gazing down at you. “Better look over here, c’mere, son,” he taunts, and Dean shakes his head.
“Nope,” he refuses, shaking his head again, looking up at the ceiling.
Ben rolls his eyes and sighs, gazing down at your body; your dress hiked up your thighs, your hair fanned out against the bed, your eyes heavy and your lips parted. There’s an unfortunate part about this whole thing, and it’s that you don’t… hate it.
You’ve always had that silly crush on Dean, and it made you seethe when he’d bring back bimbos from bars and hunts, and you had to sit and listen, sometimes watch when he’d try to stealthily fuck the girls while you slept on the bed over. It’s his turn, and it’s with his damn twin.
Ben carefully slides his hands up your bare thighs, watching you squirm and writhe against the mattress, and Dean can hear the light fuss from you; the whimpers, the tiny whines.
“Missin’ out,” Ben drawls, his large hands parting your legs instead. “Real fuckin’ beauty right here, and I doubt you even fuck her properly,” he calls out.
Dean rolls his eyes, and Ben is cupping you again, watching your head tip back. He clicks his tongue in disappointment, glancing over his shoulder at the awkward male in the room.
“C’mon, what do you do to the poor thing?” Ben asks, lightly slapping your core again. “Gonna probably fuckin’ cum from just this shit—you neglectin’ her?”
“Nobody is being neglected, idiot,” Dean shoots, gazing at the scene before him. “She’s not even my girlfriend!”
Ben howls at the confession, and he looks back down at you, his free hand sliding down to grab your face, aggressively pinching your cheeks.
“So, you’re a lyin’ bitch?” He asks, eyes narrowing. “Could’ve just waited on the corner, probably would’ve taken you home regardless. Instead you gotta make up some bullshit lies—the fuck is wrong with you?”
You whine and shake your head, and he shuts you up by spitting onto your face. The saliva is warm as it drips down between your eyebrows, gliding down the slope of your nose. He grins at the look on your face, looking back over at Dean.
“What is she then, huh?” Ben asks, still holding your cheeks, listening to you whine. “A sister? Oh, you’re real fucked if this is your sister,” he laughs, snorting.
Ben looks back to you and lets go of your cheeks, his hand lightly slapping your face, and you moan at the feeling, your hips lifting. He smirks at how needy you are, but he’s more concerned with the lack of care you’ve apparently received. You’re the neediest thing he’s seen.
A strong hand slides down your body, and his fingers don’t pull down your underwear; no, they rip it off, a loud sound in the motel room and Dean’s eyes widen. There’s the strength of a supe, and it’s being used to rip off your underwear.
“What the fuck—“ Dean says, standing on his feet, and he walks over, and Ben doesn’t seem to have an issue.
“Real man you are, only comin’ over here when you know you get a look at her pussy,” Ben laughs, a hand sliding down to part your legs more, his thick fingers lightly spreading your folds. “C’mon, take a look.”
Dean’s eyes bulge out of his head at the sight; you flopped on the bed, underwear on the floor, your eyes closed, lips parted, looking like you’re in ecstasy, and now, he’s seeing you bare—completely bare. Not just when he accidentally walked in on you changing, but spread open.
“See? Fuckin’ wetter than hell,” Ben laughs, examining between your thighs, licking his lips. “Look at it… leakin’, never seen anythin’ like this,” he shakes his head, turning to Dean.
Dean hesitantly looks, and he swallows hard. Despite his demeanour and the filthy remarks he makes, he’s gentle; you’ve seen the sex before, watched how soft he was with the women, the tender caresses, the sweetness that overtakes the dirty words that he says when he’s just trying to seduce the women. This is completely out of his ballpark, and he’s not sure how to process it.
“Dean,” you mumble, your eyes finding his, and his lips part the words that leave your mouth. His name, not Ben’s.
“Dumb bitch is callin’ for the guy who isn’t fuckin’ her,” Ben scoffs, and he slaps the side of your face again, and you whimper, biting your lip.
Ben reaches down, and he’s unbuckling his leather belt, the soft noise clinking in the motel, and Dean’s eyebrow furrows when he notices what’s happening. He looks to Dean, ticking his head.
“What? That much of a pussy? Can’t look at another man’s cock without gettin’ shy?” Ben asks, working on his own pants, his eyes looking back to you. “Ain’t gay, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he grins, and Dean is taken aback by the guts on this guy.
Ben’s hands slowly pull down his pants, and he’s resting his knee on the bed, his two hands now finding your thighs, spreading you open more, getting a better angle while he nudges his between your legs. He groans the second he runs his cock through your folds, and he looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye.
“Jesus Christ, she’s fuckin’ wet,” Ben hisses, his head tipping back a little, and Dean can feel his body growing warm the longer he stares at you. “She a virgin?”
Dean doesn’t respond; he merely watches, and Ben isn’t bothering with waiting for an answer. He pushes in and watches your eyes immediately squeeze shut, your back arching off the bed, and he laughs, shaking his head.
“Fuckin’ Hell,” Ben groans, burying himself as deep as he can go, breathing out. “Clenchin’ around me like a god damn dream, and you never fuckin’ hit this? God,” he laughs in disbelief, speaking to Dean, who is in disbelief.
Ben stares down at you, watching your body rock with each thrust; your eyes fluttering and your mouth agape, drool trickling down the side of it, spit finding its way out of your lips. He curses, holding your hips as he ruts into you, listening to the mewls.
“Put your fingers in her mouth,” Ben commands Dean, nodding towards you. “Shut her up, don’t gotta be hearin’ that shit the whole time,” he mutters.
Dean hesitates, but he does it, as if he’s being held at gumpoint. He shifts closer to the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the sound of skin on skin, the slapping of Ben’s hips snapping against yours, and the way your body moves with each thrust, the way you’re so blissed out.
Dean slides his two fingers past your lips, and your eyes roll back the second you realize that it’s his, and not Ben’s. You can feel the silver ring by your lips, the rough digits on your tongue, the way he’s lightly gagging you, and his eyes darken the minute he realizes how good this actually feels.
“See? Just an obedient whore,” Ben hums, confusing the relentless movement of his hips, a rough movement. “Can’t believe you had this thing walkin’ around, didn’t even try to do anythin’.”
Dean grits his teeth and deepens his fingers down your throat, listening to the soft of you gagging, the soft choking on his fingers. His lips twitch, and he can feel himself hardening in his jeans, and he glances down, ashamed of himself.
It’s a dream for you; eyes opening to see the same faces looming over you; those familiar green eyes, soft lips parted, and you close your eyes, basking in the feeling instead of resisting it. Whatever drug he has in you has you on cloud nine, and all you can do is suck on Dean’s fingers and take Ben’s cock
“Press on her stomach,” Ben then nods to Dean, and Dean glances down at the way your shirt rides up, that sliver of skin showing. “They love that shit—force her to feel my cock,” he continues, his one hand holding beneath your knee, the other one lightly slapping your other thigh.
Dean’s getting off on it now, too, and he slowly pulls his fingers out of your mouth, pressing his palm to your lower stomach, applying the pressure that Ben asks, and he nods.
“Push hard,” Ben commands, and Dean is taking orders like it’s his job. “Make her piss herself,” he mumbles, and Dean’s eyes widen, hesitantly looking down at you.
You squirm around, moaning now that your mouth is free; the sounds slip out, and Dean can feel himself getting harder at how drawn out there, how much you’re enjoying this. His eyes glance to you, and he lightly presses harder, awkwardly leaning over. Ben doesn’t seem to care.
“Atta girl,” Ben mumbles, his head tipping back when he feels you clenching harder, focusing on taking him, and holding in your piss now. “Keep pressin’, kid,” he tells Dean, and his eyebrows furrow at the awkward submissive position he’s put in.
Dean rubs the heel of his palm lightly against your lower abdomen, pushing down harder, and he can oddly feel himself enjoying this too; the way you wince and whine, how hard you’re trying to keep yourself composed, all while being focused on too many things at once.
“Gonna piss on my cock, doll?” Ben taunts, cocking his head to the side. “How’s this poor son of a bitch ever gonna see you the same again, huh? Hold it for him, not for me,” he shakes his head, and your head tips back instead, shaking it.
Dean won’t see you the same again, especially because you are pissing yourself, softly crying as you feel it streaming down, onto the bed and right in the midst of it all. Ben chuckles and doesn’t even bother stopping, just landing a cold slap against your face. Dean’s eyes widen.
“Dumb bitch,” Ben grunts, his hand lightly swatting away Dean’s, and he pushes his fist down instead, and you groan, eyes squeezing shut. “Really embarrassin’ yourself, yeah? Pissin’ all over yourself, and now you gotta sit in the car with him afterwards.”
Dean breathes heavier, his hand sliding down to press against the front of his jeans, subtly adjusting himself. And Ben finishes, a loud groan in the motel room, and he watches the way your body tenses up, your toes curling, fingers grasping at the bed sheets, and he’s filling you up, not even bothering to pull out.
“Never pull out,” Ben tells Dean like it’s casual advice. “Make ‘em take your seed, wastin’ it is for boys, not men, bet you use a condom,” he teases, still groaning and hunched over your body, holding your hips now, pressing his fingers into you.
Dean is silent and just watching, feeling him awkwardly leak into his boxers at the sight of you; your body all limp and flush, panting heavily, your eyes closed, absolutely drunk and dumbed out. Ben isn’t thrusting anymore, just keeping himself pressed between your thighs, keeping himself stuffed in there.
“She’s feelin’ it all right now,” Ben groans out, staring down at your blissed-out face. “Girls ever tell you that? That you make ‘em feel full, or do they just ask if you’ve finished yet?” he presses, and Dean is wondering why Ben is so set on humiliating him, too.
“She looks…” Dean mumbles, hovering over you, his hand lightly finding your forehead.
“Fuckin’ hot,” Ben cuts in and nods, licking his lips again. “Feels fuckin’ hot too, tightest pussy I’ve felt in a while–you sure she’s not a virgin?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head.
You whine quietly as the boys bicker over top of you, discussing whether or not your virginity was just taken in front of Dean by his god damn twin. You whine and tip your head back again, your chest puffing out.
“Poor thing, she's never been fucked by a real man,” Ben clicks his tongue, and Dean registers the word: supe. “Really irresponsible of you, you know that? Jus’ filled her guts with more cum than you’ll ever produce in your life,” he laughs, referencing the odd amount of semen this man can produce–it’s for reproduction to carry on these godly genes, and it’s inside of you, stretching and filling you out.
Dean is slightly realizing the gravity of the situation; you, being fucked by the thing they were hunting. If it were a vampire, or any other god damn creature, he would’ve shot and killed the thing by now, and burned its bones, but Ben’s human-like similarities, and… well, the charm, made him forget that you were being plowed by some superhuman, with superhuman abilities.
Neither are sure how you’ll explain this to Sam, not at all. And Dean gulps when Ben looks at him, gesturing to your limp body.
“Now show me what I taught you,” Ben grins. “Or I’ll snap your fuckin’ neck.”
Hi can I request a dean X reader where the reader is not as experienced in intimacy and he helps show her what to do
pairing: Dean Winchester x inexperienced!fem reader
WC: 1.3K
CW: 18+ MDNI, language, both are in their early 20s, oral sex (m & f receiving), pinv mentioned, cum eating, reader is inexperienced but not a virgin, Dean talks you through everything, soft dom!dean, sub!reader
a/n: this is one of my favorite tropes! 🫦
It’s no secret that Dean Winchester is a giver. Taking care of others is engrained in his DNA. Whether that be rescuing his baby brother from a burning nursery, or, now that he’s all grown up, making sure you’re satisfied.
Everyone else always comes first (literally).
Even before he was experienced, he had consumed enough pornography to make Hugh Hefner blush.
You, on the other hand, were not that way. Dean wasn’t your first, but it was still fresh enough to be awkward and unnatural. Enough so that it didn’t even feel good.
That was, until you met Dean. He talked you through everything almost like he was tutoring you.
You didn’t even know that a g-spot was real until he hit yours.
He smiled down at you while your back arched off the bed when he rolled his hips just right.
“You feel that? Feels good, right? I bet you can’t reach that spot with your skinny little fingers.”
You were hesitant to let him eat you out because why any man would want to do that was beyond you. He’d talk you through the whole thing and tell you how much he loved it. Coaxing you to relax and let go.
He’d start by pushing his fingers inside you first and reaching the spot you didn’t realize existed.
“Feel better when I bend my fingers? Think you can take another one?”
In between little praises and affectionate coaching, he’d reward you with his tongue flicking against your puffy clit. His broad shoulders keeping you spread for him even when your legs try to close around him.
“You’re getting so wet. Tastes so sweet when you’re gettin’ close.”
Ever eager to please him, you always smiled and nodded. Grateful for every opportunity for pleasure he handed you. Studying you to figure out what feels best. Pushing you to try new things when you were ready.
It was like he was trying to make up for any bad sexual experience you’d ever had and then some.
It didn’t seem fair that he spent so much time on making you come. Sometimes you noticed him gently stroking his leaking cock while he had his head between your thighs. Desperate to sink himself inside of you. So naturally, you did some research.
Porn. You watched porn.
You were overwhelmed by the experience of those women, but you noticed some trends.
They suckled on the head, drooling around him and working it down their length with their hands.
They paid special attention to the spot right under the tip. Flicking their tongues with little kitten licks. The men always twitched and groaned when they did that.
Some of them even cupped and sucked on their balls—taking one in their mouth at a time—all while continuing to stroke them. That seemed to be a very popular technique.
You were intimidated by the woman who just let their throats be fucked raw. A little bulge forming at the dip where their jaw meets their neck. That had to be painful. But their thighs were always soaking wet when they were done.
With your mental notes handy, you decided to surprise Dean one night.
As soon as he shut your bedroom door, you sank to your knees in front of him.
He shook his head in shock and confusion.
“What’re you doing down there, baby?”
You hummed while a nervous smile tugged at your lips. Then you clumsily pulled his belt loose and started unbuttoning his jeans. All while the tiny pink tip of your tongue poked out between your lips while you focused on pretending you knew what you were doing.
He carefully caught your wrist with a concerned look. His chest heaved slightly as his breathing quickened and his cheeks had a rush of color.
“You don’t have to do this, sweetheart.”
You frowned.
“But…I want to. I wanna learn what you like.”
He felt his cock twitch at the words. So precious and eager.
“Only if you’re sure.”
He did his best to contain his excitement and heart throbbing.
One thing the videos didn’t prepare you for was how intimidating his cock was at face level. Thick and blushed pink with a shiny bead of precome that glistened at the tip. You swallowed hard trying to hide your nervousness and quietly wondered how many people die from choking on dicks every year.
Your eyes flicked up towards him as you wrapped your fingers around him. Watching his eyelids flutter but keeping his gaze on you. His skin was surprisingly soft for how big and heavy he felt in your hand. You were afraid of squeezing too hard so you kept your grip weak.
His big hand covered yours while he squeezed it a little tighter.
“Perfect—just like that. Your pussy squeezes me tighter than that, girl.”
You shared an awkward laugh while you increased the speed of your strokes while applying more pressure. Watching more precome leaking out of the tip. You gathered it up and started working it down his shaft. Noticing how it started to glisten.
Your eyes flicked around nervously as you wrapped your lips around the head eliciting a moan he kept caged in his chest. Forgetting the mental notes you’d taken, you tried taking all of him in your mouth. The salty taste of him combined with the weight on your tongue made you choke and gag around him.
His hand gently gripped your hair to stop you.
“Easy, just take it slow, sweetheart.”
He caught a stray tear from the corner of your eye before brushing your hair away from your face. The simple gesture made you hum around him.
You worked your spit down with a gentle twisting motion while you focused on the head of his cock. Sticking your tongue out a little bit to give attention to the silky skin underneath. That seemed to work. The hand threaded through your hair tightened slightly and he groaned curses quietly under his breath. Showering you in tiny praises.
“Fuck you’re doin’ so good.”
His husky voice made you press thighs together, rocking them slightly to get some kind of relief.
He could tell you were trying to take him deeper but getting frustrated by your gag reflex.
“Stick your tongue out a little and breathe through your nose—see? That’s better.”
He was losing the battle of willpower as he tried not to thrust down your throat. Remembering that it was your first time and he didn’t want it to be your last.
Not with a mouth that perfect.
He was right. Of course he was. Your throat was more relaxed to allow him more space. Even with him in your mouth you felt full. You still gagged when he hit the back of your throat but there was something satisfying watching him lose control.
The way your throat fluttered around him had chipped away at his resolve. The filthy squelching sound of saliva pooling in your mouth while he fucked it was enough to make your cheeks blush.
He slowed and his hips stuttered when he felt your soft hand gently cup his balls.
“Dirty girl, where did you learn that?”
You answered with a shrug of your shoulders and a wink while you continued to massage him.
His balls started to tighten in your hands so you shot him a confused look.
“Means m’gettin close. You wanna stop?”
To his surprise, you hummed in protest. Bringing him even closer to the edge.
“I’m gonna go really deep when I do okay? Just relax the way we talked about.”
He thrust himself deeper than he ever had up to that point. Nuzzling your nose against his pelvis, you coughed and sputtered at first but relaxed your throat when you felt the warmth of his release. There was some around the corners of your mouth that you quickly wiped away when he finally pulled out.
He gazed at you with a look of surprise—more like amazement—while his breathing slowly returned to normal.
“Did I do okay?”
You laughed weakly, but the question was sincere.
“Did you ‘do okay’?” He asked while guiding you up to your feet and backing you towards the bed. Finally laying you down while looming over you. “Sweetheart. That was the best I’ve ever had.”
hi there!! i hope im not too late to grab a yummy slice!
🍕 can i get a thin slice of pepperoni, a side of wings (“they can't fuck you like i can”), and a crisp dr pepper pls!! :3 thank u!!
(no rush or anything negative if u cant do this request, thank u anyways! <3)🍕
i just want to be your only one
pairing: daryl dixon x reader
w/c: 2.6k+
warnings/tags: smut, age gap, jealous! daryl, unprotected sex, no foreplay we fuck like animals
masterlist // pizza party
The dress wasn’t anything special by old-world standards, but out here it felt like armor and temptation wrapped in one. Soft, faded blue cotton that clung where it should and skimmed your thighs with every step. You’d found it in one of the abandoned houses on the edge of Alexandria and spent an hour with a needle and thread making it fit—cinched at the waist, neckline low enough to show the delicate line of your collarbones and the soft swell of your breasts when you moved. Your hair was clean for the first time in weeks, falling loosely in the way you haven't worn since before the fall of humanity. A little color on your lips, a swipe of something on your lashes. You looked like you belonged to a world that didn’t exist anymore.
And every man in the room noticed.
The welcome party at Deanna’s was in full swing—lanterns strung across the backyard, music from an old record player crackling softly, tables of food that felt almost obscene after everything you’d survived. The group had scattered, trying to play nice, trying to pretend they weren’t still half-feral. You felt the shift the second you stepped inside. Heads turned. Conversations dipped. You weren’t just another survivor tonight. You were young, you were stunning, and the contrast of it in this fragile little bubble of “normal” was like a giant elephant in the room.
You caught Daryl the moment your eyes swept the room.
He was posted up in the far corner like always—leather vest, a half-empty bottle dangling from his fingers. He hadn’t bothered much with cleaning up. His hair was still wild, stubble dark along his jaw, boots scuffed and dirty against the polished floor. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. But his eyes… his eyes were on you like they’d been waiting.
That look.
The one he’d been giving you for years now, ever since the prison, ever since you’d grown into yourself under the worst circumstances imaginable. You’d felt the pull between you for so long it had become background noise— the way he always ended up on runs with you, the way his hand would linger a second too long when he passed you something, the low rasp of his voice when he told you to “stay close” like it meant more than survival. He wanted you. Always had. You saw it in the way his gaze dragged down your body now, slow and heavy, like he was memorizing every inch the dress revealed. Then he caught himself, jaw tightening, and looked away like the sight burned.
You tried to focus on the party. Deanna pulled you into a conversation about “contributing to the community.” You smiled, nodded, played the part. But it didn’t take long for the others to circle.
A man around your age—clean-shaven, easy smile, one of the construction crew—materialized at your elbow with two cups. “You look like you could use something that isn’t just water. I’m Lucas. You must be one of the new folks.” His eyes flicked appreciatively over the dress, the bare skin of your shoulders. “Damn. Didn’t know we were getting anyone who looked like that.”
You took the cup with a polite laugh, the alcohol warming your throat. “Thanks. We clean up okay when we have to.”
Another guy joined—taller, broader, the kind who clearly hadn’t seen real hardship in a while. He leaned in a little too close to be heard over the music. “Seriously though, you’re stunning. That dress is… yeah.” His hand brushed the small of your back, light, testing. “If you want someone to show you around after, give you the real tour…”
You felt it before you saw it.
Daryl’s stare from across the room was a physical thing. Heavy. Dark. His knuckles had gone white around the bottle. He shifted his weight like he was about to push off the wall, then stopped himself, running a rough hand through his hair. His shoulders were rigid. The usual quiet observation had twisted into something sharper—jealousy, raw and poorly hidden. When the taller guy laughed at something you said and leaned in again, Daryl’s jaw flexed so hard you saw the muscle jump even from here. He looked away, but only for a second. Then his eyes were back on you, burning.
It was weird. Daryl didn’t do jealous. He did protective. He did gruff and distant. But this? This was different. This was personal.
Your stomach flipped—heat and nerves and something dangerously close to excitement. Because you knew that look. You’d felt it for years in stolen glances and unspoken moments. The age gap had always been his excuse, his wall. You were too young. He was too rough, too old, too broken. But tonight, with you looking like this, the wall looked thinner than ever.
You excused yourself with a soft smile and a murmured “be right back,” weaving through the crowd until you found Maggie near the food table. She clocked your face immediately and raised an eyebrow.
“Maggie,” you said low, pulling her a little aside. “Can I talk to you? It’s… about Daryl.”
She followed you to the quieter edge of the room, glancing once toward the corner where Daryl was now staring into his bottle angrily.
“What’s he done now?” she asked, but there was already a knowing curve to her mouth.
“He’s been watching me all night. Every time one of these guys comes up, he gets… weird. Tense. Like he’s two seconds from breaking something. Or someone. I caught him stepping forward earlier like he was gonna intervene. Is he okay? Did something happen? He’s acting jealous and I don’t—”
Maggie’s soft laugh cut you off. She looked at you, then at Daryl again, then back, eyes warm and a little amused.
“Oh, honey. You really don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
She leaned in, voice dropping. “That man has wanted you for a long time. Always has. Even back at the prison, even on the road when everything was hell. The age thing? He thinks it matters. Thinks he’s too old for you, too rough, that you deserve better than some redneck with blood on his hands. But look at him tonight.” She nodded toward him. “You walked in lookin’ like that and every guy here noticed. He’s been standin’ there tryin’ not to lose his mind watchin’ them circle you. It’s eatin’ him alive.”
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. The confirmation hit different when Maggie said it out loud—the years of tension, the way he always found you in a crowd, the rare softness in his voice when it was just the two of you.
“I didn’t think he actually…” You swallowed. “He’s never said anything.”
“Daryl ain’t exactly the talkin’ type,” Maggie said gently. “But he feels it. Bad. And tonight? With you glowin’ like that and half the men in Alexandria sniffin’ around? He’s jealous as hell and he don’t know what to do with it. You gonna let him brood in that corner all night, or you gonna do somethin’ about it?”
You glanced back.
Daryl was gone from his spot. The back door was just swinging shut. But before it closed, his eyes had found yours one last time across the room—dark, hungry, full of everything he’d never let himself say. Your skin prickled with the weight of it. The pull between you had never felt this sharp, this inevitable.
Maggie squeezed your arm. “Go on. I’ll cover if anyone asks where you went.”
You nodded, pulse racing as you slipped through the crowd toward the back porch. The night air hit your heated skin the second you stepped outside. Daryl was there, leaning against the railing, another bottle in his hand, staring out at the dark trees like they might give him answers.
He didn’t turn when the door clicked shut behind you.
But you felt the moment he knew you were there.
The tension thickened, electric.
And you took one step closer.
The porch door clicked shut behind you, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the heat in your blood. Daryl stood with his back to you, broad shoulders rigid under that worn leather vest, one hand braced on the railing like he was physically holding himself back.
“Daryl,” you said, voice sharper than you meant, the drinks from the party loosening your tongue. “What the hell are you thinking?”
He didn’t answer. Just took a long pull from the bottle and started walking. Down the steps, boots heavy on the gravel path, heading back toward the quiet row of houses the group had claimed. One of them sat empty—everyone else still not fully trusting this town to separate ourselves quite yet.
You followed. Of course you did. The alcohol made your steps a little unsteady, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs with every stride, but your voice didn’t waver.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me. Not after the way you were looking at me all night. Every time one of those guys came up to me, you got that look—like you wanted to put a bolt in them. What the fuck is your problem, Daryl?”
He kept moving, jaw clenched so tight you could see it from behind. A low grunt was all you got. “Ain’t nothin’.”
“Bullshit.” You caught up, grabbing his arm. He stopped but didn’t turn. “Maggie told me. Said you’ve always… felt something. That you’ve wanted me for years. Is that true? Because if it is, then stop acting like a goddamn ghost and talk to me.”
He shook you off gently but firmly and kept walking. You followed him right up the steps of the empty house, through the front door he left unlocked, into the dim living room lit only by moonlight through the blinds.
You weren’t done yelling at him.
“You can’t just stare at me like that—undress me with your eyes in front of everyone—and then ignore me when I call you on it. Those guys at the party? They were flirting, sure, but you… you looked ready to burn the whole place down. So tell me what the hell you’re thinking, Dixon, or—”
He moved fast.
One second you were still talking, tipsy and bold and frustrated. The next, his big hand was fisting in your hair, yanking you forward, and his mouth crashed onto yours.
The kiss was filthy from the first second. Rough. Desperate. All teeth and tongue and years of pent-up want. He tasted like whiskey and smoke. You gasped into it and he took full advantage, licking deep, biting your lower lip hard enough to sting. His other hand grabbed your hip, fingers digging in possessively, dragging you flush against him so you could feel how hard he already was through his jeans.
You moaned, the sound swallowed by his mouth. The alcohol made everything spin hotter, bolder. Your hands fisted in his vest, pulling him closer even as he backed you toward the couch.
“Been thinkin’,” he growled against your lips when he finally broke the kiss, voice gravel-rough, “that I’m too fuckin’ old for ya. That y' deserve better than some washed-up redneck who’s wanted to bend y' over since y' were barely legal. But tonight?” His hand slid down, yanking the hem of your dress up roughly. “Watchin’ them touch ya, smile at ya, try to take what’s mine… I’m done pretendin’.”
He shoved you back onto the couch. You landed with a soft bounce, dress rucked up around your waist, panties already damp. Daryl dropped to his knees between your spread thighs, eyes dark and hungry as he took you in—young, flushed, panting, looking like every filthy fantasy he’d tried to bury.
“Fuckin’ stunning,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then his rough hands were on you—pushing your thighs wider, hooking your panties to the side with two fingers and dragging them down your legs in one impatient motion. He didn’t even bother taking them all the way off. Just left them dangling around one ankle.
You reached for his belt but he batted your hands away, undoing it himself with quick, practiced movements. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. So fucking hard for you it made your mouth water.
“Daryl—” you started, but he shut you up again, this time by gripping the back of your neck and pulling you into another bruising kiss while he lined himself up.
He didn’t ease in.
One hard thrust and he buried himself to the hilt inside you. You cried out at the sudden stretch, the burn, the perfect fullness. He was big, and you were tight, and the alcohol made every sensation sharper, wetter, needier.
“Shit,” he hissed against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “So fuckin’ tight. Been wantin’ this for so long, girl. Too long.”
He didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving—quick, filthy, relentless. The couch creaked under the force of his thrusts. Skin slapped against skin. Wet sounds filled the quiet house. His vest brushed your bare thighs with every snap of his hips. One of his hands pinned your wrist above your head against the cushion; the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
“Those pricks at the party,” he growled, pace brutal and perfect, “thinkin’ they could have ya. Touch ya. Fuck ya.” He punctuated every word with a deep thrust that punched the air from your lungs. “They can’t fuck ya like I can.”
The words hit you like a match to gasoline. You moaned loud, arching under him, nails digging into his shoulders through the leather.
“Daryl—fuck—harder—”
He gave it to you. Snapped his hips faster, deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that made your vision blur. The jealousy, the years of tension—it all poured out in the way he fucked you: possessive, rough, like he was claiming what he’d denied himself for too long.
You were begging before you even realized it.
“Please—oh god—Daryl, please, more—fuck, right there—don’t stop—”
He groaned, low and filthy, biting at your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear where everyone would see it tomorrow. “That’s it. Beg for it. Been dreamin’ about this pretty little pussy for years. Dreamin’ about makin’ y' come on my cock while you’re still young and tight and mine.”
Your orgasm hit fast and hard—alcohol and adrenaline and the sheer overwhelming reality of Daryl Dixon finally inside you. You clenched around him, crying out his name, thighs shaking. He fucked you through it, pace never slowing, chasing his own release with rough grunts.
“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he rasped. “Been holdin’ back too long. Take it.”
He came with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and spilled hot inside you. You felt every pulse, every twitch, and it dragged another helpless whimper from your throat.
For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant thump of music from the party still going on down the street.
Daryl didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried in you, forehead against yours, one rough thumb stroking your cheek almost tenderly. His voice was quieter when he finally spoke.
“Shouldn’t have done that. You’re too young. I’m—”
You cut him off with a soft, drunk little laugh, legs still wrapped around him. “Shut up, Daryl. I’ve wanted you just as long. Now stop overthinking and kiss me again before I start yelling at you some more.”
A rare, crooked half-smile tugged at his mouth—the one he only ever gave you. He kissed you slower this time, deeper, like he was finally letting himself have it.
Summary: Daryl catches you smoking weed. Instead of scolding you, he joins you. What was supposed to be your alone time turned into a mutual confession and some spicy time.
Tags: smut, daryl dixon x reader, weed usage, consensual intoxicated sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it guys), mutual pining, references to tragic pasts, reference to canon violence, lovely meddling Carol, non-graphic injury (reader was shot), implied slow burn
Notes: sorry guys this is probably so bad. not proofread bc i dont want to and i’m scared bc its my first time writing smut and posting it lmao. Also this is my magic little universe where pregnancy doesn’t happen and STD’s aren’t real so let me enjoy that. roughly follows canon timeline, post-prison but pre-Terminus. long live daryl dixon.
Word Count: 5.2k
“Where’d ya get that?”
You freeze and look up from where you’re sitting with your hands raised, lighter open, millimeters away from the joint between your lips. You’re leaning against the barn wall, and a small bag sits on the ground between your crossed legs, holding the glaringly obvious evidence of what you’ve been up to since slinking away from the camp.
You bring the lighter those last few millimeters, and take a small pull before coughing out,
“Daryl.”
There’s not much up in the enclosed loft. Some old boxes of long rusted tools, farming equipment, and antique furniture. Bits of hay are strewn in front of the open hay door, the actual doors long since broken off. There’s a small pile of bricks next to the door opening, likely used to prop the door open when it was functional. A disintegrating lay-z-boy type chair, a coffee table with an ashtray on it, a cracked oil lamp on the floor next to a dresser with broken drawers make it seem as if the farmer who lived on this farm before used this loft as their hideaway.
He stands, arms crossed, leaning his shoulder against the same wall you’re up against. The man certainly has a knack for creeping in the shadows. You didn’t even hear him climb up the ladder to the loft you were now hiding in. There’s a hint of a smirk on his face. The orange glow from the lighter disappears, hiding your guilty face and casting you back into shadow.
Neither of you say anything for a moment. You bring it back to your lips and take a deep pull, not intending to let your audience impede your rare me-time. The smoke floats out the open hay door, dancing in the breeze before disappearing.
He pushes off the wall and starts to walk towards you. You breathe out and look up at him as he stops right next to you. He suddenly bends down and snatches the bag from in front of you.
“Hey!” you make a sad attempt to reach for it, him already straightened to his full height. He holds it up, trying to use the light from the nearly-full moon to make out its contents. A grinder. Rolling papers. A second lighter. And loose flower. All items you had snuck from a nightstand in one of the houses you both had looted on a run. He turns to look down at you. You stare right back at him and take a very dramatic and over-exaggerated inhale.
“Jesus woman,” he tosses the bag back to you. You look up at him and unceremoniously blow towards him.
He reaches for you. You raise your hand up to bat him away but he smacks your hand down, still reaching towards you. For a second, you think he’s going to smack it right out of your mouth. You certainly wouldn’t put it past him to do such a thing. Instead, he takes it right from your lips and brings it to his own.
You ignore the little flutter in your chest from his finger against your lip.
Dirt. Cigarettes. Metal.
It was inconvenient. You couldn’t believe you gave it more than one thought. There was no time for crushes, not in this world. Not when death waited around every corner. Not when all hope for the future had been decimated in a day.
Not when every good thing you seemed to find ends up being ripped away from you.
But you can’t stop yourself from looking at the man next to you as he sits down against the same wall by the open hay door of the barn. The way his lips wrap around the end of the joint. The way his chest rises under his shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons undone. His head tilting back as he blows the smoke up into the air, his hair falling away from his face. The faint moonlight illuminates his silhouette. The way any sleeved shirt he seems to wear looks like it’s threatening to split open when his muscles flex. The dirt on his arms that only seems to accentuate the veins that travel down to his rough hangs, hands that now gently hold-
“You’re starin’.”
You snap out of your stupid daydream and internally curse yourself, giving yourself a shake as if it would brush off the high slowly washing over you. He doesn’t acknowledge it, his hand falling towards you. You don’t look at him as you take the joint back from him.
Silence.
“What’re you doin up here?” he asks tentatively, as if he has no business asking you anything at all. Not that you mind. You wish someone would ask you questions instead of looking at you like you’re a grenade with the pin half pulled out.
Daryl doesn’t look at you like that though.
You exhale.
“Thinking.” Is all you offer. You glance over at him without turning your head. He’s looking at you, but you can’t read his expression.
He doesn’t say anything else.
Not much else needed to be said.
You hold your hand out to him, purposefully ignoring the brush of your fingers as he takes it back from you.
He had been the one to find you while he was out on a hunt. He had been trailing a deer through the woods when he found an abandoned cabin. There weren’t any signs of recent disturbance and no walkers, so he barged right in and started searching the house for anything to take back. It was already rather empty, some of the cabinets in the kitchen wide open, missing what had likely been stored in there previously. The living room was barely disturbed, a random pile of magazines on the coffee table and some ugly throw pillows on the couch. The bathroom had a layer of dust on every flat surface. It didn’t seem like anyone had been there since the end of the world.
He was only alerted to another presence when the muzzle of your handgun was pressed against the back of his skull as he had crouched down to rifle through a cabinet. He didn’t have any time to be impressed by your silence.
“Get up. Slowly.” you barked at him. You looked down at the man in front of you, crossbow slung over his back, hoping that your gall alone was enough for this. You could see his large hunting knife at his hip. Both weapons inconveniently out of reach for him, given his predicament. He put both of his hands up and slowly rose to his full height, before turning around to face you. You stood there with your gun in his face, but he wasn’t even looking at it. He was looking at your face, your fear and rage-filled eyes locked on his. He glanced down to your jaw, where a nasty bruise mottled your skin in purple and yellow, down to your bloody hand pressed on your side. Blood soaked a good portion of your shirt, some having dripped onto your pants. Sweat adorned your forehead and your neck, leaving the collar of your ragged t-shirt damp. Your clothes were dirty and torn in several places, as if you had lost a fight with a particularly vicious cat. He looked back up at you.
“You bit?” He huffed. You didn’t blink.
You took him in. His long hair partially covering his face. The button-up shirt with the sleeves ripped off under the leather vest with the wings on the back. His large frame and muscular arms. His raised hands that looked like they could kill you with a flick of his wrist. You didn’t stand a chance.
“Shot.” The hand holding the gun in his face shook the slightest bit with your reply.
He moved before you could even react, grabbing the gun from your hand and turning it on you. You stagger backwards and practically fall into the wall, grimacing and grabbing tighter at your side. This wasn’t a fight you were going to win. He lowers the gun, seeing that you’re obviously not a threat. Neither of you speak for a moment.
“You got a group?” he grunted.
Only yesterday had you been with other people, working together to survive this world. They were the closest thing you had to a family, but you had stumbled onto a group of raiders that took you for all your worth and left you the sole survivor. You only lived because you had pretended to be dead.
You look away from him for the first time. “Not anymore.”
He nods, not needing you to elaborate.
“Can you walk?” you nod as your reply, not yet sure if you were lying or not. He looks you up and down before nodding again.
“I’ve got people, people that can look at ya.”
You stare at him.
You had your gun against his head not even 5 minutes ago. Why was he offering to help you? You searched his gaze for some hidden intention, but you found nothing. Whether that was because he was a good actor, or if he was being honest, was still unclear to you.
“I’ll be fine.”
There’s a strange tension in the air as you both look at each other, both of you knowing that you were lying but neither of you addressing it. He takes a step towards you and you bristle, unsure of his intentions. He holds your gun out to you. You stare for a second, stunned, before snatching it back from him. He stands in front of you, not having moved. His hand shoots out and grabs at the one pressed to your side, pulling it away. You shout in pain and try to pull your wrist from his grip, but to no avail. Fresh blood is still seeping out of you and coats your fingers, running down your hand and onto his from where his grip is locked on to your wrist.
Your vision swims, and the room starts to sway.
“You’re coming with me.” He grunts, letting your hand go to instead grab you by your bicep and pull you out the door. You stumble behind him, trying to keep up as white hot pain radiates through your entire body.
“Wait” you cry, before collapsing to the ground.
You had woken up a while later in a house with a strange man tending to your wound.
The rest was history. Fleeing the farm, the prison, all that bullshit with the Governor and Woodbury, and now you were camped in the woods again with nowhere to call home. Daryl had told your story to the rest of the group while you were getting your shit back together, and whatever he said made the rest of them keep their guard up and hold you at arms length. You didn’t mind. You were civil enough to have a transactional relationship. You’d hunt and bring back food, and they’d share supplies. Few words were spoken. Glenn at least initiated short conversations with you, seeming to be the more optimistic one. Carol was nice, but she seemed to live in her head. In fact, the only person who said more than pleasantries to you was Daryl.
There was something about him that puzzled you. You don’t know if it was some weird trauma-bonding or if he felt that since he saved you he needed to at least acknowledge you, but he was your ghost. He’d go on runs with you. Go hunt. And he actually spoke to you. Even Carol had commented on it, poking fun at you for breaking his tough-guy act.
“You have him wrapped around your little finger and neither of you even realize it.” She had whispered to you after he had wordlessly dropped a new jacket at your feet, having grabbed it from a store after yours had ripped on your last run. You gave her a polite smile, not knowing what else to say. It was scary. Because anyone you had cared about had been so violently ripped away from you, you didn’t know if you had it in you to hold space for someone like that again. Your childhood friends, your family, the group you had before Daryl found you. All of them were people you loved, and they all were gone.
Were you even capable of loving again?
But you began to notice.
You noticed his lingering looks. The way his eyes would stay on yours for a moment too long in the context of the moment. The way he noticed little things and would do something about it without needing to be asked. He didn't treat you like some damaged girl, he'd argue with you until the sun set if he needed to. The man was usually stoic, but when you had both got into it about some trivial crap one day, you could swear he was enjoying it. You once caught him smiling after you had taken down 3 walkers in quick succession without missing a beat.
Sometimes you’d notice his eyes raking your figure, and his normally dark stare would be shadowed by something else. His eyes would linger too long on your chest, or when you’d turn and walk away you would feel them on your ass. His hands would guide you through a building by putting his hand just slightly too low on your back. Or he’d put a hand on your waist to pull you back against a wall, a hand coming to your lips to shut you up mid sentence. Little things that added up to something you didn’t have the confidence to acknowledge.
“Hey.”
You snap your head towards him. Wow, again?. “What?”
“Am I really that boring?” He smirks.
You blink. Your head feels fuzzy. There’s a strange warmth in your stomach.
“No, was just thinking about when you found me.” You lie through your teeth.
He laughs. “Shoulda left your stubborn ass there. Had’ta carry you all the back back t’ the farm. Like a sack of potatoes.” You smack him in the arm, making him cough on the drag he was in the middle of taking. You grab the joint back from him, ignoring the look he gave you.
You breathe in. You were way gone, that fluffy feeling washing over your entire body and your head finally starting to quiet. You look over at Daryl again.
For as much bickering as the two of you did, you couldn’t deny the thrill that rose in your chest whenever he’d get in your face after pushing his buttons too hard. His face would turn red and sometimes he’d shove you around if you were being a particular problem. You didn’t think you had that fight in you right now, but it wasn’t going to stop you from nagging on him.
“Your shirts are too small.” You fire back. He looks at you, mouth open.
“No they ain’t.”
“Yes, Daryl, they are”
“They ain’t.”
“You look like you’re about to burst out of them half the time. One swing at a walker and those seams are busting wide open.”
“If ya want to look at my muscles you can jus’ say that.”
You go silent. Tension suddenly fills the air between the two of you. He reaches to you and takes the joint back, bringing it to his mouth, his head tilted back against the wall. You watch a little too intently.
“That’s not what I was saying.” You mutter, feeling like the blood in your veins had suddenly turned to fire. You didn’t dare look at him. You instead choose to fiddle with your shoelaces, twisting them around and giving yourself any distraction possible. Your head feels like it’s stuck in a cloud.
No one says anything.
Daryl stares out at the treeline, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
He enjoys nothing more than nagging at you. Not that he’d ever tell you that. He found it easier to just treat you like he treated everyone else. Pushing people’s buttons in a heated moment was a strong talent of his, and never missed an opportunity to fire a remark at someone for whatever god damn reason he felt like doing it. You, however, fired right back at him.
He often had to adjust himself to hide his raging boner after you would yell at him, much to the amusement of Carol and Glenn.
The problem with his ingenious approach is that it failed miserably, and it was obvious to everyone except him. While you two engaged in your fair share of fights, he didn’t watch out for anyone else the way he did for you. His gaze didn’t linger on anyone the way it did on you when you walked away. He would volunteer to go with you when you decided to go on a run, citing some excuse about needing supplies for a made up project he came up with on the fly. If you happened to slip away from him during said run, he’d mutter curses and clear the building in seconds to find where you had gone. He’d curse at you for being stupid and you’d yell back that you were perfectly capable of handling yourself, and he’d want nothing more than to grab your face and find a way to shut you up.
He suddenly shifts against the wall, causing you to jump. He rolls his shoulders and sits up a little, the wood plank floor you’re both on not offering a terribly comfortable seat.
“Why are you up here?” you ask, to which he offers no reply, staring out at the trees. You continue.
“I’m sure Glenn has some ridiculous tale he’s sharing with everyone right now. You should go enjoy it.”
“You should too.”
“I’m out here for a reason.”
“Which is?”
“To relax, unwind, find some inner peace, reach enlightenment, I had big plans before you decided to plop your old ass down next to me.”
He rolls his eyes, your jokes about his age a recurring annoyance. They’re not even funny. You laugh, though.
“Y’know I can’t stand Glenn’s stories.”
“Could have shown Carl how to skin that deer you got earlier.”
“S’done a while ago while he was off with Rick.”
“Your bike need fixing?”
“Tuned it yest’rday.”
“Crossbow need adjusting?”
“Did it earlier.”
“Ah, so you just wanted to be alone with me.” You snark, picking up a piece of broken brick and throwing it out of the window.
It skitters somewhere in the gravel below.
A beat.
“Maybe.”
The air shifts. You look up at him to find him already looking at you. He takes another pull and you watch shamelessly this time. His lips closing around the joint, his chest rising, and his eyes on yours. He exhales, hard.
He takes the joint out of his mouth.
He reaches over to you, bringing his hand up and sliding it in between your lips.
His fingers linger just a little too long against you, before retracting his hand, his eyes never leaving you.
Fuck.
You take one last deep drag before you rise onto your knees, turning towards Daryl and climbing into his lap. He looks up at you with half-lidded eyes, clearly in the same state you were. Your knees come down on either side of his thighs, face to face with him. You reach forward and grab his face with both of your hands, bringing him closer to you. Your thumb pressing lightly on his chin pushes his mouth open. You barely close the distance, ghosting your lips against his, exhaling into his mouth. He takes a deep breath, and his hands shoot up to the back of your head to pull you into a heated kiss. The spent joint is tossed over to the side. You shift forward, unintentionally grinding right down onto his hard length threatening the fly of his pants. His hips buck up into yours at the feeling, and he lets out a quiet grunt into your mouth. You nip at his skin, relishing in the sounds it draws out of the man under you. You trail your hands down the front of his shirt and start undoing the buttons, your mouth leaving his to trail down his jaw and onto his neck. You don’t get to finish before his hands come down to your hips, pressing you down onto him and sliding you back and forth. You whine at a rather pointed roll of his hips against yours. One of his hands runs up your spine to pull your chest into his, every touch of his fingers leaving trails of fire.
He leans back from you to look to the other side of the room, making sure no one is coming up the ladder to surprise you.
Daryl’s hands are on your face, pulling you into another kiss. Your hands go up to his hair as his travel down your front, pulling up at the bottom of your shirt. You pull away long enough to let him pull your t-shirt up over your head, and it’s discarded somewhere in the room. The cold air in the open room sends goosebumps across your body. Your lack of a bra seems to pleasantly surprise him. His eyes rake down your chest, and you suddenly feel shy. Your hands come up to your chest to cover yourself, but he grabs your wrists and pulls them away.
If you weren’t floating up in the clouds already, you certainly were now.
He leans forward and trails hot, open mouthed kisses from your mouth, down your neck, and to tops of your breasts. One of his large hands comes up to grab at the one his mouth isn’t attached to. The roll of his fingers causes you to jolt. You give a little whine and pull at his shirt. He wordlessly pulls away and tugs it up over his head, entirely forgoing the rest of the buttons. You trail your hands down his chest, hips still rolling together. He’s hot to the touch, a pleasant warmth compared to the cold of the night. You look up at him as your hand lands on his belt. He stares back at you, his equally transcended state apparent in his face.
A hand comes up to your back, the other to your hip, as he lowers you down onto your back. He brings his weight forward, bracing himself up on his forearms on either side of your head. He crashes his lips back down onto yours, settling his weight between your legs and grinding right down onto you. The sensation makes you let out a little squeak.
Daryl lets out a soft grunt, his head dropping to rest on your shoulder. While he’s there he licks hot stripes across your skin, nipping and sucking little marks onto you.
There’s a soft clink as you pull at his belt, before his own hand leaves you to do it himself. In one movement, he pushes down both his jeans and his boxers.
Wow.
The sight of him kickstarts you into motion as you reach for your own jeans and start undoing the button. Your actions are cut short by Daryl’s hands grabbing yours and putting them up by your head.
“What’re you-” you’re cut off by shock when Daryl starts sliding down your body, pressing his mouth to your skin as he trails down, coming to a stop at the top of your jeans. He presses soft kisses to your belly as his fingers work at the button, and pulls them down. You lift up your hips so he can slide them off of you, before he returns to deal with your underwear. His fingers hook around the top of them and start to pull them down, but he stops before too much of you is revealed. He looks up at you as he presses a kiss to your pubic bone, leaving a slightly damp spot on your underwear from his mouth.
You’d be lying if you said that the image in front of you wasn’t the hottest thing you had ever seen. But you’re getting impatient with need.
“Jesus Dixon, rip them off with your teeth for all I care just get a move on.” You try to make that sound snarky, but it just comes out desperate.
The last thing you expected him to do was listen to you.
He smirks and lowers his head back down. With one last kiss pressed below your belly button, he grabs the top of your underwear between his teeth and drags them down your legs.
You nearly cum just from watching him do that.
“S’that better?” he smirks, bringing himself back to your face to connect his lips with yours. You can only whine back at him, bucking your hips up to meet his. He lowers his hips down and slides himself against you, rubbing his length along your folds. His tip rubs deliciously against your clit, and you wriggle your hips in a silent plea.
He lines himself up with you and slowly pushes in, letting out a strangled groan. You wince at the slight burn, which almost immediately fades into mind numbing pleasure.
Is his dick that big, or is it just that you’re high as a fucking kite?
Daryl pulls back a little and slowly sinks back in, testing,
Oh.
It’s that big,
The feeling of him fully seating himself inside you causes you to let out an obscene whine, making Daryl promptly clap his hand over your mouth.
“I know, I know, but ya need to be quiet. This ain’t exactly soundproof.”
Once he realizes your face is no longer scrunched in a wince, he starts with a slow pace. Each drag of him against your walls sends tendrils of pleasure through your entire body. The feeling of him pressing so deep into you has you fading out of your body.
It’s too slow.
You bring your eyes to his face and momentarily forget how words work.
His eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging slightly open, with his head hanging down.
The sight makes you clench around him. His eyes fly open to look at you as he groans. It’s then that you notice his arms are shaking. He’s not one to quickly tire, how could he be spent from holding himself up already?
It takes a moment for you to realize that it’s not tiredness. It’s something else.
Restraint.
Daryl’s slow thrusts into you are tense and calculated, certainly not those of a man free to experience pleasure for the first time in who knows how long.
He’s holding back.
You certainly can’t have that.
“Daryl,” you mewl, your hands coming up to push on his chest. “More. Please.”
He gives you a small smile and reaches down to grab your knees, pulling your legs up to fall open more as he brings himself down onto his forearms, pressing a quick kiss to your jaw.
“As you wish, darlin’.”
Oh god.
He sets a punishing pace.
With every thrust, he’s battering that spot you can never quite reach with your own fingers. His hands are roaming your body, pulling at your hips, playing with your tits, tracing the lines of your body as if he’s trying to memorize every part of you. The roughness of his hands leaves a trail of goosebumps as he touches every part of you. It’s remarkably gentle, coming from such a man. His thrusts are punctuated with his own little groans. It only adds fuel to your fire.
You start to squirm, that coil in your stomach pulling tighter and tighter and threatening to snap. The wood floor is not very forgiving, and is digging uncomfortably into your back. The distraction is welcome, though, giving you something to ground you as your mind threatens to melt away completely.
His hand cups the side of your face, brushing your hair back.
“Look at me.”
His eyes are staring intently into yours, softer than you’ve ever seen him. The moonlight casts a soft light onto his face. The shadows from his hair dance across his forehead. His lips glisten with the evidence of your kissing. Your hands grab at his biceps caged around your head. His pace is starting to falter, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. One of his hands slithers down your body to rub at your clit. He looks at you for a moment before pressing a deep, gentle, and softly desperate kiss to your lips.
There it is.
Your orgasm hits you harder than any one you’ve brought out of yourself. It spreads like a hungry flame licking across your fuel-covered body. Your eyes squeeze shut and your mind goes static. Your muscles contract and your back arches up and presses your chest into his.
Your head tips back as your body writhes beneath him. He presses his mouth harder to yours, swallowing your moans. His hips become less rhythmic, stuttering to a halt as he buries himself inside of you and comes undone. You momentarily lose yourself in the cloud of pleasure, only to be guided back to earth by Daryl pressing soft kisses to your collarbones. You look up at him, dazed. A thin sheen of sweat covers his face, the hair at his neck slightly damp. There are faint marks on his neck, and red scratches on his arms and chest from where you had grabbed him.
You grimace as he slowly pulls out of you, still slightly overstimulated. A sudden breeze blows through the hay door, and you turn your face towards it, the cool night air a wonderful sensation against your heated skin.
“We should do that more often,” you blurt out, immediately horrified. You whip your head back to look at him, and he’s frozen in the middle of putting himself back into his pants. He looks at you for a moment before clearing his throat and smiling.
“That was kinda the plan.”
You blink.
“What?”
Daryl blushes and looks away.
Daryl Dixon. Blushes.
He shakes his head. “Nothin” he grunts out.
You sit yourself up on your elbows and look at him.
“Daryl Dixon, are you blushing?” you smile at him.
His ears turn red.
“What, did ya think I just did all that stuff for no reason?” he mutters.
Your heart swells.
“Been starin’ at ya for weeks. Though Carol was gonna rat me out at some point.” He pulls his shirt back over his head.
You slide your pants back up over your hips.
“She kinda did,” you laugh. He turns to look at you, him now the one who looks horrified.
“And ya didn’t say nothin?” he laughs, handing you your shirt.
“I didn’t know if I could,” you pause to pull your shirt over your head. “Thought you were just being nice and didn’t want to make things weird.”
You rub your arm sheepishly, avoiding looking at him as you stand up.
He walks over to stand in front of you, and brings a hand up to your face to make you look at him.
“S’a good thing we got past that, ain’t it?”
You smile.
He looks at you for a moment longer, and turns to walk back to the ladder.
“Don’t let Rick see the weed.” He tosses over his shoulder.
Summary; Poor Patrick only wanted to throw a little water on his face. Turns out the prison rat wasn’t just a rat.
Tw; nsfw, mdni 18+, smut, p in v, shower sex, accidental voyeurism, minor witnesses sexual activity (Patrick is 16-17)
Era; Prison era
“Daryl— Please—”
The thick steam of the prison showers filled the air, blurring the cracked tile walls and rusted overhead pipes into a warm, hazy blur.
It was long past midnight, and the hot water running down your bodies felt like a necessary shield—the heavy hiss of the spray helping to muffle the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin against skin and the desperate, breathless sounds you were both making.
Daryl had you pinned face-first against the damp concrete wall. Your chest pressed flat against the stone, your palms gripping the tiles for balance as he gripped your hips firmly with his massive, calloused hands, driving into you from behind with deep, relentless thrusts.
"Fuck, you're so tight” Daryl growled into the back of your neck, his teeth lightly scraping against your skin as his hips bucked forward again. "Doin' so good f’ me... fuck”
You let out a soft, hitched pant, your fingers clawing at the wall as the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you. "Fuck... right there” You whimpered, your lips sinking into your bottom lip as a weak attempt to muffle your whines. "God, Daryl, that feels so fucking good..."
Daryl groaned in response, leaning even closer and changing the angle just enough so he could drive himself deeper into you, his chest now meeting your back.
Your hands pressed flat against the slick tile to brace yourself, a broken gasp escaping your throat as he kept up his relentless pace. "Daryl... 'm close—" You panted, your nails digging into the stone all over again as you tried desperately to keep your voice down despite the heavy curtain of falling water covering the noise. "So, so close..."
"Fuck, ’m too" Daryl grunted, his voice dropping into that thick, low growl that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, holding you firmly in place as he took complete control. "Just a little longer, yeah? Can ya’ do that f’ me?" He mumbled against your skin, the words lost between slow, lingering kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck. His lips barely leaving your skin before finding another spot, teeth grazing gently as he marked you in the darkness.
Ever since the survivors from Woodbury arrived at the prison, finding any kind of privacy had become practically impossible. The place was more than just packed now, bustling with unfamiliar faces. And between the crowded corridors, shared meals, and constant guard rotations, moments like this—late-night showers behind the curtain of heavy steam and hidden midnight meetups—were the only moments you and Daryl could truly breathe without an audience.
Keeping your relationship a secret wasn't about a lack of trust—it was just about survival and keeping what you had sacred.
You were very careful. But of course, the core group wasn't blind. Nobody ever made a big speech about it, but—Rick, Michonne, Carol, Glenn, Maggie—Oh, they knew.
You never held hands in the courtyard, never traded soft words where anyone could hear, but the truth slipped through in the quiet spaces.
It was in the way Daryl’s posture shifted the second you stepped outside, his posture sharpening, his hand instinctively resting closer to his belt. The way he was far more protective over you on supply runs, always keeping a watchful eye and staying within arm's reach. But what gave it away the most, was the absolute, unhinged panic that had nearly torn him apart the time you got severely hurt on a run—a raw, terrifying break in his usual quiet stoicism that nobody who witnessed it could ever forget. That day, Daryl had nearly lost his damn mind under the terror of losing you.
Carol had been the first to truly know. She had seen it first, long before anyone else. She didn't need a confession; she saw it in the way Daryl looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Whenever her and Daryl sat out on the overturned crates in the yard, she’d watch him scan the perimeter carefully, his gaze flicking past the fences, past the gates, not stopping his searching until he found you. Only then would his eyes soften and the tension would leave his shoulders. It had taken weeks of Carol's sharp, knowing smiles and relentless teasing before Daryl finally grunted out a gruff, reluctant nod—his only official confirmation.
So here, tucked away in the steaming darkness of the shower block, was the only place where the weight of the world lifted, where you didn't have to act like just another survivor in the yard.
But, neither of you had any idea that your late-night meetups in the dark shower block weren't as hidden as you thought tonight.
It had been a suffocatingly hot day, and Patrick, the lanky, awkward kid with the thick glasses, simply couldn't bear the overwhelming heat of the night inside his stuffy cellblock. Unable to sleep, he had wandered into the wash area just wanting to throw a little cold water on his face to cool down.
He quietly stumbled deeper into the corridor, yawning tiredly when, suddenly, he heard the unmistakable, heavy grunts and wet slaps over the sound of the water, and then— "Daryl, don't stop..." He heard it clearly, the soft gasping voice, followed immediately by that unmistakable, gravelly rasp growling back. "Ain’t stoppin’ ”
Patrick’s breath hitched violently in his throat, his face instantly burning up in the dark— Oh shit... that was Daryl Dixon's voice. Daryl fucking Dixon's.
For a second, Patrick felt like he was dreaming, completely unable to trust his own ears.
Daryl was the man Patrick looked up to more than anyone in this world—a lone wolf in every sense of the word. Daryl was a man who barely let anyone touch him, let alone showed an ounce of romantic or intimate interest in another human being. Nobody in the prison had ever even pictured Daryl with a partner. Sure, he was a handsome guy, and Patrick had seen a couple of brave women try their hand at flirting with him in the past, but Daryl had that lethal, intense scowl that terrified most people before they could even get close. Most didn't even make it past eye contact; Daryl would instantly sidestep their gaze, grunting or shutting down conversations before they even began. He seemed entirely immune to that side of life.
So hearing the Daryl Dixon—of all people— sounding so completely raw, breathless, and consumed by someone sent a shockwave through the kid's entire chest.
It wasn't just idle curiosity that pushed Patrick forward anymore—it was pure, staggering disbelief.
Overwhelmed and desperate to see if his tired mind was playing tricks on him, Patrick took a tiny, hesitant peek around the corner of the brick divider— And when his eyes adjusted to the mist and landed on you, he almost gasped out loud in total shock, his eyes widening behind his lenses.
No… it’s couldn’t be…
Around the prison, you were untouchable in a way every guy knew better than to test. It wasn't that you were cold—no, you were warm, funny, talkative enough to keep a conversation going on and on for hours. You gave out hugs easily enough to friends or the younger guys in the group. But when it came to romantic interest, you held the highest fucking bar in the camp. Plenty of men had tried their luck, attempting to flirt or play it smooth, only to be shut down with a razor-sharp smirk, a sarcastic tease, and a bruised ego. You simply weren't the kind of woman who entertained just anyone, leaving every guy who tried walking away with his tail between his legs.
Yet here you were—completely yielding to Daryl damn Dixon. Letting him hold you, command your body, and guide every single breath you took without a single trace of protest or hesitation as he aggressively fucked you against the wall.
Shaking violently, Patrick couldn't resist taking one more subtle, terrified glance around the brick.
He didn’t meant to—but his eyes betrayed him, falling on the exact point of contact—where Daryl’s hips drove hard against the soft curve of your ass, keeping you pinned against the stone with every deep, unforgiving, thrust. Claiming every inch of your space to the point there was none left between you, each thrust pressing you harder against wet, slippery wall.
“C’mon, cum for me, angel” Daryl grunted against your neck, and Patrick instantly noticed his arm snaking around your front, his hand— the same hand he had shaken just a few hours ago this morning— traveling lower and lower till they met your core. Smoothly and naturally, with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.
But… what was he doing?
The poor, absurdly and unbelievably virgin, kid couldn’t make sense of it. His innocent mind, and even more innocent eyes, couldn’t quite understand what Daryl was doing to you. But judging by your reaction, whatever it was had completely unraveled you. Every shudder, every breathless sound, every helpless tremble— was all the proof he needed to understand that, whatever it was— it was driving you absolutely insane, overwhelming you with a rush of pure ecstasy that seemed to leave nothing else in the world.
“C’mon, give t’me, baby. I know yar’ close” Daryl’s fingers found your clit with unfailing accuracy, circling the small bundle of nerves with unwavering precision, his movements rough and demanding, perfectly in sync with the pistoning of his hips. And the broken, desperate cry that tore from your throat sounded utterly pornographic.
“Fuck, I c-can’t—” The dual stimulation was too much. You could barely form words anymore. All you could do was moan and whimper, yet push back against him to meet him thrust for thrust at the same time. Taking everything he was giving you and begging for more.
Patrick could’ve sworn he saw your knees buckle then, like the strength was slowly draining from your body—But Daryl didn’t let you. Didn’t let you fall, didn’t let you run from it. He kept you in place, pushed you harder against the concrete wall. Your cheek now completely pressed onto the cold tiles as his grip tightened around your waist, keeping your body upright.
“Nah, ya’ can. Ya’ will” Daryl didn’t just reply—he commanded. His fingers pressing so firmly into your skin that it almost looked painful.
Patrick blinked. Once. Then again. And again. Scrubbing a hand harshly over his eyes until bright white spots burst across his vision. God, he had to be dreaming. He just had too. Cause there was simply no way what he was seeing was real. No way that was actually you.
You—the woman who had never taken orders from anyone without a fight. The woman who could turn the simplest request into an argument if someone phrased it like a command. Even Rick himself had learned the hard way that getting you to follow one of his plans meant asking instead of telling, and asking properly, as you liked to put it
If someone had the nerve to even bark an order at you, you’d make damn sure to do the exact opposite just to prove a point. It didn’t matter who they were—Rick. Hershel. Especially Shane back then— Hell, anyone. The second someone tried to tell you what to do instead of asking, your stubborn streak came out swinging. You’d stand there with your chin tipped defiantly high while they fumed and clearly had lost their patience, never once flinching beneath their glare. And the angrier they got, shit, the more amused you seemed. Always saying something among the lines— “Yeah, well, last time I checked you’re neither my boss nor my damn father!” And then, with an infuriating little scoff— “So get a fucking grip!”
So how had you just folded so easily? So quickly. With no argument. No sarcastic comeback. Not even the slightest roll of your eyes in response to Daryl’s command. Nothing. You had simply listened. No—Whimpered.
Patrick could only stare, his brain stubbornly refusing to make sense of what he was seeing right now. What the hell had Dixon done to you? What kind of spell had he managed to put you under?
“Fuck, look at ya’ ” Daryl whispered down into your ear, his body shifting as he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into you with one, single, hard thrust, burying himself completely to the hilt and reaching impossibly deep inside you. “Such a mess for’ me”
Your back arched in response, another helpless sound slipping past your lips as your pussy clenched desperately around him, sucking him back in so tightly that it had him whimpering against your skin. “Shit, keep doin’ that”
But then, as Patrick kept watching Daryl basically ruin you with just his…
A sudden, heavy realization settled into his chest.
Up until, well, tonight, Patrick had thought of the men in the camp simply as adults who were better with weapons. But standing in the damp shadows, watching the raw, unyielding power Daryl carried, the truth hit him like a truck.
He looked at Daryl—a man hardened by the world, a survivor who brought in food and protected the gates. And then looked at himself. And the massive gulf between a nervous teenage boy like him and a real, full-grown man hit him with brutal clarity. Patrick realized in that moment that he wasn't just miles behind Daryl on the battlefield— he was completely outmatched in every way that mattered.
He had always looked up to Daryl as a man, as fighter and as everything he dreamed to be, but watching the effortless, confident way he commanded your body, guiding you through every wave of pleasure with raw power and deep, grounded control, hearing the soft, helpless moans echo against the concrete as he drove you over completely out of your mind— Patrick felt small, realizing what it truly meant to satisfy a woman like that and that he was looking at a level of manhood he couldn't even comprehend.
"Daryl... please" You whimpered, your back arching deeper into his chest. "I gotcha. I gotcha, baby”Daryl murmured between sloppy kisses, his voice heavy with possessive pride. "Don’t hol’ back. Cum f’me”
Patrick felt a sudden wave of sharp guilt crash over him then.
Not because he suddenly felt uncomfortable or disgusted—far from it actually. If anything, he felt like a dump teenage boy who was watching a sex-tape for the first time in his life—But still, he desperately wanted to force his eyes away, to tear his gaze from the scene, because he felt like he was trespassing. This was sacred, private ground belonging to the two people he respected most in the entire prison, and watching felt like a massive betrayal, an act of sheer disrespect. He was overstepping a line he had no business crossing, intruding on a raw, deeply personal side of Daryl and you that no one else was ever meant to see.
His mind screamed at him to pull back, to never talk about this ever again, to turn around and erase this moment from his memory. But then, as your head fell back onto Daryl’s shoulder with a breathless whine—tipping over the edge into an intense, body-racking high—Daryl shifted his stance slightly, his head turning in the general direction of the hallway.
Panic seized Patrick.
A sharp, yet luckily silent gasp leaving his mouth as he spun around quickly, his back slamming flat against the wall and his face burning a bright, furious red. He slapped both hands over his mouth in utter shock, desperate to remain quiet.
Fearing he was about to be caught red-handed, he scrambled backward into the deeper shadows behind the wall—But Patrick was a clumsy, jittery kid. In his desperate, trembling hurry to hide further into the dark, his sneaker scuffed loudly against a loose piece of gravel on the concrete floor.
Skrrrrt.
The sharp sound sliced straight through the hiss of the shower.
You froze instantly, your breath catching in your throat as your peak was suddenly cut short. Daryl stopped dead inside you, his entire body turning rigid as iron. "Daryl..." You whispered, a sudden wave of intense panic and embarrassment flooding your chest. "What the fuck was that?"
Daryl didn't answer right away. His blue eyes narrowing as he stared piercingly through the steam and toward the dark opening of the room.
"Ion’ know” He muttered, his voice low and definitely not soft.
Patrick, terrified out of his mind, tried to shift his weight to sneak away, but his elbow nudged a rusted metal pipe behind him, making a faint, hollow clink.
"Who the fuck is out there?!" Daryl yelled through the steam, his protective instincts instantly flaring into pure rage. “Ya better fuckin’ leave right now! Or else I swear to God, I'll come out there and beat the livin’ shit out of ya!”
The sheer anger in his voice had you scrambling. You quickly pulled your hands to your chest, instinctively covering your very bare breasts as you reached out to slowly turn the water handle, cutting off the loud spray.
"Daryl... I think someone is actually there” You whispered, your voice shaking with anxiety and pure mortification. Daryl glanced down at you for just a second, but it was enough for him to take in the pleading and absolutely terrified look that had settled on your face as your eyes met his and the darkness across from you.
Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of you, moving backwards and reaching over the stall to grab a rough towel before hastily wrapping it around his waist. His eyes scanned the floor until they found a heavy, jagged piece of a broken mirror near the rusted sink. He reached down at the shard, gripping it like a knife as he crept silently toward the corner of the wall.
Hearing the water stop and Daryl’s heavy footsteps approaching, Patrick didn't wait around. He scrambled backward, slipping through the dark corridor as quietly and quickly as his lanky legs could carry him, disappearing back into the cellblocks before he could get caught.
Daryl rounded the corner, his makeshift weapon raised and ready to slash. But as he scanned the empty, dark hallway— he found absolutely nothing. Just… darkness.
He lowered the glass shard, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath before turning back to look at you. You were still standing in the dry stall, shivering slightly, nervously clutching your hands over your chest, your eyes wide with a mix fear and worry.
Suddenly, a loud, frantic scratching sound echoed near the trash bins in the corner.
Daryl’s head snapped toward it instantly. His hands tightened around the glass once again only to be met with a massive, bloated prison rat scurrying out from beneath a pile of rags, sprinting across the floorboards and disappearing into a drain.
Daryl let out a rough, dry scoff, tossing the piece of glass into the sink. "Just a rat” He grunted, shaking his head. "Dirty fuckin’ animal runnin’ away”
You let out a big, explosive sigh of relief, your shoulders slumping as the panic drained from your body. "Oh, thank God—” You breathed, a breathless, nervous laugh escaping your lips as you pulled your hands away from your chest and let them drop back to your sides. "I thought it was Rick or someone. God, that would have been so fucking embarrassing”
"Yeah, well, it ain' nobody” Daryl murmured as he slowly walked back into the stall, aggressively yanking the towel off his waist and throwing it to the floor. He stepped right back into your space, the wicked, possessive glint returning to his eyes as he reached for you again. "Now... where the fuck were we?"
His hands found your waist in an instant, a giggling, happy yell escaping your mouth as you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. He lifted you effortlessly against the wall again, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as you completely forgot about the scare.
Daryl reached over, twisting the handle to turn the hot water back on, and without a single second of hesitation— His lips crashed to yours in a desperate kiss as he lined himself up and drove straight back into your wet entrance. Swallowing down every moan and whine that slipped past your lips as he restarted the fire right where it left off.
.✦ ݁˖ ———
Morning came too quickly. The prison courtyard already alive with people by the time you stepped outside, bright with warm sunlight. You and Daryl practically radiated an after-sex glow. Your skin looked flushed, and there was a lazy, relaxed rhythm to the way you both moved.
Daryl was hunched over by the vehicles, working under the popped hood of a truck, his hands covered in grease—Patrick was standing just a few feet away, holding a toolbox.
Most days, whenever Daryl wasn't out on runs or at the fences, the kid was hovering nearby, following him like a quiet shadow just to watch and learn how he worked. Usually, Patrick talked Daryl's ear off with eager, nervous questions. But today, the kid was dead silent, staring awkwardly at the ground, his face pale as he kept swallowing hard, desperately trying to force the vivid, explicit memory of last night out of his mind.
Daryl noticed the unnatural quiet right away, but he didn't say anything, just continuing to wrench a stubborn bolt.
When, out of what felt like nowhere, you walked past the truck carrying a basket of clean laundry. As you passed Daryl, you reached out and gave his side a playful, subtle nudge with your hand—a quiet, intimate gesture you always did the after a wild night.
Without even looking up from his engine work, Daryl reached a grease-stained hand behind him, his rough fingertips lightly brushing across the exposed skin of your waist as you passed. It was subtle, effortless, and blink-and-you'd-miss-it.
Patrick, however, caught it. He swallowed even harder, a visible gulp working down his throat as the image of you being pinned against the shower wall by Daryl’s whole body flashed violently back into his mind. He clutched the toolbox harder, his chest tightening.
But as the kid looked up again, you had already walked off into the yard, and Daryl leaned deeper over the engine block. "Pass me the socket wrench" Daryl grunted, not even bothering to turn around, his hand outstretched behind him. "The three-eighths one”
But Patrick didn't move. He was completely lost in his own head, frozen stiff, his eyes locked on the dirt ground while his brain replayed the breathless moans and raw power of what he'd witnessed in the steam.
Daryl waited a second, felt nothing in his open palm, and finally straightened up. He turned around, pulling his brows down into a heavy frown as he watched the kid completely zoned out, white-knuckling the metal handle of the toolbox like his life depended on it.
"Ay. Kid" Daryl snapped, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. "The wrench”
Patrick snapped out of it with a sharp, violent flinch. "O-Oh! Yes! I-I’m sorry!" He stammered, frantically digging into the box and pulling out the tool to hand it over.
Daryl took it without hesitation, but his intense blue eyes stayed locked directly on Patrick's pale, half trembling face, not even looking down at the wrench. His forehead creased in genuine confusion. "What the fuck is up with ya today?" Daryl grunted, his voice suspicious. "Yar’ quieter than usual. Usually ya never shut the hell up”
A cold wave of sheer panic washed over Patrick, sweat instantly breaking out along his forehead and neck. His stomach plummeted into his sneakers. He knew Daryl wasn't the type to hurt a kid for no reason, but the thought of what the Dixon would do to anyone—kid or not—who had caught and watched you in such a private, vulnerable, raw moment made Patrick's entire body shiver.
Panicking that Daryl was somehow going to connect the dots and realize he was the "rat" from the shower block, Patrick quickly shook his head, his hands flying up. "Oh—it's nothing! I'm fine, I'm fine, really!"
Daryl narrowed his eyes in confusion, thrown off by the kid's sudden meltdown. "Ya sure?"
Patrick nodded so fast his glasses almost slid off his nose. "Yeah! Yeah, yeah, I'm sure!" He stuttered, stepping backward away from the truck. "I—I actually have to go now! I think... I think Carol— Carl! Yeah! Carl called me. I got a job to do, I gotta go!"
Before Daryl could even drop another word, Patrick turned on his heel and fast-walked away as fast as his legs could carry him, practically sprinting toward the cellblocks to escape.
Daryl just stood there by the truck, holding the socket wrench and staring after the kid in absolute, utter confusion. He let out a low, almost amused huff, shaking his head. "What the fuck ‘s wrong with that kid..." He muttered to himself, before wiping his greasy forehead and leaning back into the engine block.
Barely a few minutes passed, the courtyard quiet except for the distant chatter and the clink of metal against metal. When suddenly— You slipped back around the side of the vehicle, the basket of laundry now missing no from your hands.
Quietly, you stepped up right behind Daryl, your arms slowly wrapping around his waist as you leaned your cheek against his broad, firm back.
Daryl tensed slightly at the sudden contact, but as soon as he caught your scent, his shoulders eased. He stayed hunched over the truck, turning his head back over his shoulder just enough to look at you, his blue eyes softening just a little in an instant.
"Hey" You murmured softly, teasingly against his spine. "Hey” He mumbled back, his gravelly tone hushed and intimate but you caught the gentleness in it.
Slowly, you stood on your tiptoes, leaning closer to press a series of small, lingering kisses against the warm skin of his neck. Daryl stiffened again, his head snapping instantly to the left and right to scan the open yard. "What are ya doin', woman?" He muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a low, almost scolding tone. "People gonna see”
But you paid his warning no mind, letting out a soft hum against his pulse point. "No one comes back here except you... and that little tail of yours" You murmured playfully, teasing him about Patrick and the way the kid followed him around like a lost puppy most of the time.
Daryl swallowed hard, his breath hitching slightly as your lips continued their deliberate path up his jaw line. He tried desperately to stay focused, to keep his hands steady on the engine, but the warmth of your breath against his skin made it nearly impossible to hold onto his senses.
Abandoning the wrench, Daryl straightened up to his full height and turned around inside your arms to face you. "Someone could come askin' f’me" He warned softly, staring down at you. "Or f’ you"
You just shook your head with a quiet smile, closing the tiny distance between you until your chest pressed against his. Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, resting against the firm, warm skin of his lower stomach. "Well, I've got about ten minutes before Carol needs me for supply counts” You whispered, your eyes locked onto his. "And I highly doubt anyone's looking for you right now. So..."
Your hands moved lower, fingers hooking playfully into his waistband, tugging him just a little closer. You bit your bottom lip softly, fluttering your lashes up at him with a look of pure, close to desperate, need.
Daryl’s jaw clenched, a muscle working in his cheek as he looked down at you. The needy, burning look in your eyes made his blood run hot, his body reacting instantly to your touch despite every instinct telling him to stay alert.
The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting back a smile. "What? Last nigh ain’t enough for ya?"
Without a moment’s hesitation, you shook your head. Your fingers slipped lower, pressing firmly against him through his jeans, feeling how fast he was already hardening under your touch.
Daryl’s breath hitched violently, his whole frame going rigid for a second before his head snapped sideways to check the perimeter one more time. "Fuck..." He grunted low in his throat, a rough, helpless sound escaping him.
You let out a soft, teasing laugh, looking up at him with deliberate innocence. "Oh, look at that hypocrisy" You whispered, leaning in so close your lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Come on... we can be quick"
You trailed your mouth down to his neck again, leaving hot, slow, open-mouthed kisses along his pulse point. “Plus—There won’t be no rat to interrupt us this time” You joked, biting down on his skin softly.
That was it. Daryl folded completely. He had no intention of turning you down—to be honest he wanted this just as badly as you did, if not more.
Without another word, Daryl’s large hands came up, clamping firmly onto your waist. He backed you up swiftly, guiding you out of the open light and behind the tall, divider wall near the back of the shed where the shadow completely hid you both.
"Yer’ gonna be the death of me, woman" He mumbled, a small grunt escaping his lips, though there wasn't any real anger in it. You just chuckled softly, knowing you'd won—Again—and slipped your hands out from his jeans, bringing them up to wrap around his shoulders instead.
And before you could even process the win, Daryl leaned down, capturing your mouth in an intense, bruising kiss. His tongue slid smoothly past your lips, claiming you completely, swallowing any quiet sigh you tried to make. His dirty, grease-stained hands didn't hesitate—cupping your cheeks without a single care for the dirt smudging onto your skin—before one arm slid down to wrap like iron around your waist. His other hand hooked under the back of your thigh, effortlessly hoisting you up off your feet and anchoring you against his hip like he has done for, god knows, how many times.
You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your legs tightly around him as he held you pinned securely against the hidden wall, proving, once again, that neither of you could ever truly get enough.
Summary: Across every stage of the outbreak, your physical relationship with Daryl mirrors his emotional growth from detached survivor to a man who worships and protects the one person he refuses to lose.
Classification and content warnings: Smut +18 | Rough sex, consensual but primal encounters, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex, biting, marking, mild choking and creampies.
Temporal setting: Season 1 to 11
Word count: 4,5k
Divider by me ;)
Quarry Camp:
In the early days, the world was fresh in its death, nerves raw with everyone on edge.
Daryl was a ghost at the edges of the group, crossbow always in hand, resentment simmering under his skin from Merle’s absence and the constant babysitting of these soft strangers. You were useful, another set of eyes, a decent shot and not afraid to get dirty. That was all it was.
He didn’t talk much, never did but one night after a supply run gone tense, the quarry’s humid air thick with insect noise and distant moans of the dead, he cornered you behind the tree line, away from the flickering campfires. His hand landed heavily on your hip, callused fingers digging in as yours did the same over the tent in his jeans.
“Need this,” he growled low, more a statement than a question.
He spun you against a thick trunk, rough bark scraping your palms as he yanked your pants down just enough. His own jeans were shoved low on his hips, cock already hard and leaking from the day’s pent-up rage and there was no kissing.
He spat in his palm, slicked himself once and pushed in a raw and thick, burning stretch that made your teeth clench. He fucked like he was punishing the world with brutal, shallow thrusts at first and then deeper, hips snapping with frustrated force. One hand fisted your hair while the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise as grunts and low curses spilled from him.
“Fuck…tight…f–shit,” voice gravelly and breathless.
It was quick and ugly. He came with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he forcefully pulled out, then quickly tucked himself away while you were still catching your breath, slick dripping down your thighs. He quickly wiped you with a rag from his pocket, offered a nod and he was gone back to his tent. There was no aftercare or additional words because it was a matter of convenience and release, in the same way he would scratch an itch or hunt for food.
CDC:
The CDC felt like false hope wrapped in sterile walls. Everyone was drunk on wine and the illusion of safety while Daryl was still on the outside of the main room, distrust thick in his veins but the alcohol loosened his tongue just a fraction. You ended up in a dim side corridor after everyone else had passed out or paired off.
He was a little less feral here, still no tenderness but the frustration had changed into survival-fueled need mixed with the knowledge that tomorrow might be the end. He pulled you into a shadowed lab room and bent you over a cold metal table, pushing your jeans down and shoving your shirt up so he could look at your strengthening back muscles. His mouth was on your neck this time, biting more than kissing, teeth scraping skin as he lined up and sank in with one rough thrust.
“Keep quiet,” he muttered against your ear with a thick voice. His pace was steadier but still punishing, hips slapping loud in the empty room as the table creaked under you.
He reached around, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing in messy circles, it was in no way skilled, mostly effective. You clenched around him and he cursed, low and filthy, pounding in harder as sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. When he came it was with a bitten-off groan, hips flush against your ass as he pulsed inside.
He lingered a second longer than at the quarry, forehead pressed briefly to your shoulder while he caught his breath but then he pulled out, helped yank your pants up with a grunt and left. This time, it was convenience with the faintest edge of mutual reliance now since you watched each other’s backs out there more than once.
Hershel’s Farm:
The farm brought fragile stability as days blurred into chores, patrols and quiet nights. Daryl was more integrated but still prickly, especially after Sophia. You hunted together now as silent but efficient partners in the woods and inevitably, that shared competence started bleeding into everything else.
Sex wasn’t random anymore. It happened after long days tracking, in abandoned barns or deep in the woods where no one wandered. He still didn’t do ‘soft’ but there was more of a rhythm now and he made sure you came at least once.
One evening after a successful hunt, blood still under his nails, he tugged you up the ladder into the hayloft, moonlight filtering through the slats. He stripped you slowly, your shirt went first but he still hesitated to touch anywhere else. When he pushed inside, you were on your back in the hay, legs wrapped around his waist, his thrusts were deep and grinding, less frantic than before but still very blunt. Skin slapped and heavy breathing filled the space with the occasional low “Yeah…like that,” when you moaned or tightened around him.
He watched your face more, studying reactions like he studied tracks. One hand pinned your wrist above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could hit deeper. Sweat-slick and grunting, he fucked you until your legs shook and when you came, he didn’t stop, just kept that relentless pace until he followed, burying himself with a ragged groan and staying there longer, hips twitching.
Afterwards, he didn’t leave right away. He rolled off but stayed close, one arm draped heavy over your waist while you both breathed heavily. There was no ‘love talk’ or any real cuddling but there was a quiet acknowledgment, you were not just a warm body anymore. You were the one who moved silently with him through the trees, the one who didn’t flinch at his scars or his moods.
Respect was starting to root, even if feelings were still buried deep under layers of loss and survival.
The road after the barn burned:
The farm was ash and the group was scattered on the road, exhausted, hungry and hunted while nights were cold and the days brutal. You and Daryl fell into a rhythm of scouting ahead, hunting small game and watching each other’s backs without needing words.
The sex became less about pure frustration and more about grounding each other in the chaos, two hardened survivors stealing heat and release when the weight of leadership and loss pressed too heavy.
One night the group camped in a tight circle of cars off a forgotten highway. You slipped away together into the tree line, far enough for privacy but close enough to hear if walkers or threats appeared. Daryl pulled you behind a thick oak, his crossbow leaned nearby within easy reach.
The air smelled of pine and distant smoke. He was dirt-streaked and tense but his hands were sure when he turned you to face the tree. “C’mere,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel though you were starting to like it. He tugged your pants and underwear down to your knees in one motion, then freed himself, he was already hard, thick and flushed, veins prominent from the day’s adrenaline. He spat into his palm again, an old habit but this time he reached around and worked the slickness over your entrance with two rough fingers, opening you up properly for the first time in weeks.
When he pushed in it was still shallow, still a stretch that burned so good, too good, but slower. He bottomed out with a heavy exhale against the back of your neck while one arm braced on the trunk above your head, the other wrapped around your waist, holding you steadily against him. His thrusts started deep and rolling, in long strokes that dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, yet the slap of skin was muffled by the night. He grunted softly with each thrust, breath hot on your skin.
“Fuck…you feel good,” he admitted between clenched teeth. It definitely wasn’t sweet talk, it sounded more like pure honesty, a bit surprising. His hand slid down, callused fingers finding your clit and rubbing firm, steady circles in time with his hips.
He was learning your body now, paying attention to the way you clenched and gasped, so when your legs started to shake, he didn’t speed up, he kept that relentless pace until you came hard around him, biting your own arm to stay quiet.
Only then did he let go, hips snapping sharper as he chased his own release. He came with a low, broken groan, pressing deep and staying buried while he pulsed inside you, forehead dropped to your shoulder.
For a long minute he just breathed there with you, arm still banded around your middle like he just remembered what came after this. He pulled out carefully, helped you fix your clothes with surprisingly gentle hands, then wiped himself with a rag before offering it to you.
You hunted together the next morning like always and the respect was palpable now. He trusted you with his life out there and the sex had become another way you took care of each other in a world that took everything.
The prison (Before the Governor):
Prison walls finally offered something like safety with its cells, fences and routines. Daryl was more settled but still carried the weight of the group on his shoulders.
You two shared a cell more often than not as the weeks passed and the sex reflected that. It was still rough around the edges but laced with intimacy born of partnership since you had bled together, killed together and kept the group alive together.
Late one night after a long watch shift, the prison was quiet except for distant walker groans outside the fences. You were in the lower bunk of a cell in another block, the place you usually went to when you needed to get away from the group. Daryl climbed in after you, his body heavy and warm as he pressed you into the thin mattress. No words were needed before he stripped you both efficiently, hands roaming your sides and mapping scars he had memorized by now.
He settled between your thighs, cock heavy and leaking against your soaked pussy. This time he took his time entering, thick inch by inch, watching your face in the dim light filtering through the bars. Once he was fully seated he paused, hips flush, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. “Good?” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. You nodded and he started moving deeply with precise thrusts that rocked the bunk frame quietly. His mouth found your neck then, sucking marks that would be hidden by a high-neck shirt in the morning.
He fucked you like a man who knew exactly what you needed after a hard day. One hand pinned your hip while the other braced beside your head and the angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust. His grunts were low and guttural, “That’s it…take it…fuck, too good of a habit to quit.” The words slipped out heavily with the truth of your partnership as he was claiming you in the only way he knew how.
When you came he rode it out, stroking you through it until you were trembling, then he let himself go, burying deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he filled you. He collapsed half on top of you afterward, breathing hard against your neck with one arm wrapped around your waist. He didn’t pull out immediately, he stayed inside you, softening, while his thumb stroked lazy circles on your skin, yet there were no grand declarations but the protectiveness was there in every touch. You were his hunting partner, his cellmate, the one person he let see the cracks and he realized how respect had become bone-deep loyalty.
The prison (After the Governor):
The Governor’s attack left scars, literal and otherwise. The prison was damaged, the group fractured and trust in short supply. Daryl was darker now, angrier and more withdrawn after losing so many, as a result, the sex turned fiercer, punishing in its intensity but it was still the one place where the two of you could reconnect without the weight of leadership crushing you.
After a brutal day reinforcing defenses and scouting for revenge, he found you in that same secluded cell block and tension rolled off him in waves, same with you. He pushed you against the cold concrete wall, removing your boots, yanking your pants down roughly while his own were haphazardly shoved low by you. He was rock hard, angry-hard and he spat on his cock before hiking your thigh up and driving into you in one brutal thrust.
“Need you,” he growled against your ear, teeth grazing the shell. There was no warmup that time, he fucked you hard and fast with deep, punishing strokes that lifted you onto your toes. The slap of skin echoed as his hand wrapped around your throat lightly, holding you possessively while the other remained at your thigh, fingers gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Don’t you fuckin’ leave me too,” he snarled between thrusts, voice cracking with everything he wouldn’t say outright.
It was desperate and sweat dripped. Your moans mixed with his grunts as he angled to hit that spot inside you relentlessly until you shattered around him, clenching so tight he cursed viciously. He followed right after, slamming deep and staying there, cock pulsing as he spilled hot and thick inside you with a long moan.
He stayed pressed against your front for a long time, breathing ragged, arms caging you in until he softened and pulled out, resting his forehead against yours for a silent moment, allowing rare vulnerability. Then he helped clean you up with hands steadier than his mood.
The partnership was ironclad now, he would kill for you without hesitation and the sex was how he reminded you and himself that you were still here, still his to protect in this brutal world. There weren’t any feelings yet but the foundation was set, layered with deep respect, fierce loyalty and a bone-deep need that only grew stronger with every loss.
Alexandria (Before Negan):
Alexandria’s walls felt like a different world between the clean houses, running water and the people still trying to pretend the dead weren’t out there. Daryl was uncomfortable with the softness and domesticity but he was adapting. You two had a house now, a shared space and inevitably, the sex changed noticeably. The frustration and pure convenience were gone since respect had deepened into vulnerability and feelings started to surface in the quiet moments after, now that there was a space they could live in safely.
One night the house was quiet and the neighborhood asleep. You were in the bedroom you shared, moonlight cutting through the curtains when Daryl came back from a late watch, still wired. He found you already in bed and stripped slowly, eyes locked on you the entire time and when he climbed over you, his touch was still callused and sure but there was a new reverence in it.
He kissed you now in deep, hungry kisses that tasted like want and something softer. His mouth trailed down your neck, sucking marks you no longer hid and he took his time undressing you, hands mapping every inch like he was memorizing you all over again.
When he finally pushed inside, it was slow and thick, stretching you open with a groan that vibrated against your throat, though you didn’t need to be quiet now.
“Goddamn…always so good for me,” he murmured, voice rough but laced with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. His hips rolled in deep and steady thrusts, they had grown confident and controlled, hitting every spot that made your back arch. He was fully present, watching your face and adjusting his angle whenever your breath caught.
One hand laced with yours above your head while the other gripped your thigh, spreading you wider so he could sink even deeper.
The pace built gradually making your skin slick with sweat as the bed creaked softly. He ground against your clit with every thrust, low grunts mixing with your moans. “Been keeping those sounds away from me? Those are mine now,” he whispered against your lips, it was the first time he said it quite like that, claiming in a way that carried weight. When you came he rode it through, kissing you through the tremors, then let himself follow, burying deep with a ragged groan as he filled you, hips stuttering with the intensity of it.
He stayed inside you for a long minute, then rolled you both so you were draped over his chest, arms wrapped around you as one hand stroked slowly up and down your back. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, small and hesitant but at least there was no more bolting and no more walls to keep up. The feelings were there now, quiet and extremely terrifying for a man who had lost everything. He held you like you were the one thing in this world he refused to let slip away.
The Hilltop:
Hilltop brought new alliances, new dangers and new responsibilities. The relationship had settled into something solid by then as sex reflected his growing confidence, he knew what he wanted, knew what you needed and he gave it without hesitation.
You stole a night in one of the smaller trailers on the outskirts. The air was cooler, tension from recent runs still humming under his skin as he pulled you onto the narrow bed, stripping you both with practiced hands. He was harder and more assured now in what the two of you had built.
He went down on you first, something that had become more common. His rough stubble scraped your inner thighs, tongue and lips relentless and skilled from practice before two thick fingers curled inside you while he sucked on your clit until your hips bucked and you came against his mouth with a muffled cry. Only then did he climb up, cock heavy and dripping as he slid into your soaked pussy in one smooth thrust.
“Fucking…perfect,” he growled, voice low and gravelly. His thrusts were powerful and confident in deep, rolling strokes that made the bed frame knock against the wall. He pinned your wrists lightly, mouth on your neck, sucking fresh marks while he fucked you steady and hard. He changed angles until he found the one that made you keen, then exploited it mercilessly, hips snapping with precision.
The possessiveness was stronger now, mixed with open care. “Stay with me,” he rasped between thrusts. “Ain’t losin’ you out there.” When you clenched around him and came again he groaned loudly, following you over the edge and burying himself to the hilt as he spilled hot and deep, hips grinding through the pulses.
After, he cleaned you both with a warm cloth from the basin, then pulled you tight against him under the thin blankets. His hand rested on your hip, thumb stroking lazy circles and he talked more now, just quiet murmurs about the day, about worries for the group and about how you made the weight feel bearable. The man who once fucked you against a tree and left was gone, this Daryl held you like you were home.
Alexandria (After Negan):
Negan’s shadow had left its mark of blood, loss, captivity and war. Daryl was harder again in some ways but with you he was open like he never was before. The sex, when he could finally indulge in it, was emotional, a release and a reaffirmation that you both had survived. He had lost too many and the fear of losing you fueled everything.
Back in your shared house in Alexandria, the first night after Negan and the Saviors were successfully defeated by the group, he was on you the moment the door closed and he kissed you like a man drowning with deep and desperate hands roaming everywhere. Clothes came off in a frantic trail to the bedroom and once you reached it, he lifted you onto the bed, spread your thighs wide and buried his face between them first, eating you out with single-minded hunger until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Then he was inside you, thick and stretching you out perfectly. He fucked you with deep, shallow strokes, hips snapping against yours with control. Every thrust carried the weight of relief, love he still struggled to name and inevitably, the fear of tomorrow.
“Can’t lose you,” he growled against your mouth, voice breaking. “You hear me? You’re it for me.”
He laced your fingers together, pinning your hands beside your head while he drove into you. The pace was relentless and the sound of skin slapping obscene as sweat-slick bodies moved together. He watched your face the entire time, drinking in every moan and flutter like it was the first time and when you came he didn’t stop, he kept fucking you through it until you were sobbing his name and cumming again, then finally let go with a deep, guttural moan, emptying himself inside you in long, pulsing waves that sounded painful.
He collapsed beside you and pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you so tight it was almost bruising. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in and apologizing for being so “gone” which you immediately corrected even as he pressed soft kisses to your temple and shoulder. His hand stroked your hair, your back and anywhere he could reach because there was no hiding anymore, the feelings were overflowing and terrifying. He whispered rough promises against your skin, about how he would always come back to you and how he would protect what you had built together.
This Daryl was confident, devoted and deeply in love, even if the words still came slowly. The evolution was complete in its own way, from frustrated quick fucks in the woods to this raw, emotional and unbreakable connection without a place to hide.
The Commonwealth:
Years had carved their marks deep into both of you. The Commonwealth offered structure, safety, even a fragile sense of normalcy with its bustling streets, electricity and attempts at governance but Daryl had seen too many utopias crumble. You were the one constant he refused to lose, the one person who had walked every mile of hell beside him, from quarry dirt to these polished Commonwealth streets. The sex between you now was no longer just release or partnership, it was love made physical and intricate, a language only the two of you fully understood. It was slow when time allowed and desperate when the ghosts pressed close, always profound.
One night in your shared apartment, modest by Commonwealth standards but private and secure, Daryl returned from a long day helping with outer perimeter checks. The weight of old habits lingered in his shoulders, his crossbow still strapped nearby even there.
You met him at the door and the moment his eyes locked on yours, the tension changed. He pulled you into a deep, claiming kiss, hands sliding under your shirt to feel warm skin, thumbs brushing the familiar scars he knew by heart and clothes were shed without rush but with purpose, leaving a trail through the living room into the bedroom. The bed was larger than any you had shared before, dressed in soft sheets that still felt foreign against skin used to rough blankets and forest floors.
Daryl laid you down like something precious, his body covering yours, heavy, solid and safe while his mouth explored with patient hunger, kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, sucking one nipple until it pebbled under his tongue while his callused hand palmed the other breast. He moved lower, broad shoulders spreading your thighs wide as he settled between them.
His stubble scraped deliciously against sensitive skin while his tongue parted your folds, licking long, slow stripes before focusing on your clit with precise, relentless circles. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling just right, pumping steadily as he sucked and licked until your back arched and your fingers fisted in his long hair. He didn’t stop when you came the first time, drawing it out and savoring every flutter and gasp, murmuring low praises against your slick flesh, “Tha’s it…let me hear ya…so fuckin’ beautiful f’me.”
When he finally climbed back up, his cock was heavy, flushed dark and leaking. He held your gaze as he pushed in, stretching you open inch by inch until he was buried to the hilt.
A deep groan escaped him at the tight heat and for a long moment he stayed there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing the same air. “Can’t lose you,” he whispered, voice rough and cracked with years of unsaid terror. “Lost too many…not you, never you. I’ll be selfish ‘bout tha’”
Then he began to move in deep, rolling thrusts that ground against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips moved with confident precision, the years of learning your body were evident in every stroke. One hand laced with yours, pinning it beside your head as the other gripped your hip, tilting you just right so he could sink even deeper.
The rhythm built gradually, skin sliding hot and slick together as the wet sounds of sex filled the room alongside his low grunts and your moans. He kissed you through it, messily and open-mouthed, tongues tangling as his pace turned harder and more possessive. He moved to hook one of your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle until you were crying out with every thrust. “Gonna marry ya,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing the skin he had marked a thousand times before. “‘S always been ya. My home…my reason.” The words were sparse but heavy with everything he felt, the love, the fear and devotion of a man who had finally found something worth living for after the world ended.
When you came again, clenching hard around him, he rode it out with gritted teeth, prolonging your pleasure until you were trembling and oversensitive. Only then did he let go, thrusts turning deep and erratic, hips snapping as he buried himself as far as possible and came with a long, broken groan. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt of thick cum as he filled you, marking you from the inside like he always had. He stayed buried deep, hips making tiny, involuntary rocks while he softened, savoring the connection. His arms wrapped around you, rolling you both so you were draped across his chest as his hand stroked slow, soothing lines up and down your spine.
For a long time the room was quiet except for slowing breaths and distant Commonwealth night sounds. Daryl pressed kisses to your hair, your temple and shoulder, as small reverent touches that spoke volumes. His fingers traced old scars on your body, then newer ones, making a silent catalog of everything you had survived together as he murmured quietly about the day, about worries for Judith and the others and about how you made the weight of survival feel bearable.
Bucky is worried that he’s entering a fight in which he won’t return.
pairing: husband!bucky barnes x wife!reader
words: 3.8k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with (some) plot, porn with feelings, fingering, slight dry humping, oral (fem receiving), hand job, big dick bucky, p in v, none protective penetrative sex, whiny!bucky, dirty talk, pet names (baby, doll, sweetheart, sweet girl), hint of a breeding kink at the end, angst if you blink, hurt/comfort, established relationship, this is a manifestation that bucky won’t die in doomsday, female reader, no use of y/n and she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: so i saw bucky (for five seconds) in the doomsday trailer and it bought me out of my bucky barnes drought. please give me some grace, it’s been a hot minute since i’ve written for bucky but man, i’ve missed this man. please enjoy some shameless smut!!
to be added to my bucky taglist | masterlist | requests page
You have been here before. Plenty of times, actually. But this time—it felt different.
Your husband was lingering more than usual. Bucky had barely left your side since he came home to tell you about the latest threat to the universe, since he had told you that he would need to leave early tomorrow morning. And after, you couldn’t help but notice that his touch was more tender, more melancholy, like you were seconds away from slipping through his fingertips.
He had told you it was just another mission. Nothing to worry about.
So why was he looking at you like it would be the last time?
“Do you really have to go?” You find yourself asking him quietly as he climbs into bed beside you, your hands curling into the sheets as you try to find some semblance of comfort. “Can’t you stay? Can’t you—”
Bucky silences you with a kiss. One that stole the breath from your lungs, one that made heat spread through your entire body, one that causes an all too familiar tightening sensation deep in your gut.
You kiss him back, your lips gliding against his wetly in a way that had him moaning into your mouth, had him gripping you by the waist and pulling you closer. You let out a soft sound of surprise against his lips when you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against your stomach.
“Buck—” you murmur against his lips before you pull away, eyes flickering over his face that was bathed in warm light from the bedside lamp. “We need to—”
“—please,” Bucky whispers, his breath hot against your skin as he presses his lips to your neck, sending another surge of heat through your body, causing your cunt to pulse with need for the man in front of you. “Please, baby. Need you—need my wife.”
You couldn’t resist because you could never resist your husband, not when his cerulean blue eyes were looking at you like that, not when his cock—thick, heavy and aching for you—was pressed against your body, making your cunt clench around nothing.
And so, your hands reach up to cup either side of Bucky’s face to pull him in for a searing kiss. Bucky wastes no time in kissing you back with a kind of hunger that makes your core ache. His flesh hand squeezes the globe of your ass as the cool metal of his vibranium hand gently tilts your head back in order to deepen the kiss, the wet heat of his tongue licking into your mouth and causing every nerve in your body to come alive.
Even after so long together, even after two years of marriage, you can’t help but melt into him. Your arms wrap around his neck and you press your body flush against his as his flesh hand dances across your skin, goosebumps erupting in its wake before he hooks your thigh over his hip. You whimper against his lips, the feeling of his cock—painfully contained within the confines of his boxers—pressing against your clothed core and sending something that felt almost like electricity shooting through your body.
“Fuck,” Bucky groans against your mouth, pulling away only to take your bottom lip between his teeth and sucking it gently.
All thought about tomorrow, about what could happen almost completely leaves your mind for a moment, as Bucky’s fingers dip beneath your sleep shorts, his lips parting as he thumbs over the damp patch that had collected in your panties.
“You’re drenched, doll,” he murmurs, pressing his fingertips against your clit through your panties and smiling when you moan out loudly, nails biting into the skin of his shoulders. “All from a little kissing? Oh, doll.”
“Buck—” you gasp out, bottom lip pulled between your teeth as his fingers pull your panties to the side to slide the digits between your folds. You let out a noise—somewhere between a moan and a whimper—as your back across off the bed. Bucky groans shamelessly, collecting your slick from between your folds over his fingers before he smears it over your swollen, puffy clit, reveling in the pretty sounds falling from your lips as a result.
Your body jolts, his name falling from your lips in a desperate, wanton moan that your neighbours were surely to complain about in the morning. Not that you cared as your husband was circling your sensitive bud with one deft finger, causing heat to spread from your core to every damn nerve throughout your body.
You mewl, you whine, you were incapable of uttering anything but your husband’s name, especially when you felt the familiar cool metal of the fingers from his other hand prod at your entrance.
“I know, baby—I know,” he hums, pressing soft kisses to your warm cheek as though he wasn’t the one making your body writhe against the sheets. “Just relax f’me, yeah? Let me take care of my wife.”
Those words go straight to your dripping cunt, because despite being married for over two years, hearing Bucky Barnes call you his wife still made you lose your damn mind.
You hear the sound of Bucky tearing your pyjama shorts off your body, feel him pull your soaked panties hastily down your legs before throwing them unceremoniously to the other side of the room.
With your bottom half completely bare to Bucky, your body shudders with anticipation, arousal coating your folds that glisten for him in the warm light. Your husband could barely contain himself—both his large hands clasp your knees in order to spread your legs wide open for him.
You don’t notice how his hands shake slightly because his mouth sealing over your wet heat distracts you.
“Buck!” You mewl out, your hands reaching out to grab onto his hair, the longer locks threading through your fingers before you tug at them harshly. Bucky hums against you and the vibration sends shockwaves through your body, right down to your toes. You barely have time to recover however as he swirls the tip of tongue around your swollen clit and suddenly, your mind goes blank.
“Fuck, I love you so much,” Bucky murmurs against you before he starts sucking on your clit with such enthusiasm that your back begins to bow off of the mattress, but your husband’s vibranium hand stops you from doing so. His flesh one was creeping up your thigh, fingertips dancing along the skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. “Gonna make you feel s’fucking good. Even if it’s—”
He cuts himself off and you don’t have time to question him, not when Bucky was pressing two of his thick fingers deep inside of you. He wastes no time in curling them, in pressing firmly against that spongey spot inside you, in returning his mouth to your clit and making you see stars.
You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even form a vaguely coherent thought, not when the dual sensation of Bucky’s mouth over your clit and his fingers fucking in and out of you with the most obsence noises was all you could focus on. You barely notice how desperate he seemed, the way he was holding onto you like he was scared you might disappear.
“Bu-Bucky,” you gasp, your hands in his hair tugging in a warning as the feeling in your lower gut builds and builds and builds. The sounds he was making between the thighs—the wet sounds, the low moans of his mouth full of your pussy—were pulling you closer and closer to the edge, the sounds falling from your lips were unabashedly loud but nothing else mattered when Bucky Barnes was between your thighs, worshipping you.
“Please come,” Bucky groans against you, his voice breaking from arousal? From holding back? You weren’t sure. “Please come baby, I need—”
You cut him off with a loud cry as your orgasm crashes over you. It was so intense—it always was with Bucky—and yet, you had never gotten used to the way your body shakes, the way stars burst behind your eyes. Your pussy gushes around Bucky’s fingers, your walls squeezing the digits as though trying to keep him inside of you. His fingers continue to pump in and out of you, his tongue lapping every last drop of your essence greedily as a mix of his saliva and your slick sticks to his stubble.
You felt pleasure in every nerve, every damn cell in your body and the only damn thing keeping you tethered to the earth was Bucky. His fingers that were still inside of you, his metal hand on your hip, his hair between your fingers, the choked sounds he was making and the—
You blink, your body still coming down from the intense high that Bucky had given you but everything comes back into focus as the sounds Bucky was making finally registers.
“James,” you gasp softly, your hands gently cupping his face as you pull him up to your level, his fingers withdrawing and leaving you empty. His face was wet, mostly with your slick but also with—his tears. Bucky was crying. “Buck—why—”
“—n-nothing, I just—”
You tap his cheek gently, a soft look in your eyes as you feel a sudden weight in your chest. One that reminded you of the mission he was leaving for in the morning, the one he had told you not to worry about.
“—it’s the mission, isn’t it?” You ask him quietly, your voice barely a whisper as your thumb gently wipes away his tears. “You—you’re scared.”
Bucky doesn’t say anything but the way he looks back at you says it all. Your heart tightens in your chest.
“Buck, it’s going to be fine,” you say, unsure of whether you were trying to convince him or yourself. “You guys—you always find a way to pull through and—”
“—it’s different this time,” Bucky interjects, a look on his face you don’t quite recognise, one that makes your stomach turn, makes you feel a sense of dread that you’re not quite sure what to do with.
“It feels different and I—I just—I keep looking at you and thinking ‘what if this is the last time that I’—fuck—”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes snapping shut as he turns his face away from you, not wanting you to see the tear that slips down his cheek.
Your heart feels as though it shatters into a million tiny pieces at the sight of his tears.
“Hey,” you whisper to him gently, your own throat suddenly feeling too tight as you pull him closer, trying to anchor him with your touch. “Don’t talk like that, Buck. You—you’re going to be fine, okay? You and everyone else are going to be—”
“—but what if we’re not?” Bucky asks you, his eyes shining as he looks back at you with an intensity that feels all consuming. “What if I—what if something happens and I—”
“—don’t say it—”
“—and I don’t come home.”
You swallow, your eyes burn and your throat feels too tight to even speak because the thought of something happening to Bucky—to your husband, to the love of your life—it just was too much to even comprehend.
“You will,” you say finally and with such certainty that Bucky’s eyes can’t help but shift over to meet yours. “You will, okay? You always find a way to come home, Buck.”
For a moment, Bucky looks as though he was going to argue, that he was going to let his fear and anxiety win but your hand acts as anchor, warm palm gently pressing against the hard muscle of his chest. Reminding him of why he did this—of why he fought so hard. To come home—to come home to you.
”You’ll come home,” you repeat quietly, your fingertips grazing against his bare skin, leaving his flesh burning beneath your touch, causing a curl in his gut and making him incredibly aware of the fact you were still bare from the waist down, traces of your arousal still smeared across his face, still lingering in his stubble. “You always come home, Buck.”
A fierce kind of determination burns in Bucky’s eyes, so much love and devotion there that it very nearly takes your breath away. A determination to not only survive but to keep you safe because nothing—absolutely nothing—was more important to Bucky than that.
His metal hand—the one that had once hesitated before touching you—cups your cheek gently. The combined feeling of the cool metal of his palm and his thumb stroking over your skin makes you shudder but you don’t dare look away.
”Always,” Bucky murmurs quietly before he leans in, his lips just barely grazing yours and yet—the barely there kiss reignites the fire burning in your gut. Your hands dance along Bucky’s bare skin, along the sensitive flesh where his shoulder was fused with vibranium before they find home at the nape on his neck, fingers curling in the hair and making him moan against you.
Bucky’s lips soon press more firmly against yours, making your head spin and your heart race. You return the kiss with equal fever as you feel his cock hardening beneath his boxers once again against your thigh. Another groan is pulled from Bucky’s throat, his hands moving to grip the swell of your hips desperately, dragging you closer as his tongue smooths over yours, licking eagerly into your mouth. You swear that you feel fresh slick already oozing out of you as a result.
You feel Bucky’s hand move from your thigh, his destination the wetness between your legs but you place your hand over his before he could press his fingers inside you yet again.
You shake your head, smiling at him as you move your hand to rest on your husband’s abdomen. You watch the way the muscles there twitch, his body shuddering under your touch.
“Baby, please don’t tease me,” Bucky groans, throwing his head back against the pillow and exposing his neck to you. You can’t help yourself—you lean in, pressing your lips to his skin and fighting back a smile as Bucky makes a small noise beneath you, your fingers gently tickling the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath his boxers.
“I would never,” you murmur, your hands continuing their journey down his body, palming his now rock hard cock over his boxers. Bucky’s response was instant—his muscles tense, he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he tries not to let out any more noise. But one squeeze of his cock through the material has him whining beneath you. Because Bucky Barnes may have been a six foot super soldier, but he was always putty in your hands.
“Sweetheart—”
You silence him by yanking his boxers down. His thick, heavy cock slaps audibly against his stomach and you can’t help but marvel at the beautiful sight—at the ruddy tip that was already leaking precum, at the veins bulging along the length.
Fuck—there was not a better sight than your husband’s cock.
Your hand wraps around him (as best you could given the sheer size of him) and you give him a slow but firm stroke.
Bucky lets out a strangled sound, his head tipping back against the soft pillow as you speed up ever so slightly, twisting your hand at the head before gliding back down with the help of his precum. Bucky’s hips jerk upwards and you watch—in awe—as his lips part, as his breathing turns ragged, as his hips cant into every stroke—so fucking desperate for you that you could feel the wetness pooling between your thighs.
“F-fuck,” Bucky groans, his fingers fisting into the sheets as the obsence sounds you fisting his cock fill the room. The schlick, schlick sounds was lewd but fuck, if it wasn’t turning you on even more. “Feels so fucking good, baby. I fuckin’ love you s’much.”
You can’t help but smile at his words, your heart thumping in your chest as your eyes flicker up to look at his face. You don’t dare slow the rhythm of your hand but you take a moment to just look at him. To look at how truly beautiful he was, how much he trusted you to take control, at how there was once a point in your relationship where you didn’t know if that would ever be possible since someone else in control had once meant pain, meant torture for Bucky but now? Now—Bucky was more than happy to let you take control.
“I love you too, Buck,” you tell him gently, the sweetness in your voice a direct contrast to the way you were pumping his cock, taunting him by swiping your thumb over the slit, spreading the precum over the velvety skin and making Bucky whimper beneath you.
“Baby, please,” he whines, his hand wrapping around your wrist to slow your movements. “Please. If you keep—if you keep doing that, m’gonna cum and I—I want—I need to cum inside you, sweet girl. I need to fill my wife up, need’t see my cum dripping out of you. Need to—”
You shut him up by pulling him into a searing kiss. One that has him pulling you flush against him, groaning into your mouth as he flips you easily onto your back. You let out a small squeal against his lips, one that turns into a whimper the moment that you feel the fat head of his cock nudging at your entrance.
“Bucky,” you whine, back bowing off the bed as you try to pull him closer, one leg hooking around his hip to try and press his thick cock even further inside of you. But Bucky seems hellbent on taking his time, holding the base of his cock as he guides it teasingly between your folds, coating it completely in your slick. “Buck, please—”
You’re cut off by your own loud moan as Bucky sinks in home. Your husband was always a stretch but god, you loved how full you felt when he was inside of you. How it very nearly felt as though you were being split in half, how you felt him in every damn every in your body.
“You feel s’good, sweetheart,” Bucky tells you, pressing his lips to your forehead in a sweet kiss as he bottoms out, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and making your toes curl. “Feel s’good, I wanna marry you again. Once wasn’t enough.”
You let out a loud laugh, one that makes Bucky beam down at you, the corners of his eyes crinkling with because god, he loved you. He loved you so, so much and if anything happened to him—
He couldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t even let the thought in. Because he was going to survive. He was going to keep his promise to you. He was going to come home. Because Bucky was always going to make it home.
His flesh hand slips into yours, fingers intertwining and resting on the pillow beside your head. You don’t miss the way Bucky’s thumb brushes over your wedding band, the small action making your heart suddenly feel two sizes too big.
“I love you,” he whispers, his vibranium hand cupping your face and holding you like you were something more precious than gold. “I love you so much, baby.”
The corner of your mouth twitches, your hands find the plains of his chest and your nails bite into his skin, your throat feeling momentarily too tight.
“I love you more.”
Bucky smiles down at you, squeezing your hand as he pulls his hips back, leaving just the tip inside of you before pushing back in. Your velvety walls pulse around him, making it difficult for Bucky to even form a coherent thought.
“Not possible,” he manages to grits, slamming back into you and hitting that spot inside of you that knocks the breath right out of you, has you holding onto him even tighter.
Your interlocked hands don’t move from their spot on the pillow, not as Bucky begins to pick up the pace, not as the lewd sounds of his cock slamming into your soaked cunt begin to fill the room, adding to the symphony of your moans and Bucky’s low groans.
The headboard knocks against the wall, your moans only get louder as Bucky’s cock sinks into you over and over and over again. It was so intense, so overwhelming and with the thought of tomorrow lingering over you? The heat that was burning through you was near impossible to hold back.
You mewl out, your hand squeezes his as you feel the coil in your gut tightening, so close to snapping that you felt tears well up in your eyes due to the sheer amount of pleasure you were feeling.
“Oh, are you close, baby?” Bucky asks in a teasing voice, despite the fact you could see the sweat glistening on his forehead, the muscles bulging in his arms from the effort of holding back. “You gonna be a good girl and come f’me?”
You wish that those two little words didn’t have an effect on you, wish that you could have held back for even a few more seconds. But Bucky knew you and knew exactly what you needed to tip you over the edge.
A sound tears from your throat, somewhere between a sob and a moan as your orgasm crashes through your body like a damn tidal wave. You felt it in every nerve, every cell, every bone throughout your body. Your thighs shake, your back arches off the mattress and your velvety walls squeeze around him so tight that Bucky can’t help but follow you right over the edge.
Bucky finishes with a loud, needy groan that was in danger of waking the whole damn building. Not that you cared, not when Bucky’s hips stuttered against yours, slamming into your spent pussy a final time before flooding it with hot spurts of his cum, your name falling from his lips over and over again.
“When I get back,” Bucky murmurs, his lips grazing your shoulder gently before he pulls away to look at you. “We’re going to do that every night, deal?”
You let out a warm laugh, your body shuddering slightly as Bucky pulls out of you. You feel his cum oozing out of you due to the sheer amount he had produced, could feel it dripping down your thighs and onto the freshly washed sheets. But that didn’t matter when Bucky’s thumb once again was rubbing over your wedding band, not when he was looking down at you with such reverence in his eyes.
“Deal,” you say with a small smile. “Now, should we go to sleep or—”
You were cut off by your own small shriek as Bucky grabs your waist and rolls over, leaving you sat on top of him, straddling his waist and feeling his thick cock hardening beneath you once again.
“—not yet,” Bucky murmurs, his eyes shifting down to his cum still leaking out of you. “Gonna make sure it sticks, baby.”
Synopsis-- You're new to the team, and everyone seems to accept you. Except Steve.
wc: 5.4k
warnings/ info-- smut (Minors DNI!!) smut with plot, unprotected p in v (pleeaase be safe irl) creampie, user is described as being shorter than Steve, enemies with Steve, Steve is a protective softie, use of guns/ mentions of violence, alcohol, big dick Steve!! leaving bruises, SLIGHTTT fluff
You thought everything had been going well since you’d joined the team— everyone seemed particularly fond of you.
Well, almost everyone.
Tony and Clint cracked jokes with you over rushed breakfasts. Your missions with Nat couldn’t have gone better. You occasionally spent time with Bruce in the lab. When he let you, that is. The team welcomed you without much hesitation.
All except for one. Captain America, if he was in uniform. Steve with everyone else. Whatever name he went by, there was one thing that never changed; he didn’t like you.
His disdain was never obvious. He never really said it outright, never made a scene. Knowing Steve, even for a brief amount of time, it wasn’t his style. It was the small things – the way his words would stall every time you joined a conversation, forced smiles, and lingering glances that disappeared every time you looked his way. He was polite and always respectful, but there was a space between the two of you that he didn’t seem interested in closing.
You couldn’t figure out what you’d done to deserve it. In the beginning, you tried to stay on his good side in any way you could. You thanked him whenever he’d hold a door open, answered every question with a smile, and even laughed at his failed attempts at jokes when the rest of the team stayed quiet. But nothing ever changed. You decided to give it all up.
It was baffling to you that America’s Golden Boy, who everyone loved so much and who seemed to love everyone, walked right past you without so much as a lowly greeting.
You told yourself never to take it personally.
—-----------------------------------
The conference room was already full by the time you’d entered, your fingers clutching onto the paper coffee cup in your hand. The blinding fluorescent lights made you look and feel more exhausted than you cared to admit.
You watched as a holographic lamp flickered in the middle of the table. As usual, Steve was at the end of the table, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t wait for you to take your seat before speaking.
“Alright,” he starts, setting a flimsy fine onto the table. “We’ve got a situation.” Steve’s voice echoes in the vast room.
“Oh yeah, genius? Why else would we be here?” Tony chides, and Steve shoots him a glance from across the room before schooling his expression and shifting on the balls of his feet.
“Our target is a biotech facility up in Alaska,” he said evenly. “One of our agents reported that they’re attempting to manufacture gene-editing drugs under the guise of pharmaceutical research.”
Natasha leans forward in her chair. “What, like a super-serum?”
Steve’s voice grows wary, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Could be. Even if it isn’t, if they’ve got something to hide, it can’t be good.”
“We’ve got a twelve-minute window between security shifts. One team should enter through the loading dock. Another team secures the main laboratory up on the third floor.
You frown as you look into the file. Your body pushes itself up in the desk chair, your eyes flicking through the folder in front of you before letting it shut with a quiet thud.
“You’ve got the wrong entry point.”
Steve’s gaze darts to you, and then to your finger pointing to the map on the table. “Excuse me?”
“The loading dock,” you say, pointing again to the map. “It’s the most obvious entrance they have. All the cameras are pointed straight at it. I don’t know about you, but if I were in charge of protecting a project like this, that’s exactly where I’d expect us to come in from.”
Steve’s composure falters for a moment before his arms tighten around his broad chest, and his head tilts mockingly. “Alright then, what do you suggest?”
Your lips purse together at Steve’s nonsensical plan, but you relax your face as your hand points toward another section of the blueprint. “There’s an old maintenance tunnel running near the east wing. It’s narrow, but it should fit some of us directly under some of the laboratories. Beats Clint banging around in the vents.” A hushed laugh reaches your ears from someone at the table, and the corner of your lip quirks up slightly.
Steve doesn’t look anywhere near amused. “That tunnel hasn’t been used in years, it could collapse.”
That earns a sharp retort from your lips. “It won’t. I looked over the geological survey this morning.”
“You looked into this before the briefing?” His voice doesn’t come out as smooth as it did at the beginning of the meeting.
“I know because I read the intel packet.” The rest of the team has long gone quiet, gazes flitting from you to Steve like it was a tennis match.
Steve’s expression tightens slightly, the change in his expression so slight that you could’ve missed it if you looked away from his face for a second.
“We’re sticking to the original plan.”
You let out a scoff, your heartbeat quickening as frustration floods you. “Why, because it’s your plan?”
Steve remained annoyingly calm. “Because it’s the safest.”
“No.” Your head ticks slightly in a small shake. “It’s the safest plan on paper. Mine assumes that the enemy– who is attempting to create illegal super-serums, by the way – is competent.” Your words hang in the room.
Steve shifts on his feet again. “You always assume the worst.”
Your jaw locks. “You always assume the best. You should work on that.”
That gains a narrow glance from Steve at your face, his palms pressing flat on the table. “My responsibility is making sure we all get out of that building alive.”
“So is mine.”
Steve goes silent for a moment as you step over to the door. One of his hands comes up to run over his face, an action of exhaustion, before revealing the equally exhausted face beneath.
You pause at the doorway. “So.. My plan then?”
Steve rests a tense hand on the edge of the table. “Get your gear ready.”
A small, infuriating smirk crosses your face as your hand reaches for the door.
“Yes, sir.”
______________________________
The lot of you were crowded up on the rooftop of a neighboring building, Steve in the front. The compound looked deceptively quiet. Security guards paced around the perimeter with rifles slung over their shoulders, and another pair stood blocking the loading dock doors. Muttered words from their mouths complained about night shifts, chatted about their home lives, casually making conversation. Too casual. Either they seriously believed no one would be dumb enough to hit the place, or they were counting on it.
Steve crouched behind the ledge of the rooftop, turning his head just enough to glance at the team. “Place is more stranded than we’d expected,” he murmured into the comms. “Doesn’t mean this’ll be easy. Stay sharp.”
Your fingers fiddle with the strap securing your pistol to your thighs as Steve turns fully to face you. “Stay close.”
You feel a rush of annoyance at his words. “I don’t need a babysitter.
“Didn’t say you did.” He’s already moving.
“You implied it.”
Steve’s hands flexed at his sides. “I said stay close.”
Before you have the chance to respond, Sam’s voice crackles in the comms. “North is clear.” Nat’s voice followed with a smooth, “West sides secure.”
The team slipped away from the rooftop one by one from the fire escape before crossing the narrow alleyway that leads to the facility. It all went according to plan for about three minutes. Sam knocked out the first guard successfully, the second one dropped before he could click on his radio.
A third abruptly rounded the corner. His flashlight cuts across the loading dock just as Clint lands on a stack of shipping containers. The radio on his chest crackles to life as he calls into it.
“Movement. We got intruders.”
The facility erupts before you can comprehend what just happened, alarms blaring through the compound, floodlights flashing bright in your eyes. Security guards poured out from the side gates, rifles already raised.
“So much for quiet.” A mutter from Nat.
Steve’s composure didn’t falter as he called into the comms. “Move inside.”
Bullets instantly rained down on the concrete around them. Your feet moved before you had time to think, sprinting behind a row of shipping containers. You fumble with the pistol on your thigh, the strap refusing to budge, before you rip it free. Ignoring the sharp slam of your heart against your ribs, you lean quickly around the corner of the shipping crate, hastily shooting twice. One guard’s body falls limp to the ground, while another stubbornly ducks behind a truck.
“They’re pushing from the south entrance too,” you yell into the comms over the boom of bullets around you. Your gaze lands on the three guards bolting from another hallway.
Without thinking, you slip out from your cover, feet pulling you across the loading bay to the hallway. If those guards reached the interior before you, they were sure to lock the laboratory doors before any of you could get to it, before calling in backup to take care of the rest of you, of course.
You barely acknowledge Steve in the corner, ducking just behind a fence.
“What are you doing?” He barks in the comms.
You ignore him as another flood of bullets ricochet off the tall steel beams around you. A comes from Steve under his breath before launching himself after you. The shield caught the first round of fire with a deafening clang, bright orange sparks flying like fireworks.
You barely have time to register the familiar red and blue blur before Steve’s hand darts to your vest, pulling both of you behind a concrete pillar.
The look on his face was something you’d never seen before. The heave of his chest, the faint scowl on his mouth, and the deep furrow between his brows is almost unrecognizable for the ‘calm and collected leader’ he was.
You shoved his lingering hand from your vest. “I had them.”
Steve’s frown deepens. “There were three rifles pointed straight at your chest.”
Your jaw clenches in irritation at his badgering. “They were seconds away from sealing the hallway.”
“And you were seconds from getting yourself killed.” He leans closer, lowering his voice despite the echoing gunfire around them. “Stop playing hero.”
Another burst of gunfire slammed into the pillar beside them. Steve instinctively shifted closer, angling his body to shield the two of you from the chunks of concrete raining down on you.
Steve’s eyes noticed the guard rushing to the pillar before you did. His shield struck the guard’s rifle hard enough to send it skidding across the pavement before Steve drove him into the wall with one clean, practiced shove.
Another guard appears behind him, and you fire just once. For a split second, the two of you stood back-to-back, chests heaving in unison. Neither of you acknowledged it.
“We move together.” He peeks around the pillar just as another explosion booms from the opposite side of the compound.
Sam’s voice crackles over the comms once again. “We’ve got guards coming in from the east side.”
Steve spun on his heel, turning his attention to the doorway just ahead. “You stay with me.” Your gazes locked for only a second. “I’m serious.”
Something in his expression made it impossible to dismiss. It wasn’t the same face he made when he argued with you in the briefing room. It wasn’t controlled. Not entirely, at least. Beneath the obvious annoyance was something quieter.
You can tell the reluctant concern for you was bothering him, his muscles tensing a little more, taking a step away from you.
You look away first. “Fine...” you muttered.
You and Steve push off the pillar together, falling into step shoulder-to-shoulder and disappearing into the laboratory, just as another group of guards rush down the hallway to meet you.
______________________________
The flight back home was painfully quiet. Not because you had lost. In fact, you’d done quite the opposite. The scientists had been extracted alive, and years of data had been collected and confiscated. The success didn’t stop the silence that settled over the team.
Sam’s head tipped back against the wall. His eyes shut, and you thought he must’ve been sleeping, but the tension that gripped his shoulders told you otherwise. Nat stood near the cockpit, cleaning one of her pistols quietly. Two medics wander around the Quinjet, quickly checking over any of you who’d taken hits, murmuring in hushed voices as they wrapped bandages.
You don’t mention the argument. You don’t mention how Steve had practically thrown himself between you and the relentless gunfire.
You sat opposite him, resting your forearms on your knees, a bandage wrapped around your shoulder where a slab of concrete must’ve grazed you somewhere between it all. You insisted it wasn’t anything serious, but Steve disagreed.
____________________________
The Avengers compound never fully slept. Even after midnight, agents darted from corridor to corridor with mission reports in their hands, the harsh, blinding lights accompanying them.
Nobody who was part of the operation was allowed to leave HQ for at least seventy-two hours. The scientists they’d captured weren’t exactly making it easy. Half of them had memorized all the research to the point that they could start the whole thing over somewhere else. Until every lead was exhausted, until every loose thread was pulled, every member of the team was staying on site.
During the hassle of it all, people rushing to medbay, Steve cornered by directors demanding a debrief, and the hiss of quiet conversations, you managed to slip away to the common area.
A content sigh escapes your lips as you realize the floor is empty, and you immediately stumble over to the small bar sitting in the corner. There wasn’t much there – a few bottles of bourbon, cheap vodka. Tony's probably stolen all the good stuff for himself. Either way, it was better than nothing.
Your hand settled on an old bottle of whiskey, your shoulder stinging in protest as you poured a hefty amount in an empty glass. You didn’t bother sitting right away. Instead, you made your way over to the window, your good shoulder resting against the frame as you stared beyond the glass.
The first sip burns a path down your throat, but you welcome it. It gave you something else to focus on besides the image that kept replaying in your head. Steve’s hand gripping your vest. The look in his eyes.
You swallow another mouthful as the door to the common area opens with a small click. You don’t turn around. You know who it is.
Steve’s heavy feet step inside, shutting the door behind him quietly, as if slamming it shut would shatter any fragility in the room. He spotted the whiskey immediately. His eyes linger on it for a second before finding you instead.
“Figured you’d be here.”
You lift the cold glass to your lips once again without looking back. You stay silent.
His lips press together. Not in annoyance, just in exhaustion. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I wasn’t hiding.”
“No.” His voice is different now, almost soft. “You just made sure nobody could find you.”
You finally glance over your shoulder at that.
“I was just trying to make sure you were okay.” You look away again, taking another sip instead of answering him.
Steve watches you for a moment. He notices the slight tremor in your fingers and the way you try to pretend he’s not there. He takes a slow breath, hands sinking into the pockets of his black sweatpants as he walks further into the room.
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed.” He points over at your bandaged shoulder. “Damn near could’ve.” His voice isn’t chiding. If anything, it’s quieter than usual. You swirled your wrist, watching the amber liquid roll around in your glass before answering.
“I got everyone out.”
Steve’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.” His brow furrows in frustration as he scans you again, searching you for any kind of reaction, any kind of answer.
You turn to face him fully, slightly grimacing at the sharp pain that blossoms in your sore shoulder. “Guards were blocking the lab.”
“I know.”
“They were about to lock the doors.”
“I know.”
“So I moved.”
“You charged into open gunfire.” Steve lets out a slow breath and drags a hand across the back of his neck. His gaze never leaves you.
“I watched you take cover,” he continues, his voice grows rougher with each word. “I watched you take, what, three steps before they started shooting, and all I could think was..” His voice stops, he swallows hard and shakes his head slightly. “All I could think was how you were gonna die if you couldn’t get there fast enough.”
You blink, and all your words, all your retorts die in your throat.
Steve huffs a humourless laugh under his breath. “You know what the worst part of all of it was?” he asks quietly. “It wasn’t that you ran, it was that you didn’t look back.” He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes searching yours desperately. A plea. Silently begging for you to say just one word proving him wrong. “You didn’t check to see if someone was with you. You didn’t wait for cover, and you didn’t hesitate for a second.”
Your grip tightens around the forgotten glass in your hand. “It worked,” you murmur quietly.
Steve presses his eyes shut for a moment, and when he opens them again, the frustration in his eyes has been replaced with something almost vulnerable.
“I don’t care.” He swallows again. I don’t care that it worked.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, you could’ve missed it had your hearing not been sharpened to focus solely on his words.
“I don’t care because if one of those rounds had been an inch lower, I wouldn’t be standing here arguing with you.” A loose hand pulls out of his pocket, helplessly gesturing to you before letting it fall to his side.
The expression on your face falters, your mask cracking slowly. Only for a heartbeat, but Steve caught it anyway.
“Why?” Genuine confusion sneaks into his once controlled voice. “Why is it always you who’s willing to step in front of everyone when the bullets start flying, hm?
You look back into the depths of amber in your glass, and when you don’t answer him, he speaks again. “D’you really think no one would go after you?”
Your throat tightens. “I don’t think about that.”
“I know you didn’t.”
You raise the whiskey again, desperate for something to do with your hands, but Steve reaches out before it could tap against your lips. His fingers wrap gently around it, just to stop it. The warmth of his hand around yours catches you off guard, your breath stuttering in your chest.
His thumb shifts against the smooth crystal of the glass before he eases it out of your hand and sets it on the counter behind him.
Steve lets out another shaky breath, rubbing his hands over his face (a familiar tick you’ve come to recognize), before dropping them back to his hips. “I’ve led a lot of missions. I’ve watched a whole lotta good people get hurt. I’ve watched people die.” As his eyes met yours, you know he means Bucky. “For a few seconds there, I thought you might be another one of ‘em.”
Steve stands just a step away from you now, his shoulders no longer tense in that commanding posture you’ve come to know so well. You swallow nothing in particular and let your eyes drift to the glass he set on the counter before looking back at him.
“I don’t..” You feel an unfamiliar lump as the words get stuck in your throat, and you force it to clear before trying again. You look down at your bandaged arm, the pain seeming to dwindle as time passes. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything today.”
Steve’s gaze darts around your face. “I believe you.”
“I wasn’t trying to..” Your voice wavers as you hesitate. “I wasn’t trying to make you think I didn’t care whether I came back.”
Steve’s answer comes without the hesitation you had. “I’m trying to understand you.” He takes another step. The two of you are almost eye-to-eye.
“Today I realized the thought of losing you scares me a hell of a lot more than I’d wanted it to.”
Steve stands right in front of you, and you have to tip your head back to meet his gaze. His blue eyes seem darker in the dim light of the empty common room. His eyes flit between your eyes and your lips in a way that makes your breath hitch in your throat. The warmth in your gut has nothing to do with the drink you just had.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he says roughly and your head tilts in a silent question. “I can’t pretend it doesn’t terrify me every time you try and pull a stunt like that.
You let out another murmur, your pulse hammering more insistent with every passing moment. “Then stop.” So quiet you thought he missed it.
You close the remaining space between you. Your throat bobs once again as Steve’s hand comes to cup your jaw. The moment your lips part, to make some sarcastic comment or tease him, his chest crashes into yours. His lips slot against yours with impatient fervor, his tongue swiping against your lips to push himself deeper. The large span of his hand tangles in your hair, and you can feel his nails scraping against your scalp as he angles your face just right to work his lips against yours. The feeling sends tremors all through your body as you let out a mewl against his lips. You can feel your arousal pooling in your panties, and Steve seems to know right away. His free hand comes down to cup your clothed cunt, and a dizzying wave of lust washes over you as you cry out into his mouth.
Steve groans in response, pushing his hand harder between your thighs. “You feel it there?” he mutters, his forehead dropping to yours for a brief second before his swollen lips find yours again.
The clothes on your bodies disappear in a blur. You tug on the hem of his shirt, he loops his fingers through the waistband of your pants.
“Arms up, he coaxes you before ripping the shirt up and off your body. A hand reaches up to cup your breast, your nipples aching against the tight fabric of your bra. His hands slither around your body to unclasp it, while yours run down the solid planes of his bare chest to the waistband of his pants. He lets out a groan in your ear, slipping the useless piece of fabric off your torso and onto the ground with the rest of your clothes. His big hands splay across your chest, rubbing slow circles around your nipples that make your thighs slick with your arousal.
Your other hand trails down to palm the outline of his hard cock through his boxers. His hips jerk in response, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat. “Fuck..” The words come out breathless from his kiss-swollen lips. His palm rubs the heel of his palm firmly on your clit, the friction making you arch into his chest, toes curling. “Don’t do that,” he mutters softly between kisses in the crook of your neck.
You mumble a quiet, “Make me” into the silence of the empty room and his hand immediately draws back from between your legs. You whine at the loss of contact only for it to fade into a gasp as Steve’s hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, squeezing at the soft expanse of skin before hoisting you up against his chest. Your thighs wrapped around him, tight around his hips.
Your hands instinctively come up to clutch onto his shoulders, but you’re solely aware of the press of his bulge to the inside of your thigh with every step he takes toward the couch. His lips are back on yours, the taste of his mouth on you electric.
You break the kiss as your intertwined bodies crash down onto the couch before you swing your leg over his lap. Leaning down, you cup his jaw with both hands, pressing your lips to his once again. Steve’s fingers hastily come up to tear your panties off, tugging at and eventually tearing the thin barrier of black lace.
You lower yourself onto his lap, grinding down on him with slow, torturous movements, earning a stuttering gasp from him. Your hips roll on his clothed cock, painting his boxers slick as his hands tighten their grip around your waist.
You let out a breathy laugh against his lips, still open and gasping for you. “Doesn’t seem like I irritate you anymore, huh?” Another slow roll of your hips, and his cock twitches between your legs.
His jaw locks again, but your gaze zeroes in on the slight flutter of his lashes as you grind against him. “Not my choice.”
You attempt to laugh again, but he’s quicker, gripping your hair with his hand and pulling your face back on his. His tongue slips into your mouth without restraint, your lips pressing against one another as Steve’s hands work their way down to the waistband of his boxers.
Your hands press against his tense shoulders, pushing yourself off him just enough to glance down at the way he slowly pulls his boxers down his legs. His cock juts out instantly, a sheen of pre-cum flushing his tip as it bobs slightly against his stomach.
Your eyes bulge out of your skull at his length. Not just that, but the thickness of him. You fail to repress a snort of laughter, and Steve’s eyes narrow just barely. “This doesn’t seem like the time to be laughing.” His breathy voice snaps you out of your days and you clear your throat.
“I’m sorry, it’s just..” your voice trails off into a huff. “How many people have seen this since, like, 1945?”
The furrow between his brows deepens as he snaps at you. “Enough people.” The corner of your lip twitches up involuntarily at his defensive tone.
Your gaze drops back to his cock, and you bring yourself closer, chests pressing against each other as you line your slit up with him. Steve curses under his breath, his cock twitching against your soaked pussy.
You begin to lower yourself down, the tip of his dick pushing into you as your hips seek his. The stretch of him burns, he fits less than halfway before your hips jerk away from his. Steve’s eyes press shut, his jaw ticks again. You take a shuddering breath and try again. You run the head of his cock up and down your slit, prepping yourself with his surprisingly fat tip before lowering your hips down on his. Each inch of his cock slipping into your slick walls makes your thighs tremble against his.
Steve’s hips buck up into yours on instinct, burying his thick cock inside you to the hilt with one thrust. You moan against the corner of his mouth, pressing your eyes shut at the stretch as you push yourself to rock your hips. He grunts and presses a kiss to your lips. “M’ sorry. You just feel so good.” His hips meet your slow rocks with quick bursts, the tip of his cock already hitting into you just right.
Your walls clench around him, and his head lolls back against the couch. “Fuckin’ hate you.” The words just barely tear out of your throat. Your body is completely taken by the snap of his hips meeting yours with every thrust, the way his pelvis grinds against your clit as he buries himself to the hilt. His hands tighten their bruising grip on your hips, holding you in place as he thrusts up into you.
“I can’t annoy you that much, we wouldn’t be here right now,” he grits through his teeth, low and already wrecked.
You clench your jaw, but it falters as his hips buck into you with a force that knocks a whimper right past your lips. “Fuck you,” you manage to respond, fingers sinking into his shoulders as you try to ground yourself.
“You already are.” Your desire outweighs your irritation as you start to ride him more confidently. Every thrust forces a breath from your lungs. You rock hastily, pressing down on him rough and hard, chasing relief from the aching in your gut.
“Just wanna make you feel good, Stevie,” your voice is soft against his jaw. His throat tightens at your words, and you lift your head from his neck to take in the sight of him. His head is thrown back against the couch, mussed golden hair sticking to his forehead. You whimper, rolling your hips down against his, and he groans again, fucking up into you harder now.
He pulls you down to bounce on his dick, hips snapping up as his cock pistons inside you. His blue eyes stick on the sight of his cock disappearing inside your tight cunt with each thrust. “S’ too good.” His words are stuttered. “You keep moving on me like that and I might never leave your pretty pussy alone.” You watch as his mouth falls open.
Your head throws back in pleasure, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. “Feels so fucking good, Stevie, m’ gonna come.” You squeeze your eyes shut as you force yourself to push through the burning in your thighs, hips slamming into his as you bounce on his cock.
His chest heaves against yours, and the sound of his rough voice soaks your pussy around him even more. “Oh yeah?” he grunts, another sharp snap of his cock plunging deep into your cunt. “Gonna come on my cock even when you say you hate me so much?” His lips twist into that infuriating smirk, and you swear that if your orgasm wasn’t creeping behind you, you would slap him straight across the face.
Instead, you whimper whorishly as your mouth comes crashing back down on his. You can tell he’s close. His hands rub harshly at the fat of your ass, and you’re sure it’ll be red by tomorrow morning.
Your gut coils incredibly tight, your fingers tangle in his messy hair. Your nails claw at his neck in desperation, leaving angry red marks in their wake down to his broad shoulders. You can feel yourself right on the edge, your eyes flutter shut as your pussy flutters around him.
It hits you like a train. Your body convulsing, his name spilling continuously from your lips, wet from his mouth. The snap of his hips grows erratic as he chases his own high, tearing a strangled groan through his throat. “Like you were made for me. Made for my cock.” He pants in your ear, and his muscles tense as he comes. You feel every spurt, his load burning hot inside your walls. Your pussy clamps down in brutal pulses, gushing around him and soaking the base of his cock.
His hips keep rocking up into you, even after the both of you had come. His gaze is locked on where the two of you are joined, hips jerking as he unsteadily fucks his cum back into you.
“S’pretty,” he hums. His forehead falls back down to your neck, and his hands gently rub at the red and purple marks on your hips and ass, a stark contrast to the actions that had got them there in the first place.
Your eyes drift up to him, struggling to keep your eyes open and stop your thighs from shaking around him. “Was that a compliment?” A dopey smile plasters itself onto your lips and he chuckles softly, nipping at your collarbone.
“Just an observation.” With that, you slump against his slick chest, arms coming up to wrap themselves around his neck.
“Right. Just an observation.”
“You really push my buttons, you know that?” His head lifts from your shoulder, and the lazy smirk on his lips betrayed him.
You hum again, fingers playing with his hair absentmindedly.
“So I’ve been told.”
a/n: I'm pretty sure I like gave up on the Bucky fic lowk.. feel free to leave me any ideas and I'll check them out and get to writing. Bye byeeee
Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1,937
Summary: You couldn’t admit that you wanted to make Steve’s birthday special, so instead, you had to put a very you spin on it.
Warnings: A/B/O AU. Explicit language. Mild sexual content. Alpha!Steve. Sassy omega!Reader. Established relationship. Omegaverse dynamic and details (like scenting, mating glands, etc.). Fluff. Feels. Being emotionally constipated. Slight dirty talk.
A/N: Surprise, my lovelies! I’m so happy to join in on @witchywithwhiskey ‘s birthday event for Steeb 🥹 Thank you for hosting and helping me choose which Steve to write, Molly! I hope you enjoy this ❤️
Pound Town Masterlist
Steve turned away from the coffee machine, jumping a little as he found you standing a few feet away, on the other side of the marble kitchen isle, staring at him in a way that was accusatory.
“Who’s sneaking up on who now?” he laughed, his smile faltering as your eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
“Do you have something you’d like to tell me, Hercules?” you challenged, your look haughty and knowing and annoyed.
“Um.” Steve frowned in confusion, his eyes glinting with concern as they flickered between yours.
After a moment, you saw something in his gaze shift, his jaw setting slightly as this look of now-or-never sort of determination glimmered in his eyes, making a surge of panic swell within you.
Because oh my god, that wasn’t what you meant!
So before Steve could open his mouth and say something you were not yet ready to hear, you beat him to it, tossing a piece of opened mail on the counter.
Steve blinked down at it, frowning once more as he glanced between you and the paper before him. “...my driver’s license renewal card?”
You huffed, leaning closer and stabbing your finger at the date of birth printed on the card stock. “Your birthday is in a few weeks! And you haven’t mentioned it at all!”
“Oh.” Steve’s big, broad shoulders lifted as he gave you a sheepish look, a rosy flush staining his cheeks and working its way to the tips of his ears. “I just… didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
“Well what if I want to?” you glared at him. “You were just going to rob me of the full birthday experience?” You made something close to jazz hands that had Steve choking down a laugh because you did seem genuinely irritated by this. “That’s so selfish of you, Hercules,” you finished with a huff, crossing your arms for good measure.
Even though he was able to suppress his laughter, Steve wasn’t able to do the same with his smile. He grinned big, blue eyes twinkling with a very fond sort of mirth as he rounded the counter and pulled you into his arms.
“You’re right, omega, I’m the worst.”
“Truly!” you nodded in agreement, your own lips twitching as Steve interlocked his hands at the small of your back and kissed your cheek.
“Next year, I’ll be sure to set monthly reminders for you about my birthday so it’s always top of mind,” Steve murmured, kissing your other cheek. “It won’t be obnoxious at all.”
You nearly giggled, but were able to maintain your stink eye as you gave him an unimpressed look. “You better,” you hmphed, realizing your mistake a second after you spoke.
That you didn’t object to the fact that you would still be here–with Steve–a year from now.
You hadn’t really thought much about the future since you were a young omega, still brimming with hope and not yet beat down by the state of the world.
But now… after months of being in Steve’s orbit, of… whatever this was between you–because you still weren’t ready to admit that you were together–the thought of this whole thing not being temporary, of it being your future, of Steve being your future…
Well, it was an idea that you didn’t hate.
You could tell by the warmth and softness in Steve’s gaze that he was thinking along the same lines as you, but again, you just couldn’t with what ifs, and big feelings, and more.
Not yet.
“So,” you cleared your throat, pretending to fiddle with the collar of Steve’s t-shirt so you could escape his intese gaze for a moment. “What would the perfect birthday look like to you?”
Steve was quiet for a moment, for more than a moment, and you felt a swirl of anxiety in your stomach, worried that you had upset him by side-stepping the almost emotional landmine.
But when you peeked up at him, Steve’s gaze was just as warm and soft as a moment ago, and he was giving you a small, boyish smile as he replied, “I think I have an idea that we’ll both enjoy.”
A few weeks later, on Steve’s birthday, his idea came to fruition, and for the first time in a very long time–maybe ever–you really were getting the full birthday experience, even if it wasn’t your birthday.
But that didn’t make it any less perfect.
Because Steve had driven you upstate to a small lake house in the middle of the woods.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had been out of the city, and it truly felt like a slice of heaven to be surrounded by nature and quiet and have Steve all to yourself on his special day.
His special day was just part of the week-long vacation he had surprised you with, and he really had planned it all so perfectly. The fridge and pantry were stocked with your favorite prepped foods and takeout, so neither of you would need to cook. And he had gotten a cute little birthday cake, along with lots of other treats, from his favorite bakery.
And now, you were both enjoying the gorgeous tranquility around you, as you and Steve sat on the dock out back of the house, watching the sun set over the lake.
You gave a quiet sigh of contentment as you sank back in the circle of Steve’s arms, allowing your head to fall to the side as his nose skimmed up the side of your throat as he took his time scenting you.
It was actually the first time you two had ever done this–scenting outside of sex–and you didn’t hate it. You were kind of obsessed with it to be honest.
In fact, you had never been so squirmy in your life, your mind pleasantly hazy and quiet for once as you gave a soft chirp when Steve pressed a kiss to your unmarked mating gland.
“You smell so good, omega,” he murmured against your skin, inhaling deeply and purring with satisfaction as he basked in your scent. “You always do.”
Your inner omega chirped up a storm, loving Steve’s attention and admiration as you turned your face so you could nuzzle his nose with yours.
Steve kissed you gently, his eyes so soft and happy as he told you, “This really is the perfect birthday.” His lips touched yours again, lingering this time before he pulled away and breathed, “Thank you, omega. I mean it.”
As he often was, Steve was so earnest in his words and feelings, but something about the sheer affection for you that was coloring his alpha scent had you feeling shy, and a little cranky to be honest.
Because you were still getting used to how much Steve made you feel and want, even after knowing him for months. But you shoved down the minor flare of irritation that you knew was a defense mechanism, because you would not be bitchy with Steve on his birthday.
So instead, you playfully rolled your eyes, murmuring, “You’re such a sap.”
“Only for you,” Steve grinned.
Your scent spiked with your own joy–and something wanting–and he huffed a laugh.
He leaned in and kissed your mating gland, laughing again as you squealed and tried to squirm away, overwhelmed by how sensitive that part of you was, especially under Steve’s attention.
“How do you like it?” he rumbled, eyes twinkling as you huffed and twisted in his hold to glare at him.
For a moment, you just gave him the best stink eye you could muster, and then, you pounced.
Of course you knew that Steve was letting you “attack” him as he fell back against the dock and took you with him. But that didn’t make it any less silly or fun as you wrestled with him until you straddled his hips and had his hands pinned above his head, preening your victory.
“Well now that you’ve got me, what are you gonna do with me?” Steve husked, his eyes noticeably darker as you hovered over him.
For probably the millionth time, you were nearly struck dumb by how gorgeous Steve was. His skin smooth and flawless, his golden hair gleaming in the setting sun and now perfectly mussed. And his eyes–those pretty blue eyes–so expressive as he watched you, as he waited for whatever you deemed came next.
For a long, quiet moment, you just stared at each other, and then your eyes flickered down to another feature of his that you sure did love–those plump pink lips.
Those plump, pink, kissable lips.
“I have a few ideas,” you finally replied before swooping close and capturing his lips with yours.
Steve groaned into your mouth as you traded pinning his wrists for framing his face between your hands. You made your own sound of delight when you felt his touch at your hips, his fingers pressing into you, holding you tight and urging your body against his even more.
Your lips teased and tasted until both you and Steve were breathless, and when you finally pulled back enough to raggedly inhale a gulp of air, you paused for a beat, your eyes dancing as you said, “I want smores.”
“I want more too,” Steve immediately returned. His big hand cradled your cheek and tried to reel you back in for another kiss, but you pulled away.
Giggling as you sat up over him, you shook your head, lips curled into a playful smirk as you tutted, “Keep it in your pants, Hercules. I want smores. You promised we’d make them using that little fire pit on the back deck.”
For a long moment, Steve just stared up at you, uncomprehending, gaping. And it was nearly enough to make you cackle, but then he blinked owlishly, his brain rebooting, and he didn’t look disappointed at all as he said, “Oh. Right.” Instead, he gave your hips a squeeze, his grin boyish as he continued, “I’ll go set it up now.”
You couldn’t help the dreamy sigh that bubbled past your lips as Steve helped you to your feet. Because he really was so good, so perfect.
And he was all yours.
Preening for a different reason now, you looped your arm through Steve’s, pressing close to his side as you two began to slowly walk back up the dock.
You felt mischievous as you glanced over and drank in the still flushed state of Steve’s cheeks, the way his lips were still kiss swollen, too.
“After smores, then I’ll give you more,” you teased, shooting Steve a wicked grin. “You can spend the rest of my night fucking me full of your cum and keeping me on your knot, birthday boy.”
Steve tripped over his own feet, making you burst into laughter as you grabbed onto him to help steady his steps, enjoying the way his flush deepened for an entirely different reason now as he shot you a stink eye.
“You’re such a menace," he muttered, but he was already grinning again as he wrapped his arm around you and tugged you flush against him. “But you’re my menace.”
“Well happy birthday to you,” you chimed, laughing into Steve’s side as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head.
He held you just a little bit tighter as he murmured against your hair, “You’re the best birthday present ever,” rumbling his content as you caught his hand with yours, twined your fingers together, and stayed tucked close as you cleared the dock and made your way back to the lake house.
—
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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”
Your feelings for Daryl were obvious to everyone. Seriously. It was hard not to notice the way you acted around him, the blush on your cheeks, the furtive glances you cast his way. Of course, he saw it all. He tried to ignore it, but it was hard. One evening, you stopped in front of your house and decided to tell him everything you felt for him.
Daryl tensed, the rough fabric of his vest watering as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest. It was the same damn song he'd been singing for months, every time the air grew too heavy from not speaking between them. He'd watched her grow from a frightened child into this woman who looked at him as if he were the only solid link in a world woven from rotting flesh and broken promises. It terrified him more than any walking dead.
"I'm not listening to you," he growled, though there was no real malice in his words. He turned his head away, looking at the line of trees where the shadows stretched long and dark. "You have your whole life ahead of you, y/n. A real life. Not this... this crap we live in. You should look at someone who doesn't have scars on their soul."
In truth, he felt like some kind of relic, something left over from an older, uglier world. He looked at her, really looked at her, at those damn beautiful eyes and that hair that seemed too vibrant for such a godforsaken place. She made him feel something he'd buried deep in his survival instincts and gunpowder.
"I'm a wanderer, darling. I can barely contain myself," he muttered, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Why would you tie yourself to a man like me?"
Daryl looked at her, his jaw tense enough to break bone. He could see it in the way her lower lip trembled between her teeth, the rise and fall of her chest with her quick, shallow breaths. She wasn't just begging; she was starving. She desperately needed something real, something solid, something to anchor her in this hellish world, and she wanted it to be him.
The last thread of restraint he'd been clinging to finally snapped. Something inside him, something primal and long suppressed, simply gave in. He stopped fighting the inevitable and stopped pretending he didn't want to consume her just as much.
In two steps, he closed the distance between them. His hands, rough as sandpaper and scarred by years of abuse, rose to cup her face with surprising intensity. He didn't hesitate. He pressed his lips to hers. With a greedy, desperate passion that spoke of every lonely night and every unspoken thought he'd ever felt for her.
It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a demand. He kissed her like a man who'd wandered through a desert and finally found water. His tongue penetrated her lips, tasting her, demanding all she could give. One hand slid down, fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other pressed hard against her back, pressing her body flush against his muscular frame. He wanted to erase the distance between them, to make her feel how deeply her desire had undermined his composure.
A quiet, lust-filled, unfiltered moan pierced Daryl's remaining defenses like a bullet through paper. He pushed her back until her spine hit the hard wooden wall with a dull, indifferent thud. He wondered if he'd left a mark. He needed her pinned against the wall, trapped between it and the weight of his own desire. He needed to know she wasn't just a dream concocted by exhaustion and whiskey.
Their foreheads met as he retreated just an inch, both breathing heavily, as if they'd just run five miles through hell. His breathing was ragged, uneven, echoing the hammer blow in his chest. Up close, the intensity in his blue eyes was terrifying; the familiar cold indifference was gone, burned by a primal, naked desperation.
For years, he'd worn this mask like armor, convinced that by staying away, he would keep her safe, keep them both safe.
He'd convinced himself he was protecting her from the darkness within him, but now, standing here and feeling her warmth against his skin, he realized he'd been lying to himself. He wasn't protecting her; he was terrified by how much he couldn't live without her. The thought of losing this fragile, beautiful connection seemed worse than death itself.
"Damn it, baby," he croaked, pressing his lips to hers, his voice trembling. His hands trembled slightly as he moved them from her face to her waist, his thumbs digging into her hips. "You'll ruin me. You'll destroy me."
Warning: power imbalance, dark content, obsession, and all around sexiness.
Summary: your boss is a hard man to please. (actor!bucky, assistant reader)
I always see this gif and wanna write something so here we go.
Hi! Please please please reblog and leave some feedback if you read! I love you 💕
"You saved me. Again." Peter fawns as he checks his reflection.
The stylist tucks her bottle of hairspray away. "Hopefully it holds in this humidity."
She wipes the trickle on her temple. Peter looks over at her and swipes up a tissue from the box on the hotel vanity. It's an old style wooden thing with ornate posts around the mirror. He looks as if he's about to wipe away the sweat himself before he tilts his hand to offer it to her. She thanks him and dabs her glistening face.
"I wasn't ready for the weather," she pats along her lip as Peter leans on the vanity and watches her. It's good they get along. You wonder if she reminds him of his aunt.
"Yeah, it's... Stuffy." You agree and check your phone.
There's a knock at the door. "Pete! The bell tolls." Bucky calls through. "Street car will be by shortly."
"Shoot. Yeah." Peter stands straight. "I look good?" He's asking the stylist not you.
You cross the room and grab his wallet and phone. "Peter, come on."
"Right, right." He coughs and turns away from the stylist.
"I'll follow you out," she assures as she zips up her bag. "I saw some hand-painted fans at a shop. I might have to get myself one."
"Great idea," you say bluntly.
You're tense to the bone between Peter's oblivion and Bucky's looming threats. You just need to do you job. Focus on that.
You open the door and stand back to let Peter and the stylist out. She bids a hurried goodbye as the younger actor wisps out a breathy 'see ya'. Bucky watches her pass as he casually has a thumb hooked into his dark blue trousers, sporting a greyish purple shade on top: short sleeves and unbuttoned to the top of his chest. His dark hair is tied half back, some strands loose around his face.
"Looking snazzy, Pete," Bucky claps his shoulder.
"Uh, yeah, you too, dude. Ugh, sir?"
"Come on, I'm not that old yet," Bucky jerks him and lets go.
"No, I didn't... Sorry."
Loosen up, kid. It's just a bunch of PR. Smile and get through it."
He points Peter down the hall. You keep up with your client, only to have Bucky right behind you. The Italian hallways are narrower than most hotels; redesigned from long-standing structures built for a much different time.
"Besides. I bet she took care of everything." Bucky drawls.
"Mostly. I'll be chill. Once I'm there, I'll snap out of it." Peter says as if trying to convince himself.
As you continue to the staircase, you shuffle in behind Peter and Bucky is behind you again, closer. As you descender the tight spiralling flights, he brushes his hand down the nape of your neck. You try to lean away but the steps are steep and Peter's right in front of you. He traces his finger down to the top of your loose linen pants and dips under the belt. You swat blindly behind you and nearly tip over.
"Whoops." Bucky seizes you around the waist and pulls up against him as you gasp. "Don't fall, doll."
Peter looks over his shoulder. "What's going on?"
"She almost fell right on ya, bud. Woulda been like dominos." He clucks.
"Oh, um, yeah," Peter turns around and keeps going, clenching the railing. "These are kinda scary."
Bucky hums and his hand slips down to your pelvis. You snatch it away and throw your elbow back.
"All good, doll? Need to hold onto me?" He says coolly, ignoring your efforts to make him back off.
"I'm fine. I just slipped." You grumble.
You continue downward. You twitch again as he touches the top of your ass and grab his hand. He slips free and crushes your fingers. He pulls your hand back and you snarls.
"Stop!" You spin around, clinging to the railing.
"What?" Peter squeaks.
"You forget something, doll?" Bucky asks without a beat, one hand on his hip, the other on the railing.
"N-no, I... Sorry. No, I got it." You cringe. Asshole. Even if you cry wolf, Peter wouldn't believe it.
"Stairs kinda make you dizzy, huh?" Bucky snickers. "Come on, almost to the bottom."
You slowly pivot around. Peter turns, phone in hand, texting someone. You take the last bend, leaning forward as much as you can, but find no relief at the bottom. Bucky stays close.
“We could walk to the canal from here, get the waterbus,” Bucky suggests. “Doll, isn’t this your job?”
You don’t even look at him. “Good idea. Peter, take a left.”
Peter hesitates. He’s still in his phone. You sigh.
“I’ll lead the way.” You say calmly.
You step ahead, Peter drags his feet next to Bucky as they trail you.
“Heh, special lady?” Bucky asks.
Peter sniffs. “Uh, no, er, I don’t know.”
“Come on, I know that look,” Bucky laughs.
Does he? You saw how he got with Nat. He was never puppy-eyed.
You try to ignore their conversation. It’s a skill you’re well-honed at. You listen when it matters, otherwise, you don’t worry.
You get to the canal dock and wait for the waterbus to skim up. You don’t miss a few cameras in passing aimed at the men with you. It’s pretty typical but Bucky doesn’t voice his usual agitation.
You board. It’s crowded. You squeeze through and find three seats. In the jostle, you find yourself between Peter and Bucky. Great. You check the time.
“We should get there early,” you say to Peter as you distract yourself with his schedule. Peter is once more flicking around his keyboard, a lazy ‘uh huh’ in acknowledgement.
Bucky rests his hand on his thigh. He sits up tall, spreading his shoulders until he’s snug against you. He looks around as he extends his pinky over to touch your leg. You cross your knee over the other, making yourself as small as you can.
It doesn’t deter him. His hand slips slowly down the side of his thigh. As you lean subtly away, his fingertips crawl along your seat and graze the underneath of your lifted leg. He almost touches the seam of your damn pants before you force yourself flat, close to crushing his hand before he retracts it.
You look him in the eye and mouth ‘fuck off’.
He smirks and adjusts the belt of his pants, shifting in his seat. You shake your head and look away. Peter fidgets as his lips move in silent conversation with himself.
“Doing good?” You ask him.
“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah, just getting myself in the zone.” He clamps his hands around his phone and exhales.
A gristly groan escapes Bucky’s throat. You ignore him as best as you can, even as he spreads his legs wide enough to crush yours. Your phone vibes. You look down. Fucker, you keep blocking him.
You open Bucky’s messages as he casually cradles his phone over his left thigh. His other hand is right up near his pelvis. You go to block again but the message imprints into your mind. ‘I know you’re making me hard on purpose.’
You shudder and hit the three dots. How the fuck is this happening?
pairing: bucky barnes x reader | 10.2k words | modern soulmate au
warnings: explicit sexual content (18+), soulmate bond/past life memories, multiple lifetimes, memory flashes, discussions of war, brief references to trauma/recovery, love at first sight across lifetimes, wedding night smut, destiny vs choice, happy ending
summary: when you and bucky reach for the same bag of lemons at the farmer’s market, the touch triggers flashes of the many lifetimes you’ve spent loving each other. as those memories keep surfacing, the two of you have to figure out what it means to fall in love again in the life you’re living now.
authors note: this is very loosely inspired by everything is romantic by charli xcx, and by “loosely” i mean i took several lyrics, made them devastating, and then built an entire soulmate reincarnation love story around them. many many thank you's for this fic! thank you to @/iamthatonefangirl and @/barnesonly for organizing our bwat summer collab; go check out everyone else's work! thank you to my baby, @/pinksplace for giving this idea and listening to me continuously crash out about it🫶 and a very special thank you to @/buckybsdoll for not only beta reading it, but for also encouraging this fic is indeed NOT buns, and i can do hard things. love you all🩷
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Saturday mornings belong to James Buchanan Barnes.
That is what Bucky tells himself, anyway—what he has been telling himself for the better part of three years, ever since recovery stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started, slowly, cautiously, feeling like a road. Not an easy road, not a straight one, but a road all the same. Something he can wake up and keep walking.
Saturday means the same coffee stand on the corner where the barista with the chipped purple nail polish starts making his drink the second she sees him coming. It means the farmer’s market under the green-striped awnings in the square, where he buys a loaf of crusty sourdough from the old Polish couple in stall fourteen and fresh eggs from the woman who always insists the yolks are brighter in spring. It means peaches if they’re in season, because one summer in Wakanda he had bitten into one so ripe it had run down his wrist and made him laugh out loud in the middle of a field, and ever since then peaches have felt like proof of life. It means flowers some3times, too, if the apartment feels especially bare. Something cheap and cheerful in a mason jar on the kitchen counter. Something that says a man can make a home even if he was taught for years he did not deserve one.
It is a good routine. A hard-won one. Bucky likes the honesty of it, the way these small rituals ask nothing of him except that he show up.
This morning, June sun already warming the pavement, his paper cup of coffee hot in his hand, he feels almost light. The market is crowded enough to buzz but not so packed he gets hemmed in. A violinist near the fountain is playing something bright and quick. Someone’s kid is trying to pet every dog within reach. The air smells like basil and strawberries and the faint yeasty sweetness of fresh bread.
Bucky buys his loaf first. Then tomatoes. Then a bunch of green onions. He pauses at the peach stand, testing one for give with his thumb, and decides they need another week.
By the time he reaches the citrus table, the vendor is rearranging pyramids of lemons in rough wooden crates, their skins bright and dimpled in the morning light. Bucky reaches automatically, already picturing chicken piccata for dinner, and another hand reaches at the same exact moment.
Your fingers brush his.
The world splits open.
One second he is standing in the farmer’s market with coffee on his breath and sunlight on the back of his neck, and the next—
Neon. Laughter. Chapel bells tinny through cheap speakers. Your mouth, painted the color of a ripe cherry, open on a breathless laugh. White satin clinging to your hips. A fake Elvis in a rhinestone jumpsuit grinning around too-big teeth beneath a plastic crucifix bolted crooked over the altar.
Bucky gasps.
The bag of lemons slips from both your hands and tumbles to the pavement, yellow fruit rolling in wild directions as if they’ve been startled too.
The vision doesn’t stop there. Visions of different lifetimes flash through his eyes like he’s watching the life of ten different couples all at once.
A steering wheel under his palms, worn smooth with use. Summer wind through open windows. You in cutoff shorts, feet on the dashboard, singing badly and loudly while the road curls ahead of you like a dare.
White sheets. Lace curtains breathing in a warm midnight breeze. Gold band on your finger catching moonlight where your hand presses against his chest. Your mouth moving against his throat with a broken little sound that is half laughter, half prayer.
A rough cabin wall. Splintered pine under his palm. You in a wool shift with your hair braided down your back, cheeks wind-burned, smiling over your shoulder as foxes cry somewhere out in the dark and a baby sleeps in a cradle by the fire.
Smoke and jazz and blackout curtains. East London. Silk black as sin against your skin. Your hand catching his by the wrist before he can disappear back into the war.
A beach. Bright afternoon. Children shrieking at the tide. Orange drinks sweating in glass pitchers while he kneels in the sand with his sleeves rolled up, helping a little girl press shell fragments into the turret of a sandcastle, and you walk toward him laughing, sunlight at your back so fierce it turns you to gold.
Then all of it is gone.
The market snaps back into focus so suddenly it hurts. Sound crashes in—vendors shouting prices, stroller wheels rattling, the violinist sawing away by the fountain. Bucky stumbles backward a step. Across from him, you catch yourself on the edge of the citrus crate, looking exactly as wrecked as he feels.
Your eyes lock on his.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Bucky’s heart is pounding hard enough to bruise. “You saw that too.”
It isn’t a question.
In this world, everybody knows about soulmarks and first-flashes. Knows that when you meet the person your soul is tied to, memory can strike like lightning. Some people get a single image. A porch swing. A train platform. A hand in a hospital room. Some get a rush of several lives at once, enough to leave them reeling for days. Most people dream of it when they’re young. Spend adolescence looking at every stranger a little too long. Wondering when it will happen, if it will happen, whether the person on the other end of them is alive or halfway across the planet or just around the corner.
Bucky stopped wondering a long time ago.
HYDRA did not leave much room for destiny.
You swallow. “That was not normal.”
“No,” he says, voice rough. “No, that was… not.”
The lemon vendor is gathering the fallen fruit with admirable indifference, the kind that says he has seen stranger things at this market and will see stranger still. “You two need a minute?” he asks.
You make a sound that could be a laugh or a near-sob. “Maybe five.”
Bucky buys the entire bag of lemons because it feels like the least insane thing he can do, then follows you blindly toward the edge of the square where there’s a row of benches under a sycamore tree. The shade dapples your face when you sit, and for one unmoored second he knows the pattern of it. Not from now. From somewhere else.
He stays standing until you glance up at him and pat the spot beside you with a shaky hand.
“You’re real?” you ask once he sits.
He almost laughs. “I was about to ask you that.”
You rub your palms over your knees as if trying to ground yourself. You’re wearing denim shorts and a white tank top and sunglasses pushed up into your hair, and you look like someone who belongs to summer. Not delicate exactly, but bright. Alive in a way that makes Bucky’s ribs ache. “I know this is a weird question,” you say, “but are you going to tell me your name, or am I just supposed to keep calling you fake-Elvis-groom in my head?”
“Bucky,” he says automatically. Then, because he has spent years relearning how to offer the softer pieces of himself without flinching, he adds, “James. But people call me Bucky.”
Your mouth curves, the first real smile since the vision hit. “I’m glad to know at least one of us looked better in Vegas.”
He huffs out a breath that is almost a laugh. “I looked good.”
“You looked reckless.”
“That too.”
You tell him your name, and the moment it lands between you something in his chest settles with a frightening kind of certainty. Not because fate says so. Not because the universe stamped your names together in some cosmic ledger. Because the sound of it moves through him like recognition. Like stepping into a room he did not realize he had been trying to get back to his whole life.
For a while neither of you says anything. The market hums on around you. Somewhere nearby, a dog sneezes. Someone drops a crate. Bucky stares at the paper sleeve around his cooling coffee and tries to swallow around the strange thickness in his throat.
“I’ve heard of people getting strong first-flashes,” you say at last, quieter now. “But not like that. That was… a lot.”
“A lot,” he agrees.
You tilt your head toward him. “How many do you remember already?”
He thinks of the chapel. The truck. The bed with the lace curtains. The cabin. The club in London. The beach. “Six,” he says. “You?”
“Same.”
A breeze stirs the leaves overhead. It smells like sun-warmed bark and citrus oil.
“I don’t know what to do now,” you admit.
That, strangely, is what steadies him.
Because Bucky knows that feeling. Knows what it is to be handed something overwhelming and not know where to put it. Knows that survival sometimes looks like doing the next smallest thing instead of solving the whole impossible shape at once.
He glances toward the coffee stand, then back at you. “You want to start with coffee?”
You look at him for one long beat, then laugh softly, incredulously, like maybe you can’t believe that is the question that just saved you from bolting. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I do.”
So that is how it begins.
Not with thunder. Not with immediate declarations. Not with some cinematic collision that resolves every loneliness in a heartbeat.
With coffee. With your hand wrapped around a paper cup. With the two of you sitting at the edge of the market, dizzy on each other’s borrowed memories, learning the outlines of the present slowly enough to survive it.
He learns that you come to the farmer’s market most Saturdays too, though usually later. That you always buy flowers you don’t strictly need. That you live twenty minutes away in an apartment with bad plumbing and excellent light. That you work in graphic design and keep odd hours and have a weakness for peaches even when they’re underripe. You learn that he is in therapy. That he likes routine because sometimes routine is the difference between drifting and staying. That his apartment in Brooklyn is small but his windows face west and the light there in the evening is good. That he cooks. That he bakes bread when the weather turns cold because kneading something until it rises feels like a miracle he can participate in.
He does not tell you everything that morning. Not about HYDRA, not about the winter that lasted decades, not about the names he no longer answers to. But you do not push. Maybe because you can feel, in the strange echoing chambers of whatever ties the two of you together, that he has already been dragged open too many times to count.
When you part, it is almost noon.
You both hover awkwardly by the fountain, neither one wanting to be the first to say goodbye.
“So,” you say, shifting the bouquet of daisies and feverfew you bought somewhere along the way into one hand. “Do soulmate rules say we’re supposed to immediately move in together now, or is there like a grace period?”
Bucky smiles before he can stop himself. “I think there’s paperwork.”
“Tragic.”
He glances at the lemons peeking out of your canvas bag. “You still owe me half of these.”
You grin then, bright and quick and devastating. “That sounds fake.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s a reason to see you again.”
Something softens in your expression. “Okay,” you say. “Then I’ll take the fake reason.”
He gives you his number. You type your own into his phone and hand it back, your fingers brushing his again. No flash this time. Just warmth. Just the sharp, impossible awareness of skin.
“All right, Bucky Barnes,” you say. “Text me when you want to split custody of the lemons.”
He watches you walk away.
At the corner, you turn and look back.
The city seems to hold its breath.
Then you smile at him one more time and disappear into the crowd.
Jesus Christ on a plastic sign
The Vegas lifetime comes back first.
Not all at once. In drips. In flashes that catch Bucky at strange moments over the next few days, as if the memory has been jarred loose and is still deciding how much of itself to reveal.
He is washing dishes on Tuesday night when he looks down at a ring of soap suds circling the drain and suddenly he is twenty-six—or thirty, or some other age in some other body—and the air smells like desert heat trapped in asphalt. He can hear slot machines from the lobby below the motel balcony and your laugh from inside the room, where the air conditioner is fighting a losing battle and you are standing in front of the cracked mirror pinning your hair up with bobby pins you bought from the gift shop downstairs.
“Tell me again,” you say, smiling at him through the mirror, “why exactly we’re doing this.”
Because you had met forty-eight hours earlier in line for dollar margaritas and spent the night talking until sunrise on the motel roof. Because you had missed your flight on purpose. Because he had looked at you over watery eggs in a diner the next morning and known, with the same bone-deep certainty he feels now on a Brooklyn Tuesday in a kitchen lit by one warm overhead bulb, that life was sometimes simplest when it was ridiculous.
Because you had asked if he wanted to get married as a joke and then kept grinning at him after he said yes.
“Tax benefits,” he answers solemnly, sitting on the end of the bed in his borrowed suit jacket.
You laugh. “Romantic.”
“Practical.”
“Liar.”
You cross the room barefoot, white dress swishing around your thighs. It is not really a wedding dress. It is a satin slip from a resale shop with a tiny champagne stain at the hem and thin straps that make him forget his own name every time he looks at you. You stop between his knees and hook your fingers in the lapels of his jacket.
“Tell me not to do it,” you whisper. There is laughter in your voice but something trembling under it too, a softness that asks to be taken seriously. “Tell me we’re being insane and I’ll call it off.”
He looks up at you and feels his whole impossible life narrow into one clean, brilliant line. “I think,” he says, resting his hands on your hips, “that if we don’t do this, I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wondering why I let the best idea I ever had walk out of a motel in Vegas.”
Your expression cracks open into something so nakedly happy it almost undoes him.
The chapel is tiny and tacky and perfect. The plastic crucifix is screwed above a velvet curtain backdrop. The fake Elvis officiant keeps winking like he personally invented love. You say your vows through laughter because your bouquet is made of silk roses that smell faintly like dust and the minister’s sideburn is half detached. Bucky can barely get the ring onto your finger because his hands won’t stop shaking.
Afterward, you run into the sun with your shoes in one hand, your new husband’s name in your mouth as if you were born to say it.
On the sidewalk outside the chapel, there’s a sign for a twenty-four-hour wedding package with JESUS CHRIST LOVES YOU printed above a blinking arrow in red bulbs, and the whole thing is so absurd that you double over laughing. Bucky catches you around the waist before you can fall.
“Mrs. Barnes,” he says into your hair, tasting the words.
You lift your face to his, eyes wet from laughing. “That sounds made up.”
“Probably is.”
You kiss him anyway.
In the present, water runs cold over Bucky’s hands in the sink. He blinks hard and finds himself staring at a plate gone slippery in his grip.
He dries his hands, sits on the edge of the counter, and texts you before he can think better of it.
Got another one. Vegas.
The reply comes so fast it is almost a breath.
me too
Then, after a beat:
did we really get married because the line for margaritas was too long and we needed something else to do?
Bucky smiles helplessly at his phone.
we were committed to the bit
You start texting every day after that.
At first it is practical. Did you remember this detail? Did the chapel carpet have stars on it or was that just me? Do you think the fake Elvis was secretly judging us?
But the practical gives way to easy almost before either of you notices. He sends you a picture of a dog in a raincoat outside the bodega. You send him a photo of the flowers you bought even though your rational brain said you didn’t need them. He tells you when therapy goes badly. You tell him when work is making your eyes cross. By Friday, your name on his screen feels less like a surprise and more like the continuation of something that was already in motion long before lemons hit pavement.
The next Saturday, he finds you at the market before he reaches the citrus stand.
You are standing at the peach table, frowning at a fruit in your hand with the seriousness of someone evaluating a gemstone.
“You know those need another week,” he says.
You glance up and smile in a way that makes his whole body wake up. “I know. I’m being optimistic.”
“Reckless.”
“Wow. You meet one man in Vegas and suddenly he thinks he knows you.”
He laughs, and there is no fear in it this time.
You spend the morning together again. Coffee, bread, flowers. At the tomato stall your shoulder brushes his and warmth skates down his spine, but no memory comes. At the herb table he tucks a stray basil stem behind your ear and your breath catches, but still nothing.
It hits later, when the two of you are leaving the market and pass an old pickup truck parked crooked by the curb, windows down, classic rock spilling tinny from the speakers. You stop dead. So does he.
Your head turns toward him.
His chest caves in around a heartbeat that is no longer entirely his own.
Winding roads, doing manual drive
In that life, you are eighteen and everything feels enormous.
Summer stretches in front of you like a dare. The town is small enough to suffocate if you stay still too long, so you never do. Bucky has a beat-up blue truck with a sticky clutch and a radio that only works when you slap the dashboard in exactly the right place. He teaches you how to drive manual in the abandoned church parking lot at the edge of town, laughing every time the engine stalls because you keep popping the clutch too fast.
“You’re mean,” you tell him, gripping the steering wheel.
“I’m helpful.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Because you cuss like my grandpa.”
You cut him a glare so ineffective it makes him grin wider. He reaches across the bench seat to guide your hand to the gearshift, his palm warm over your knuckles.
“Slow,” he says. “Feel it catch. Don’t force it.”
Outside, cicadas scream in the heat. The sun is dropping behind the trees, turning the windshield gold.
You try again. This time the truck lurches, shudders, then rolls forward smooth as breath.
“Oh my God,” you say, startled into laughter. “I did it.”
Bucky looks at you the way boys in movies are always supposed to look but almost never do in real life—like the sight of you happy is enough to rearrange his whole future. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You did.”
Once you know how, you drive everywhere with no destination at all. Back roads. County lines. Winding stretches of blacktop between soybean fields and creeks and gas stations with flickering signs. You drive because gas is cheap and the cab of the truck is a world no one else can enter. You drive because Bucky’s knee pressed against yours feels better than anything either of you have a name for yet. You drive because being young and in love can make movement feel holy.
Sometimes you pull over on the shoulder just to watch the sky bruise purple over the fields. Sometimes you kiss at red lights until the truck behind you honks. Sometimes you park at the overlook above the quarry and share a bag of gas station peanuts while Bucky tells you all the places he wants to see one day, voice gone soft with wanting.
“Anywhere specific?” you ask.
He shrugs one shoulder. “As long as you’re there.”
You laugh because you think he is teasing. Then you look at him and realize he is not.
The air changes.
He reaches up, pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. “I know we’re eighteen,” he says, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. “I know people say that means we don’t know anything. But I know this.”
Your breath catches.
Behind you, the truck ticks and cools in the dusk.
“I know,” he says again, “that I could drive with you forever and never get tired of the road.”
Then he kisses you, and the whole wide summer tilts.
The memory drops away while a bus sighs to the curb and someone nearby curses over a jammed stroller wheel.
You are breathing hard. So is Bucky.
“That one hurt,” you say quietly.
He knows what you mean. Not because it was bad. Because it was good in the simple devastating way only youth can be. Because watching some other version of yourself love with that much unguarded certainty feels like pressing a bruise you didn’t know you had.
“You drove stick,” he says.
“I was bad at it.”
“You were terrible.”
You laugh then, startled and watery, and he thinks he would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound.
There is a diner half a block away with cracked vinyl booths and a waitress who calls everyone honey. He nods toward it. “Come on.”
“Is this where we process our cosmic psychic episodes now?”
“Pancakes seem medically necessary.”
So you sit across from each other in a booth smelling faintly of syrup and coffee grounds while the waitress tops off your mugs and pretends not to notice that the two of you keep staring. The market bag rests by Bucky’s boots. Your flowers lie across the seat beside you like a witness.
“You ever think about what it means?” you ask after a while.
He traces a thumb over the seam of his coffee cup. “The past lives?”
“The soulmate thing. Any of it.” Your gaze is steady on his. “Like… are we supposed to just trust that because we loved each other before, we automatically will now?”
Bucky is quiet for so long, the waitress comes by to ask if he wants more bacon.
When she leaves, he exhales. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I think maybe it’d scare me if it worked like that.”
You nod once. “Me too.”
Because obligation is not love. Because destiny without choice starts to look too much like a cage.
Bucky leans forward, forearms on the table. “I don’t want this to be automatic,” he says, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. “I don’t want you because of… cosmic paperwork.” Your mouth twitches at that. He presses on. “I want to know you. Now. Here. I want whatever this is to be because we choose it.”
Something in your face softens so completely it leaves him winded.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat. “Then we do it the hard way.”
His mouth curves. “Dating?”
“Scandalous, I know.”
He looks at you across the table, sunlight striping the booth through the blinds, and feels a piece of his life click gently into place.
“Yeah,” he says. “Dating.”
The smile you give him then follows him home and waits with him through the week and sits with him at the edge of sleep. It is still there when he picks you up for your first actual date on Thursday, when you buzz him into your apartment building wearing jeans and a green top that makes your eyes look unfair, when he spends ten whole seconds forgetting why he came.
You cook together in his kitchen because restaurants feel like too much too soon. Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. Salad with too much parmesan because you insist there is no such thing.
It is simple. It is easy in the kind of way Bucky once would have distrusted on principle. You move around his kitchen as if you’ve already learned its shape. You lean against the counter and steal bites from the pan. You laugh when he pretends to guard the sauce from you and do not look startled when he laughs back.
After dinner, you help him wash dishes. After dishes, you stand by the open window drinking wine while the city breathes warm and loud below.
“I had a nice time,” you say, glancing at him over the rim of your glass.
His pulse kicks. “Good.”
“I’m serious. For a man who hoards lemons as a manipulation tactic, you clean up pretty well.”
He snorts. “I’ll put that on my dating profile.”
“You should. Honest branding.”
He smiles, and you smile back, and the air between you changes.
It is not sudden. Not violent. Just the slow, unmistakable tightening of a thread.
He sets his glass down first.
You do the same.
When he steps closer, you do not move away.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because in every life he has ever loved you there has been want in it, but in this one he wants the shape of your yes more than he wants air.
Your eyes go soft. “Please.”
He kisses you carefully at first, because he is not eighteen in a truck anymore and he is not some reckless fool in Vegas with rings in his pocket and a grin too wide for his face. He is a man who has taken years to learn how to touch gently. Who knows what damage carelessness can do.
But then your hand lifts to his cheek and your mouth opens beneath his and the careful part of him turns molten.
The flash hits so hard he breaks the kiss with a gasp.
You are hit by it too. He sees it in the way your pupils blow wide, the way your hand clutches the front of his shirt.
“Oh,” you breathe.
The apartment falls away.
Early nights in white sheets with lace curtains
The room is small and gold with lamplight.
In that life, you have been married for six hours.
Your shoes are by the door. Your veil lies in a pearly heap over the chair back. Somewhere downstairs the last of the wedding guests are still laughing over cake and champagne, but up here the inn is quiet except for the tick of rain against the lace-curtained window and your own uneven breathing.
You stand with your back to Bucky near the bed, fingers trembling where they rest at your throat. The silk of your nightdress skims the backs of your knees. Your wedding band glints like a promise.
He has never seen anything more beautiful.
You are not delicate. Nor candlelight that makes you look like something painted. You are real in all the ways that matter most—nervous and wanting and trying to be brave.
You glance at him over your shoulder, and the vulnerability in your face brings him to his knees faster than reverence ever could.
“We don’t have to,” he says softly.
Your brows draw together. “I want to.”
“I know.” He steps closer, slow enough to stop if you need it. “But I want you to know we don’t have to do anything tonight except be married.”
Something in you loosens. Relief. Love. A tenderness so intense it almost aches to look at.
“I want to be married,” you whisper.
He smiles, cupping your jaw. “You already are.”
“No,” you say, eyes luminous. “I mean like this. Here. With you.” Your breath shakes. “I want tonight.”
He kisses you then, gentle enough to ask, deep enough to answer.
The nightdress slips from your shoulders a little at a time. He learns your skin by lamplight and fingertips, by the soft sounds you make when he touches somewhere that matters, by the way you cling to him when pleasure finally starts to outrun nerves. The white sheets twist around your legs. The lace curtains stir in the open window. Rain cools the room, but your bodies are all heat.
You are not shy for long.
He kisses his way down the column of your throat, your collarbones, the slope of your breast. Your fingers knot in his hair when his mouth finds your nipple and he sucks gently, then harder at the sound that tears from you. By the time he lowers you onto the bed your hair is loose around your shoulders and your face is flushed and he is so hard it hurts.
“Bucky,” you whisper, reaching for him.
“Tell me what you need.”
You laugh softly, dazed with wanting. “You. Obviously.”
He smiles against your mouth, then works two fingers between your thighs and nearly loses his mind at how wet you are for him already. Your hips jerk. Your eyes flutter shut.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “There you go.”
He takes his time because he can. Because there is no war waiting outside this room, no clock to race. Because after the vows and the music and the endless hands grabbing at you all day, he wants this moment to belong only to the two of you. He strokes you until your body learns the shape of pleasure under his hands. He brings you apart once with his fingers, your back arching off the bed, then again with his mouth until you are clutching the sheets and crying his name into the rain-soft dark.
When he finally settles between your thighs, braced on one forearm, your gaze on his is wrecked and certain all at once.
“You still sure?” he asks, voice gone rough as gravel.
You wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him down until your foreheads touch. “I have never been more sure of anything.”
He pushes into you slowly, giving you every inch with a care that feels like worship. The stretch of you around him steals the breath from his lungs. Your mouth opens on a gasp. He stills.
“Okay?” he whispers.
You nod, biting your lip. “Move.”
So he does.
Slow at first. Then deeper when your nails dig into his shoulders and you lift to meet him. The bed creaks softly. Rain taps the window. He kisses you whenever your face crumples with feeling, every thrust turning more desperate as your body opens for him. You cling to him, legs wrapped around his hips, whispering his name like a secret you intend to keep forever.
When you come, it is with your mouth against his throat and tears bright at the corners of your eyes.
He follows with his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with it.
Afterward, you lie tangled in white sheets gone warm and wrinkled around you, the lace curtains stirring like breath. He draws lazy circles over your stomach while you trace the line of his mouth with one sleepy fingertip.
“This counts as a successful wedding night,” you murmur.
He laughs softly. “Good. I was hoping.”
You turn into him, already half asleep. “Anywhere is home,” you whisper, the words blurred at the edges with exhaustion, “if you’re in the bed.”
He never forgets them.
When the memory releases you both, Bucky is still standing in his apartment with his chest heaving and your hands fisted in his shirt.
The kitchen light is too bright. The city outside the window too loud. He can taste you without ever having had you in this life.
Your face is flushed all the way down your neck.
“Well,” you say after a stunned second, voice frayed. “That was wildly inconvenient timing.”
He laughs once, brokenly, because if he does not laugh he might combust.
“You okay?” he asks.
Your gaze lifts to his, honest and heated. “Ask me in five minutes.”
He brushes his knuckles over your cheek, a touch so careful it is almost absurd after what you both just saw. “I mean it.”
“I know.” Your hand slides down to cover his where it rests against your face. “Yeah. I’m okay. A little overwhelmed. A lot turned on. But okay.”
Heat hits him hard and immediate. He closes his eyes for a second.
You laugh softly. “Right. Sorry. That was—”
“Don’t apologize.”
When he opens his eyes again, your expression has gentled. “Bucky.”
He knows what you are asking. Not just whether he wants you. That is almost insultingly obvious. You are asking whether he can separate memory from present. Whether he can stand in this kitchen and want what is in front of him without letting the weight of every before crush what could be now.
He answers by leaning down and resting his forehead against yours.
“I want this,” he says quietly. “But I want our first time in this life to be ours.”
Your breath leaves you in a rush. So does some tightness in his chest he hadn’t fully realized he was carrying.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you once more, soft and lingering. Then he walks you home because if you stay the night he is not sure either of you will survive your own restraint, and because there is something holy in wanting badly and still choosing patience.
At your door, you touch his wrist before he can step back.
“For the record,” you murmur, eyes warm, “that other us had very good taste.”
He grins helplessly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I get it now.”
Then you kiss him quick and disappear inside with a smile that haunts him for days.
The weeks that follow feel like being built from the inside out.
The flashbacks do not stop, but they become less like ambushes and more like weather—still sudden, still powerful, but no longer catastrophic. A scent, a sound, a patch of light can call one up. Sometimes you text each other in the middle of the workday with fragments: did you remember the red truck in the mountain life had one broken taillight? or I think Bucharest-you stole that robe from the hotel. Sometimes a memory arrives whole when you are together and leaves both of you laughing or aching or red-faced in its wake.
In between, you date.
Real dates. Present-tense ones.
You go to a bookstore in Cobble Hill and accidentally spend two hours arguing about whether people who dog-ear paperbacks can be trusted. You sit in the park eating takeout and watch a wedding party take photos under the arch. You make pasta in your kitchen and burn the garlic because you are too busy kissing against the fridge. You let him meet your friends, who like him immediately and try not to look too smug about it. He tells Sam about you over beers and gets stared at for a full ten seconds before Sam breaks into the kind of grin that means Bucky will never hear the end of this.
And slowly, because slowness is another name for mercy, you get used to the fact of each other.
One night in late July, you fall asleep on Bucky’s couch halfway through a movie. Your head ends up in his lap, your bare feet tucked under his thigh, the credits rolling blue light over the room. He does not move for an hour because the weight of you there feels too precious to disturb.
When you wake, drowsy and disoriented, you blink up at him and smile.
“There you are,” he says before he can stop himself.
The words do something strange to the air.
You sit up slowly, blanket slipping down your shoulders. “What?”
He swallows. “Nothing. I just—”
But then the memory comes, not violent this time. Gentle as smoke.
You see it in each other’s faces as it arrives.
Sleepyhead ’cause all the fucking foxes kept me awake last night
The cabin is barely more than one room and a stubborn prayer.
In that life, winter has a vendetta against you. The land is raw and half-finished around you—trees felled and stacked, fields only partly cleared, the nearest neighbors hours away by horse. Everything aches. Your hands, your backs, your hope.
And still, you build.
By day Bucky swings an axe until his shoulders burn and your tiny patch of earth starts, slowly, to look like something that might feed you come spring. By day you mend, cook, scrub, carry water, keep accounts in a little ledger with cramped neat writing, and somehow still find the energy to laugh when the hen gets loose again and wreaks havoc under the table.
By night you sit by the fire mending his shirts while he carves handles for tools and the baby—your daughter, round-cheeked and solemn—sleeps in a cradle made from wood Bucky planed himself.
It is not easy. God, it is not easy. There are weeks when the roof leaks and the wind gets through the chinks in the walls and your flour goes sour and the loneliness of so much open land makes your chest feel flayed raw. There are days Bucky comes in from the field looking so worn you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to cry.
But there is you. There is him. There is the little sleeping weight of your child and the fire and the bed you built with your own hands.
Sometimes that is enough to make hardship look almost like devotion.
One night in early autumn, the foxes scream outside the cabin so long and loud that neither of you gets any real sleep. By dawn you are cross and bleary-eyed, hair half falling from its braid as you stand over the hearth trying to stir cornmeal mush that refuses to thicken.
“Sleepyhead,” Bucky says softly when he comes up behind you.
You elbow him weakly. “I’ll kill you.”
He laughs into your hair and wraps his arms around your waist anyway, his chin settling on your shoulder. Outside, the new fence leans and the world is still cold and demanding. Inside, his body is warm all along your back.
“We’re doing it,” he murmurs after a while.
You blink at the pot. “Doing what?”
“Building it.” He turns his face into your temple. “A life.”
The words are simple. They hit with the force of revelation.
You tip your head back against his shoulder and close your eyes. In the other room your daughter stirs. The foxes have gone quiet. Morning light pushes pale and stubborn through the little window above the table.
“We are,” you whisper.
He kisses your cheek. “Told you I’d build you something.”
You smile, tired and full to aching. “You built me everything.”
The memory fades with the warm dim glow of Bucky’s living room around you.
You are still on his couch, the television a muted wash of menu screens no one bothered to turn off. For a while neither of you says anything.
Then you reach out and lace your fingers through his.
“That one felt different,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah.”
Not youthful. Not fevered. Not all heat and spark and want. That life had been built plank by plank. Through work. Through weather. Through choosing each other when the choosing was made of practical things—fences, soup, babies, roofs, morning fires.
It lands in him heavier than some of the others. Maybe because recovery has taught him what it means to build anything worth having by hand.
“I liked them,” you say quietly. “That version of us.”
He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “Me too.”
You glance around his apartment then, at the bookshelf he assembled crooked and fixed himself, at the herb pot on the windowsill, at the loaf of bread cooling under a dish towel on the counter.
“You’re doing it too, you know,” you murmur.
He looks at you. “Doing what?”
“Building a life.”
The thing in his chest, scarred and careful and too often braced for loss, goes very still.
You squeeze his hand. “It’s a good one.”
He kisses you then because there is no other answer big enough.
By August, you keep a toothbrush at his place.
By September, there is a sweater of yours folded over the back of one of his dining chairs, two hair ties on his bathroom sink, a half-used bottle of your fancy conditioner in his shower that he is under strict orders not to touch. None of it is dramatic. None of it is announced. The shape of your presence simply grows until it feels absurd to remember the apartment before it.
The flash that takes you next comes in early October, on a rainy Thursday when you duck with him into a jazz bar in the West Village to escape a downpour.
The room is all amber light and low ceilings and cigarette-scarred booths preserved from another era. A singer in a black dress stands by the piano, crooning into a microphone. Bucky goes still before you even make it to the bar.
You know before the memory hits what it will be.
The note hangs in the air.
Then London rushes in.
late nights in black silk in east london
The war has made everything look dimmer around the edges.
Bucky is young in the way only war can make a man young—old enough to be exhausted by it, young enough to still be surprised by beauty. He is stationed overseas for too long in a city stitched with blackout curtains and ration books and the bruise-colored exhaustion of people trying very hard to act as if life is still ordinary.
Then one wet December night, a fellow soldier drags him down a narrow stairwell off an alley in East London and the whole world changes shape.
The club is hidden beneath a tailor’s shop with no sign out front. Music seeps through the floorboards before the door even opens. Inside, the room glows low and gold around the edges, tables crowded close, voices pitched just above the band. Women in silk and men in uniform and civilians with danger in their smiles. Someone is laughing at the bar like the war has never existed. Someone else is dancing with one shoe off.
And there you are.
You should not stick out. You’re not center stage or demanding attention. You’re leaning one hip against the bar in black silk gloves and a slip dress that gleams when you move, listening to the pianist with your head tilted slightly as if you know a secret about the song.
Bucky sees you and forgets how war works.
Maybe he forgets how breathing works too.
“Careful,” his friend mutters, following his line of sight. “That one looks expensive.”
Bucky barely hears him.
When you look over and catch him staring, you smile. Not coy. Curious, amused, entirely too direct. Then you lift your glass in a tiny salute.
He is doomed.
Later, after he has found enough courage or foolishness to cross the room, you tell him your brother runs supplies out of the docks and your mother thinks this place is scandalous and your favorite thing in the world is men who look like they’d fall apart if a woman in black silk talked to them too long.
“I am not falling apart,” he says, already half gone.
You laugh, low and delighted. “No? That’s a shame. You’d be awfully handsome doing it.”
You dance with him before midnight. Then again after. The band slows, the room blurs, and you fit against him so easily it feels less like meeting and more like remembering a step he somehow learned before birth.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The alley smells like wet brick and smoke.
“Are you always this easy?” you ask when he walks you to the corner.
“Only in London.”
“Convenient.”
You stop beneath a streetlamp draped in wartime dimming paint. Your lipstick has worn soft at the edges. His gloves are damp. Somewhere far off, a siren starts and then dies.
“I don’t know how long I’m here,” he says, because war steals the illusion of endless time from a man pretty quick.
You look at him with that same level, fearless steadiness you will carry in every life. “Then don’t waste the nights you’ve got.”
So he doesn’t.
He spends every free hour he can find with you in that black silk East London life. Dancing in hidden clubs. Eating chips from newspaper parcels by the river. Kissing in doorways while the city holds its breath between bombings. Falling in love so fast it would look irresponsible to anyone not living under the same shadow.
On his last night before shipping out again, this time to Bucharest, he finds you in the club after closing, curled barefoot on the stage in your black dress with your knees drawn up, humming to yourself while the pianist smokes by the door.
He sits beside you. The stage creaks.
You do not ask him if he is leaving. You already know.
For a long moment you just lean into him shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the dark.
Then you take his hand and lace your fingers with his as if you have always had the right.
“I hate war,” you say flatly.
“Yeah.”
“I hate that it teaches people to love in a hurry.”
He turns to look at you, but your face is tipped toward the empty room. “Maybe,” he says after a while, “it just teaches people not to waste time pretending they don’t.”
That makes you smile a little, though your eyes shine.
When you finally kiss him, it feels like grief and promise all tangled together.
“I’d have found you anyway,” you whisper against his mouth.
He believes you.
Presently, the jazz bar swims back around you in amber and brass.
Your hand is flat over your heart. Bucky is gripping the edge of the bar hard enough his knuckles ache.
“You were terrifying in that one,” he murmurs.
You blink at him. “Terrifying?”
“You had me done in about twelve seconds.”
Your laugh spills out warm and bright enough to make nearby heads turn. “Good.”
He stares at you, at the woman in front of him and the woman in black silk and the impossible thread between them, and something old in him loosens. That London memory is the first one that brushes directly up against the era he remembers in his bones. The first one that lets him feel, without the cold hand of history around its throat, that he once had youth. Flirtation. A version of himself that existed before damage became the loudest fact in the room.
Later, walking you home under a shared umbrella, he tells you more.
Not everything. Not all at once. But more.
About Brooklyn in the forties. About enlisted men and too much bravado and the way the world sharpened at the edges when war started circling. About the years after, in pieces, with pauses long enough to breathe in between. You listen without interrupting except to ask where it hurts. Not where it happened. Where it hurts. The difference matters so much he nearly stops in the middle of the sidewalk.
At your building, rain dripping from the umbrella’s edges, you cup his face and kiss him like he is something to return to, not something to be rescued.
That night he sleeps six straight hours for the first time in weeks.
The last of the big memories comes in November.
By then, the market has become yours together. Saturday mornings are no longer Bucky’s alone. They are yours in the plural, so natural now he sometimes forgets to be startled by it. Coffee for two. Bread for two. Peaches finally back in season for a heartbeat before the weather turns. Your fingers hooked through one of the canvas bag straps while he carries the heavier side.
At the stall with the glass-bottled lemonades and orange sodas, you reach for a bright neon-orange drink at the same time he does.
The glass knocks against his ring finger.
Sunlight slams through him.
Neon orange drinks on the beach
Salt lives in the walls of that house.
Here, you and Bucky live in a little coastal town where everyone knows everybody’s business and no one minds much as long as you bring enough food to the potluck. The house is white clapboard with a porch swing and chipped blue shutters. Sand collects in the doorway no matter how often you sweep. Wind rattles the windows in winter and smells like sunscreen in summer.
You have children in that life. Three of them.
A girl with your laugh and Bucky’s serious eyes. A boy who climbs everything he’s told not to. A baby still soft at the wrists who rides your hip with one fist full of your shirt.
The beach is five minutes from your front door. On hot afternoons you walk there loaded like pack animals—blankets, towels, snacks, toys, a cooler that bumps against Bucky’s leg every other step, the toddler already whining for the ocean before you’ve even crossed the dune grass.
It is a beautiful chaos. Your favorite kind.
The day memory gives you is bright enough to ache.
The sky is clear blue from edge to edge. Your youngest is asleep under the shade tent with one plump foot sticking free of the blanket. Your son is digging a moat around a sandcastle with all the focus of a man handling explosives. Your daughter, solemn with purpose, is handing Bucky shell fragments one by one so he can decorate the towers properly.
“No, Daddy,” she says with immense patience. “That one goes there.”
Bucky, thirty-something and sun-browned and already half buried in sand because the children have no respect for rank, nods gravely. “My mistake.”
You come down from the boardwalk carrying a tray of neon-orange lemonades in plastic cups, ice clinking. Condensation slicks your fingers. The sun catches on the rims of the cups until they glow like tiny lanterns.
Bucky looks up when your shadow falls across the sand.
Even after years, even with sunscreen on your nose and beach hair whipping your cheeks, he looks at you like there has never been anyone else worth the trouble of sight.
“You’re my favorite person,” he says as you hand him a drink.
You arch a brow. “Even over the tiny tyrants?”
“Depends. Are they giving me lemonade?”
Your daughter takes her cup in both hands and squints up at you. “Mama, Daddy made the castle wrong.”
You laugh. “I’m shocked.”
“It was sabotage,” Bucky says.
The children shout over each other. The baby wakes and starts fussing. A gull swoops dangerously low near the pretzel bag. The tide inches closer. Everything is loud and sandy and sticky and imperfect.
It is paradise.
Later, when the children are collapsing in a sugar crash on towels striped green and white, Bucky stretches out beside you and tugs you down until your head rests on his chest. The ocean hisses and folds itself a few yards away.
“You think,” he says after a while, fingers combing absently through your damp hair, “we’ll ever get tired of this?”
You tip your face up. “The beach?”
“This.”
The life. The family. The ordinary miracle of it.
You can feel the answer in him before he says it. In the steady beat under your ear. In the salt-warmed skin of him. In the children making sleepy, disgruntled sounds nearby because even paradise requires snacks and naps and somebody always getting sunscreen in their eye.
“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think so.”
His mouth brushes your forehead. “Good.”
Because in every lifetime, it turns out, what the two of you build is not grandeur.
It is a table. A bed. A road. A cabin. A dance floor. A beach towel in the sun. A thousand tiny places where love gets to put its shoes by the door and stay awhile.
When the memory loosens its grip, you are back at the market with cold glass sweating in your hand.
You are crying.
So is Bucky, though he only realizes it when you reach up and wipe at his cheek with your thumb.
“That one was rude,” you say thickly.
He laughs through the ache in his throat. “Yeah.”
It isn’t the children, not really. Though that got him. It’s the ordinariness of it. The ease. The way love in that life had settled into the bones of things so thoroughly that joy looked almost plain. A beach day. Lemonade. Sand. A family.
A future.
You look at him with tears still bright in your eyes. “Do you ever think maybe that’s why it keeps happening?”
“What?”
“Us.” You glance down at the bottle in your hand, the impossible orange brightness of it. “Not because we’re destined in some giant dramatic way. Maybe just because every time the universe throws us somewhere new, we keep making the same choice.”
The market blurs around the edges.
Bucky takes the bottle from your hand and sets both your drinks down on the stall so he can hold your face in both palms.
“I think,” he says, voice low and unsteady, “that no matter where I find you, you keep teaching me that a life doesn’t have to be extraordinary to matter.”
You inhale sharply.
He goes on because he has spent too much of his existence losing time, losing names, losing chances to say what needed saying. Because he will not waste this one.
“I loved you in a chapel with a plastic sign. In a truck on back roads. In a bed with lace curtains. In a cabin when we had almost nothing. In London when the whole world was on fire. On a beach with kids climbing all over me and sand in places there should never be sand.” Your mouth trembles around a laugh. His thumbs catch the tears on your cheeks. “And every time, it wasn’t because things were perfect. It was because it was you.”
Your hand covers one of his. “Bucky—”
“In this life,” he says, holding your gaze, “I don’t care what fate says. I don’t care what we were before unless it helps me be better to you now. I just…” He exhales, helpless in it. “I just know I am more myself when you’re in the room. And I want to keep choosing that. For however long I get.”
Something breaks open in your face.
Then you are kissing him in the middle of the farmer’s market, November wind cold around your ears and strangers surely staring and lemons probably within a three-yard radius somehow, and Bucky does not care about any of it.
When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead to his and laugh wetly.
“You took forever to say that,” you whisper.
He blinks. “I did?”
“Yes.” You kiss him once, quick and smiling. “It’s okay. I was going to let you.”
That night you come home with him.
Home, because that is what it is now no matter how recently he learned to say it.
The apartment smells like the rosemary chicken you cooked together and the bread he baked that morning and the cold air that followed you in when he opened the door. Your overnight bag sits by the couch. Your laughter is still in the walls from where you nearly dropped the oranges while making cocktails because he kissed your neck and ruined your concentration on purpose.
There are no visions this time.
No past lives pouring through the cracks.
Just the two of you in the warm gold hush of his bedroom, lamplight soft on the sheets, your sweater slipping from one shoulder as you sit on the edge of the mattress and look up at him.
“This is ours,” you say quietly.
He nods. “Yeah.”
You reach for him.
The first time you make love in this life is not a reenactment of any before. There are echoes, maybe. The same reverence. The same hunger braided with tenderness. But this is its own living thing, shaped by who you are now—older in different ways, scarred in different places, more careful and more certain all at once.
He undresses you slowly, like unwrapping something he intends to keep. You do the same for him, kissing each mark on his body as if introducing yourself to every chapter. When your fingers brush the long scars at his shoulder and side, you do not hesitate. You just look at him for permission and then kiss them too.
His throat goes tight.
On the bed, he takes his time. He is afraid this time, rather he wants to feel every second of being chosen with full knowledge. Your skin under his mouth. Your breath hitching when he drags his thumb over your clit. The way you smile against his lips when he says your name like a marvel. He works you open with his hands first, then his mouth, until you are clutching the sheets and half laughing, half sobbing because pleasure in this body, in this life, feels new and familiar all at once.
“Bucky,” you whisper when he comes back up over you, eyes dark and wrecked.
“I’ve got you.”
You nod, hands framing his face. “I know.”
When he pushes into you, slow and careful, your mouths are open against each other. He feels your body welcome him in inch by inch, feels your legs tighten around his hips, feels the tremor that runs through you when he finally settles deep. It is overwhelming in the simplest way. Not because of memory. Because of presence. Because you are here. Because he is too.
He moves. You move with him.
Outside, the city keeps being itself. A siren in the distance. Somebody laughing on the street. Heat clanking faintly through old pipes. Inside, his bedroom narrows to breath and skin and the soft wreck of your voice. You scratch lightly through his hair and murmur yes against his mouth and he nearly comes from the sound alone. He holds himself back long enough to watch the exact moment pleasure overtakes you, the way your eyes go bright and your body arches up into his with a cry he feels all the way to his ribs.
He follows soon after, buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, your names tangled together in the dark.
Afterward you lie under the sheets while the room cools around you. Your head rests on his chest. His hand drifts up and down your bare spine. The curtains are plain cotton, not lace. The sheets are soft gray, not white. The city outside is Brooklyn and not some inn in another century. It does not matter.
You draw lazy circles over his sternum.
“You know,” you murmur sleepily, “I think I liked every version of you.”
His fingers still for a second. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You tilt your chin to look at him. “But this one might be my favorite.”
Emotion catches him so hard it almost hurts.
He bends and kisses your forehead because if he tries to speak right then, he will probably embarrass himself beyond repair.
Months later, when winter gives way to spring and then, at last, to summer again, Saturday morning finds the two of you at the farmer’s market under the same green-striped awnings where everything began.
Bucky has two coffees in a cardboard carrier. You have a bouquet of sunflowers tucked under one arm. The bread guy waves. The peach stand is finally, gloriously in season. The lemon vendor clocks you both and grins like he has been expecting to see how this turns out.
“Need a bag today?” he asks.
You glance at Bucky. Bucky glances at you.
Then, smiling, you both reach for the same lemon on purpose.
No flash comes.
There is no need.
Your fingers lace together instead, easy as breath.
The square is bright with morning. The violinist by the fountain is playing something warm and sweet. Coffee steams between you. Peaches perfume the air. Beside you, your soulmate—your chosen person, your present-tense miracle—squeezes your hand.
And because love, in the end, is often this simple, you walk the market together like you have done it all your life.
Maybe you have.
Maybe you will again.
Either way, the peaches are ripe, the bread is warm, and Bucky Barnes is laughing at something you said with his whole face open to the sun.
It is not a dramatic ending.
It is better.
It is a life.
And every ordinary second of it feels, impossibly, like falling in love again and again.
