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[moonchildxoxx]

Hi! Could I request a So’lek x fem!Na’vi reader fic where So’lek tries to court the reader according to traditional Na’vi customs, but he’s absolutely terrible at romance?

Title:

What He Leaves Behind

Pairing: So’lek x fem!Na’vi Reader

Rating: Teen+ (soft romance, emotional intimacy)

Warning : Slow burn, tender awkwardness, moonlit forests, quiet devotion, protective instincts

The forest knows before you do.

It always does.

You feel it in the way the leaves hush when you pass, in the way the anemone-like tendrils curl inward at your approach, glowing softer as if listening. Pandora breathes around you, alive and aware, and tonight it carries something unfamiliar beneath its usual rhythm.

A presence.

You pause at the edge of the path leading to your marui, fingers tightening around the woven strap of your satchel. The moonlight filters through the canopy in pale ribbons, illuminating the home you built with your own hands curved branches bound with fiber, living leaves coaxed into shelter.

Something rests at the threshold.

You narrow your eyes.

It is not there when you leave in the mornings. You are certain of that. You are careful. Observant. And yet there it is now, placed just outside the woven entry screen as though it belongs.

A bundle.

You approach slowly, ears angling forward, tail flicking once in quiet alert. There is no scent of danger only the forest, resin and night-blooming flowers, and something else.

Him.

Your breath catches before you can stop it.

So’lek.

You do not see him, but you feel him the way you feel a storm before the thunder breaks. His presence lingers like a shadow pressed into the ground. He has been here recently. Close.

You kneel and carefully unfold the leaves wrapped around the bundle.

Inside: a string of beads.

They are hand-carved, each one slightly imperfect, smoothed lovingly rather than precisely. They glimmer faintly in the moonlight bone, shell, and polished seed, threaded together with strong, dark fiber.

Your fingers hover, then touch.

Warm.

Recently handled.

Your throat tightens.

So’lek is not a man of excess. Everything he owns has purpose. For him to give away bone carved bone means he hunted it himself. Cleaned it. Honored the animal. Took time he does not spare easily.

And left it here.

Without a word.

You straighten slowly, scanning the forest. “So’lek?” you call softly, voice barely more than a breath.

Only the leaves answer.

You exhale, equal parts disappointed and relieved, and gather the necklace into your palms. You should return it, you think. You should ask him why he left it here. Gifts unspoken are dangerous things among the People. They carry meaning whether you want them to or not.

And you do want to know.

You rise and step inside your marui, but sleep does not come easily.

It happens again three nights later.

This time it is food.

A cleanly wrapped portion of smoked hexapede, seasoned with mountain herbs you recognize from the upper cliffs places So’lek patrols alone. It is prepared carefully, reverently, with none of the haste of camp rations.

You stare at it for a long time.

So’lek does not cook for others.

The clan knows this. He eats what he must, when he must. Food is fuel. Survival. Not comfort.

Your chest aches with something unnamed.

You eat it slowly, deliberately, honoring the effort it took. When you finish, you sit in the doorway of your marui, knees drawn to your chest, and let the forest glow around you.

“So’lek,” you murmur into the night. “You cannot keep doing this.”

The forest, infuriatingly, keeps his secrets.

Others begin to notice.

“Someone has been visiting you,” a friend teases lightly as you weave baskets together near the communal fire. “You glow like you’ve been chosen by Eywa herself.”

You snort, ears flattening. “Do not say such things.”

But your gaze drifts, unbidden, to the far edge of the clearing.

So’lek stands apart from the others, as he always does.

Tall. Silent. Scarred.

The marks of war map his body old wounds, healed poorly, reminders of battles that ended but never truly left him. He watches the forest more than the People, back straight, hands resting loosely at his sides.

He does not look at you.

Not once.

And yet you feel him, like gravity.

That night, you find feathers.

Long, iridescent ones from a forest raptor cleaned meticulously, bound together with twine. They are rare. Difficult to collect without damaging them.

You swallow hard.

This is no accident.

This is courtship.

Clumsy. Silent. Incredibly earnest courtship.

Your heart thunders as realization settles into place.

So’lek is choosing you.

And he has no idea how to tell you.

You confront him three days later beneath the spirit tree’s outer roots, where the glow is soft and the air hums with quiet reverence.

“So’lek.”

He stops immediately.

Does not turn.

“Yes,” he answers after a beat, voice low and careful.

You step closer. “You have been leaving things at my marui.”

Silence stretches.

His shoulders tense.

“I did not mean to disturb you,” he says finally. “If it is unwanted, I will stop.”

That is not an answer.

You move until you can see his face. His eyes flick to you briefly, then away again, jaw tight.

“Why?” you ask gently.

Another pause.

His hands curl slightly, as if gripping a weapon that is no longer there.

“I am not skilled with words,” he says. “Or… softness.”

You soften despite yourself.

“I know.”

He swallows. “But I know how to provide. To protect. To choose.”

Your breath stutters.

“So’lek,” you whisper.

He finally looks at you then.

Really looks.

“I chose you,” he says, voice rough with something dangerously close to vulnerability. “If you would have me. If not ” He exhales sharply. “I will accept it. Quietly.”

The forest seems to hold its breath.

You step closer, close enough that you can feel his warmth, his restraint.

“You could have spoken to me,” you say.

He gives a small, almost pained huff of a laugh. “I would have failed.”

You smile, slow and tender.

“You are failing very beautifully.”

For the first time, something like hope flickers across his face.

So’lek does not touch you.

Not at first.

He stands close close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of smoke and forest clinging to his skin but his hands remain at his sides, fingers flexing like he is holding himself back by sheer will.

“I do not know what comes next,” he admits quietly.

The honesty in it startles you more than any grand declaration could have.

You tilt your head, studying him in the soft glow of the spirit tree’s roots. The scars along his arms catch the light old cuts, burn marks, healed fractures. Evidence of someone who learned survival long before tenderness.

“Then we learn,” you say. “Together.”

His eyes lift to yours again, slow and careful, like he is afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too quickly.

“You are not offended?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No. But I was confused. And… curious.”

A faint exhale escapes him. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief.

“I watched,” he confesses. “Before I chose the gifts.”

Your ears twitch. “Watched?”

He nods once. “You hum when you work. Softly. When you think no one hears.” His gaze flickers briefly to your throat. “You give the first portion of your meal to Eywa, even when you are alone. You repair what others discard.”

Your chest tightens.

“You noticed all that?”

“I notice what matters,” he says simply.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The forest pulses gently around you, bioluminescence breathing in slow waves, as if Eywa herself is listening.

“I would like to walk with you,” you say at last. “If you wish.”

So’lek hesitates just a fraction of a second then inclines his head. “Yes.”

From that night on, he walks you home.

Always a half-step behind. Always silent unless spoken to. Always alert.

At first, you think it coincidence.

Then you realize he times his patrols for when you finish your duties. You find him waiting at the edge of the clearing, leaning against a tree as if he has always been there.

He never says this is for you.

But it is.

When the forest grows restless one evening distant roars echoing through the canopy So’lek’s hand lifts instinctively, palm hovering just in front of you, a quiet barrier.

“Stay close,” he murmurs.

Your heart stutters.

You do.

The gifts continue, but now they change.

Smaller things. More personal.

A woven cord dyed in your clan colors.

A smooth stone etched with a protective symbol, warm from being carried against his skin.

Once, you find a single flower rare, night-blooming placed carefully in a shallow bowl of water so it will not wilt before you see it.

You bring it to him the next day.

“I want to keep them,” you tell him, holding the bowl between you. “But I need you to know… you do not have to leave them in silence anymore.”

He studies the flower, then you. His ears tilt back slightly, uncertainty written across his face.

“I do not wish to pressure you,” he says. “Or shame you, if you do not return my interest.”

You step closer. “So’lek. If I did not wish this, I would have said so.”

He searches your face, as if looking for signs of deception.

“I am slow,” he warns. “And not gentle with my past.”

“I am patient,” you reply. “And not afraid of scars.”

Something shifts in him then subtle, but profound. Like a door opening that has been shut for too long.

The clan begins to whisper.

You feel their eyes when So’lek sits near you at meals still apart, still reserved, but near. You feel it when he rises the moment you do, when his gaze tracks your movement without staring.

“You have caught the attention of a dangerous one,” a hunter jokes lightly.

You smile. “He is not dangerous.”

So’lek stiffens at that, jaw tightening.

Later, when you walk together beneath the glowing vines, he speaks again.

“They fear me,” he says flatly.

“They do not know you,” you counter.

“They know enough.”

You stop walking and turn to face him fully.

“Then let them learn.”

His breath catches, just barely.

“You would stand beside me?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The word feels powerful in your mouth.

He nods once, as if committing it to memory.

The night everything changes is quiet.

Too quiet.

The forest’s song dips low, insects falling silent as something large moves nearby. So’lek senses it before you do his body shifts, muscles coiling, hand lifting again in that same protective gesture.

“Behind me,” he orders softly.

A low growl echoes through the trees.

Your pulse spikes, but you obey without question.

The creature never reaches you.

So’lek moves like lightning controlled, precise, terrifyingly capable. When it retreats, wounded and snarling, he does not chase. He returns to you immediately, scanning you for injuries.

“Are you harmed?” he asks, urgency cracking his calm.

You shake your head, breath unsteady. “No. Thanks to you.”

His hands hover near your shoulders, unsure, then finally settle light, reverent.

The touch sends a shiver through you both.

“I will always protect you,” he says, voice low and fierce. “If you allow it.”

You place your hand over his. “I already do.”

The forest brightens around you, glow intensifying as if in approval.

For the first time, So’lek lets himself smile.

It is small. Uneven. Beautiful.

The first time you see So’lek bleed, it is not from battle.

It is from memory.

The two of you sit together beneath a canopy of woven leaves, the glow of distant spirit lights pulsing softly through the night. Rain hums gently against the forest floor, mist curling low around your ankles. It is the kind of night meant for closeness, for quiet truths.

So’lek sharpens his knife.

Slow. Methodical. Over and over again, as though the act itself keeps something inside him steady.

“You will ruin the edge if you keep at it,” you say lightly.

He pauses, then exhales. Sets the blade aside.

“Old habit,” he murmurs. “Hands need something to do.”

You study him for a moment, then reach out carefully, giving him time to pull away if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush the scars along his forearm. Raised. Pale. Some jagged, others smooth with age.

“These are from before,” you say softly.

“Yes.”

“And these?” You trace a newer mark near his wrist.

A beat.

“After,” he answers.

Your chest tightens. “After the war.”

He nods once.

“I was not… good,” he says slowly, choosing each word like it might cut him if handled wrong. “Not gentle. Not patient. I survived because I learned to harden myself.”

You look at him then really look.

At the way he holds himself like a shield even now. At the tension coiled in his shoulders. At the fear buried beneath his stoicism.

“And you think that makes you unworthy,” you say.

His jaw tightens.

“I think it makes me dangerous to love.”

The honesty lands heavy between you.

“You are afraid you will break what you touch,” you murmur.

“Yes.”

Rain patters louder, as if the forest itself leans closer.

You take his hand.

Not hovering. Not hesitant.

Firm.

“You have never hurt me,” you say. “Not with your silence. Not with your protection. Not with your fear.”

His breath stutters.

“You leave gifts like offerings,” you continue. “You wait instead of taking. You ask permission even when instinct tells you to guard, to claim.”

You squeeze his hand. “That is not a monster, So’lek.”

His eyes burn bright in the low light.

“That is a man trying very hard to be good.”

For a long moment, he cannot speak.

Then quietly, almost broken “I wanted to be chosen.”

Your heart aches.

“You are.”

The next day, you choose him where others can see.

You sit beside him at the communal fire.

Not near.

Beside.

When someone questions it an arched brow, a curious glance you meet their gaze without flinching.

“So’lek walks with me,” you say simply.

No one argues.

He does not look at you right away. When he finally does, his expression is unreadable until you see the gratitude beneath it.

Later, beneath the glow of hanging seeds, he stops you.

“You did not have to do that,” he says.

“I wanted to,” you reply.

“You risked judgment.”

“I risk nothing by choosing truth.”

His throat works as he swallows.

“You are brave,” he says.

You smile. “So are you.”

That night, he brings no gift.

He brings himself.

He waits outside your marui, posture straight but uncertain, as though crossing this threshold feels more dangerous than any battlefield.

“I would like to stay,” he says. “If you allow it. Just to sit. To listen.”

You step aside, heart racing. “Come in.”

Inside, the glow is warm and soft, leaves casting gentle shadows across his features. He looks almost out of place this warrior surrounded by quiet, by comfort.

He sits across from you, hands resting on his knees.

“I do not know how to be… this,” he admits.

You reach out, touch his cheek.

“You are already doing it.”

He leans into your palm before he can stop himself.

The air between you tightens.

Slowly so slowly he lifts his hand, brushing his knuckles against your wrist in a silent question.

You nod.

His touch is reverent. Careful. As if you are something sacred.

Foreheads meet.

Breaths mingle.

For a heartbeat, you think he might kiss you.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he whispers, “Soon. When I am certain I will not hurt you.”

You smile, eyes stinging with emotion. “Soon.”

He leaves before dawn, but not before pressing his forehead to yours once more.

The forest glows brighter as he goes.

So’lek does not sleep that night.

Neither do you.

You feel him in the forest long after he leaves like a steady pulse beneath the ground, like a promise the world itself has accepted. The glow of the leaves seems brighter, warmer, as if Eywa has drawn closer to listen.

At dawn, you wake to quiet movement.

You do not reach for a weapon.

You already know.

“So’lek,” you murmur.

He pauses at the threshold, light spilling around his silhouette. He looks uncertain for the first time since you have known him stripped of armor, of distance, of excuses.

“I brought something,” he says.

You sit up, drawing the woven blanket around your shoulders. “Come in.”

He kneels before you, head bowed, and places a small bundle between you. This one is wrapped more carefully than any before, leaves layered with ritual precision.

“This is not a gift,” he says. “Not unless you accept it as such.”

You open it slowly.

Inside lies a necklace.

Not beads.

A tsaheylu cord, braided with dark fiber and pale thread two colors woven together. At its center rests a single carved token: a symbol of choosing, of shared path, of seen and returned.

Your breath catches.

“You made this,” you whisper.

“I remade it,” he corrects gently. “The first one was wrong. I rushed it. This one I took my time.”

Your hands tremble as you lift it.

“So’lek…” You swallow. “Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “It means I am asking. With my whole self. Not hiding behind silence.”

He lifts his gaze to yours.

“I choose you as my mate,” he says. “If you will have me. Not because I am strong. Not because I can protect. But because I want to learn how to be gentle with you. Every day.”

Tears sting your eyes.

You reach forward, pressing your forehead to his.

“I choose you,” you say. “Not because you are unbroken. But because you try. Because you care. Because you leave pieces of your heart at my door.”

His breath shudders.

Slowly, reverently, he lifts the cord and drapes it around your neck. His fingers linger at your nape, brushing your queue without touching waiting.

You tilt your head.

Permission.

The moment his queue brushes yours, the forest answers.

Light blooms.

The hum of Eywa swells, glowing seeds drifting closer, circling you both in a quiet blessing. So’lek gasps softly not from fear, but from awe.

You connect.

Not rushed. Not overwhelming.

Warm. Whole.

When you part, his forehead remains against yours.

“I am yours,” he murmurs. “In all the ways that matter.”

You smile through tears. “And I am yours.”

He finally kisses you then.

Not hungry. Not claiming.

Just… honest.

A brush of lips, steady and sure, as if sealing something that has already been written into the roots of the world.

Later, beneath the glowing trees, the clan gathers not in ceremony, but in quiet acknowledgment. No one challenges it. No one questions it.

They see the way So’lek stands beside you now.

Not apart.

Beside.

That night, the forest sings louder than it ever has.

And for the first time since the war, So’lek sleeps without his weapons within reach one hand resting over yours, trusting the world to hold you both.

[tselang]

 ۫ 𑇛 ៹ so’lek ✗ reader

 ۫ 𑇛 ៹ romance, the iconic “I don’t want Ninat” sequence, bite marking, not tamtey/sarentu, fem reader (most likely), na’vi reader from an unnamed clan, angle brackets (< >) mean the character is talking in na’vi

The celebrations begin to die down as you, So’lek, and a few others kneel around a small fire and gnaw at your finely cooked meat. Idle chit chats and jokes are shared, but So’lek remains quiet. His mind is busy— full with thoughts and memories, and still coming to the realisation that he now has a clan. He is one of the People again.

After long, intense, exhausting battles and war, defending your people, saving your father, the Olo’eyktan, he had found a place among your clan. Your father had held out his hand to him after witnessing So’lek’s strength and loyalty firsthand, and you couldn’t be happier. You’d made good friends with the mysterious warrior from an extinct clan, you’d been the one to patch him up after his fights and the one to hold him gently as his loud, disturbed mind threatened to break him. Although you were young and hadn’t even begun to see the things he’d witnessed, you felt his pain. You connected to him in a way no other could with you. You saw him.

You couldn’t admit this before. Your father, although he deeply respected So’lek, would not allow a courtship between the two of you. So’lek was an outsider, a loner, and you were the Tsakarem, with a male already promised to you.

Neylut, your promised, was strong, capable, and providing, yes — but he wasn’t what your heart desired. You knew, deep inside, that it was So’lek who Eywa was guiding you towards. And you had to listen. 

And now that he was one of the People, perhaps you had a chance after all.

Chewing the last piece of syìl meat off of the grisly bone you held, you glance to your left and watch as So’lek, dressed in your clan’s traditional warrior attire and painted in the finest berry dyes, finishes the last of his meat too. Your heart feels warm and your soul glows with pride and excitement. Seeing him so content like this felt so special.

A nudge to his shoulder had him glancing at you, raising a brow bone. 

<“You are one of us, now.”> You smile, it brightening your features as you gaze upon the warrior who had come to you in a time of great need, now a brother within your clan. 

Gentle, calm, happy, is what he feels right now when you said that, although he tries to hide that last one more with his serious facade. He hums in response, slowly blinking as if he were still coming to terms with this fact.

So’lek’s eyes flicker down on their own, admiring the decorative chest covering and animal tooth necklace that seems to stand out much more than your other ones — perhaps you brought it out for this special occasion. This occasion… that celebrated him. He’s quick to redirect his gaze to your own, internally berating himself for ogling you so perversely, even if he hadn’t really meant to. It is not about you, he chastises himself.

With a quick glance around the fire, you see your people still happily feasting as they talk with one another. Seeing an opportunity, you take it. Laying down the bone you held, now stripped of its meat, you stand, watching him closely as his golden eyes follow your upward movement. <“Come.”>

<“Where are we going?”> He asks, his deep voice rumbling and almost sending a shiver down your spine. But you hide it well.

<“Just come.”> You insist, and watch as he grunts and stands. He faces you with an almost deadpan expression, but you see that glint of mirth and curiosity behind his gaze. A grin pulls at your mouth, flashing your canines at him as you quickly scuttle off, taking So’lek by surprise as he rushes to follow.

A gentle, slow pace is set as you both wander into a quiet, wet cave. It’s not dark — far from it — the bioluminescence of the moss and flora around you light up the rock walls and guide your path. So’lek takes his time to let his surroundings sink in and soothe his conscience. After so much time spent in metal walls made by Sky People, here is where he truly felt alive. Like himself. Like Na’vi. 

The tunnel led to a more open area, and right in the centre stood an almost pearlescent tree, with hanging roots and branches that weaved through the rock and moss, protected within the sanctuary of the cavern. Your footsteps left a trail of bioluminescent light beneath you as you approached your clan’s sacred tree, the gentle glow calming and breath-taking all the same. This place radiated a calming aura, one that ignited the feelings of hope and quiet joy within you. Surrounded by Eywa, by the ancestors. 

<“You know what this is?”>

So’lek almost forgot to breathe, his eyes snapping from the tree to your figure beneath it, dwarfed by its impressive size. You were so beautiful, and even more now that you were enveloped in Eywa’s light. He struggled, but found his voice again to answer you.

<“The tree of voices,”> he replied, his voice low and deep.

<“Yes…”> you murmur, before gesturing with your hand for him to come closer. A strange feeling within him, something akin to fear, wrapped itself around his heart. He would be so close to the Great Mother, he was afraid she would see what he had seen. What torments his mind at night, the death, the war, the Sky People. He did not want to taint her. But your large eyes, looking at him in that way you usually did, so full of warmth and so inviting, lured him to you anyway. He often found himself powerless like this when it came to you. 

His careful footsteps made their way next to you, and you smiled at him.

<“You may come here whenever you wish to seek Eywa. Or, speak to the ancestors…”> you say, thinking of who he may have loved in his past, and how many of them are now with the Great Mother. Ones he may wish to tell of his achievements, of his sorrows. Perhaps, he once had a love? The thought hurts your heart, but even if he did, they were long gone now. You would not hold contempt for someone who loved So’lek, if there ever was any.

You continue. <“You are a man now. A brother of the clan. Which means you now have the right to carve a bow of your own from Hometree.”>

To say he was a man only now would be a lie. He was a man when you first met him, a man when he protected you and your people, and a man when he rested his head upon your shoulder. But within the eyes of the clan, he now had the rights that any other male had, which also included…

<“And…”> you hesitate for a brief moment, looking away so you couldn’t see his face, or he yours. <“You may begin choosing, now, if you wish.”>

<“Choosing?”> So’lek mutters, tilting his head a little.

<“A mate.”> You manage to get out, even if your throat threatened to tighten.

Recognition passed So’lek’s eyes. 

A mate is something he has never had. Not even in his birth clan. He was still young, and war had become too much of a priority to even think about women at the time. But now war is over. He can have what he never had the chance to have.

His silence pulls your gaze back to him again, but you regret it as soon as he catches it. So’lek searches within your almost telling eyes, but as soon as he thinks he sees something in them change, you turn away, pretending to be busy admiring the scenery around you both. 

He hums in understanding, a low sound more akin to a grunt. You take his hum as agreement, and your heart sinks. It was foolish to have ever thought he’d choose you, anyway. He sees you as too young, too naïve, and he’s so much wiser.

Swallowing to clear your dry throat, you find comfort in holding onto a strand hanging down in front of you.

<“We have many beautiful women. Many unmated. Skilled…”> you begin, thinking of many prospects whilst ignoring the ache in your heart, the thought of him mated to another making you sick. <“Ayteya is a good weaver. She is one of the best in the clan. Lei’wa… has many prospects— but no doubt, she would choose you.”>

<“What about you?”>

Your hand freezes against the glowing root of the tree in front of you, but you don’t dare look at him, afraid of getting your hopes up. <“…what about me?”>

So’lek notices your purposeful avoidance, and steps before you to look at you again. Your eyes meet. 

<“You are unmated, are you not?”> He inquired, something in his tone felt as though he were leading up to something, but you didn’t want to assume what. Your heartbeat quickened when his scent crossed your nose. The one you’d come to love, even if it sometimes smelt like metal and blood. Your scent crossed his too, and it warmed him inside. You smelt so familiar, like home, like the tana’ring that filled his childhood memories.

Stutters fall from your mouth, your grip slightly tighter on the root as you try to find the right words for him. <“Well… yes, but…”>

<“Then are you not able to be chosen?”>

Your chest tightens, ears perking and eyes slightly widening. Was he suggesting what you hoped he was? The warmth within you spreads to your cheeks, the tanhì speckled on them glowing brighter. You quickly break away your gaze to look elsewhere other than his own deep, enticing, golden gaze.

<“I… I am promised to Neylut.”>

So’lek feels his insides burn for a moment at your declaration— longing? Jealousy? Pain? He did not know, all he knew is that it ached. 

He’d met Neylut before. He was a proud warrior. Capable and strong. So’lek had watched once as he had rode with the other men on Pa’li into your camp, sweat dripping down their muscles and deep, intense expressions upon their faces. Neylut had brought back an entire syìl on his mount, and had offered you the biggest, finest piece of it, wrapped in a soft leaf. A courting display. One that showed his strength and prowess, his ability to provide, to protect. At the time, So’lek hadn’t really thought too hard about the relationship between you and Neylut. But now he has feelings for you. He wanted you. He wanted to court you like how a man should, properly, and he would do so far better than Neylut.

A swallow, and he takes a step forward towards you. He’s so close now, staring deep into your eyes like he was trying to see your soul. You gaze up at him, breaths unsteady as you anticipate his next words— or moves.

<“Do you love Neylut?”> He asks.

<“No.”> You blurt, the answer tumbles out of your mouth faster than you can think, but it was honest. 

Relief bloomed within So’lek’s chest before he could stop it.

Unaware of his relief, you ramble on. <“He is a good man. There is nothing wrong with him. But… I never felt anything more than friendly appreciation.”> A sigh left you. <“It was always only an obligation. My father… he decided for me. But I want to decide for myself.”>

<“And what would you decide?”>

You fall silent, gazing into his eyes as you try to search for the answer in them. Fear wracks your body, fear of rejection, but every nerve and muscle aches to be entwined with his. Being so close to him, it felt so right. And somewhere deep inside you, you sensed he may feel the same.

Your name falls from his lips, uttered so sweetly that for a second you didn’t believe it came from him. But it did. The shiver that crawled up your spine had your ears swivelling in his direction, more than ready to listen.

<“Feel.”>

His large hand reaches for yours, holding it gently as he brings it to his chest. The paint there barely smudges onto your fingers. You watch your hand as you feel the steady beating underneath it, a reminder that he was alive, real, in front of you. So many times you feared he wouldn’t return, but here he is. And right now, all yours.

With soft eyes staring at you, he murmurs, <“my heart. It used to ache. Weighed down by the pain of my past. Now, it only aches when it is not near you.”>

Your breath catches in your throat. What?

So’lek leans closer, watching you closely. <“It only beats for one. If it is not you, then it is no one.”>

You blink, unsure if you heard him right, but by his expression you knew he had spoken.

<“…Ma So’lek… it is true? What you say?”>

He doesn’t respond, he only leans into you, pressing his forehead against yours. His hand never lets go of yours, instead he brings his other to hold yours tighter against him, afraid you’d run, or disappear, or Eywa will decide he wasn’t good enough for you.

The silence is deafening, but after a long moment, you finally speak.

<“I see you,”> you whisper, fearing you’ll shatter the moment if you raise your voice any higher. Your free hand comes up to cup his defined cheek as you shift your head to press your lips against his in a small, gentle kiss. <“I see you, So’lek.”>

<“I see you,”> he repeats back to you, the low grumble of his voice reverberating through you now. 

He is quick to lean back in and catch your lips again, this time not letting you back away so soon. Your eyes flutter shut, feeling instead of seeing, feeling the way he kisses you with so much emotion, like you were precious and he was trying to stop himself from taking you without savouring you first. His hands let go of yours to reach up and hold where your jaw meets your neck, caressing you softly. Your own hand, now free of his hold, finds his arm, feeling the firm muscle beneath the scarred skin and feeling the smallest spark of excitement being born within you.

After a long moment of enjoying the feeling of your lips against his own, he found himself leaving your mouth to leave a trail of kisses down your neck. You leaned back to bare it to him, an act of submission and vulnerability, one he took good care of respecting. His teeth grazed your sensitive skin there, but he didn’t dare bite down, not until he heard it from your mouth that you were his to take.

<“Ma yawne… tell me,”> he mumbles into your neck, <“tell me you are mine.”>

<“I am yours, ma So’lek,”> you answer quickly, perhaps too eager, but he appreciates it. 

A deep purr vibrates deep within his chest, and he carefully bites you. A gasp escapes your throat, skin tingling and sending shocks throughout your body. Your hands clutch onto him as he claims you— for now. A mark that will fade over time, but until he can properly mate you, this would do for now.

He pulls back for a moment to leave soothing kisses where he left his bite, a silent apology for any pain he may have caused you — even if you were shivering in pleasure, not pain — and he comes back to meet your eyes, which pupils have blown wide.

So’lek is silent for a moment, before a small grin tugs at his lips.

<“He cannot have you now,”> he murmurs under his breath. 

Your dreamy daze is broken by your own laughter, the onslaught of giggles making him smile wider. You shove his shoulder lightly and whisper, <“he never had me.”>

[pistolpackinmama-art]

Hugging

🔞

WOAAHHHHH HEYYYY HOW’D THAT GET IN THERE 🥸

[bertolts]

“ You have everything. So hold on to it. Use two hands and never let go. You got it? ”

[ Posted here & Bluesky @ MadQueenMaddie ]

[lvely-prose]

— he f!cking loves me

" yeah, right, he fucking loves me " — ethel cain

pairing: frank castle x fem! reader synopsis: after frank decided to skip town and settle in a place where no one knew him, he didn’t plan on meeting a girl. let alone falling for one. you weren’t looking for love but there was something about the mysterious, dangerous allure about him that you always found yourself drawn towards. that’s how he ended up on your doorstep after a rough day and you just so happened to make it brighter. word count: 1.4k warnings: lots of fluff, age gap, swearing a/n: this is my very first oneshot! i love frank so much and the lack of fics about him is just sad so here i am :)

No one had warned Frank about how cold Wisconsin could be. Was it his first choice? Not by a long shot. Just a decision made by the threat of being imprisoned nipping at his heels. He’d left New York in the dust while also leaving behind his old life.

Now here he was, slouched in the drivers seat of his car with the weight of all past memories on his shoulders.

The black van rattled down the rural street, a backroad that was blissfully silent. Puffy gray clouds hung overhead and a thin mist clung to the ground. He glanced out the window at the blanket of snow shimmering like stardust.

Nothing in him wanted to be driving on that empty road with his cold hands and aching muscles.

But he would drive through a blizzard if it meant crawling back into your warm embrace.

The moment your cottage at the end of the lane came into view, it felt like coming home. A stream of smoke billowed from the chimney, promising warmth despite the frost clinging to the windows. The roses that lined the planters were iced over. He almost admired their resilience because it reminded him of you.

An orange glow spilled through into the dull world. A fire that burned bright in the hearth where you were most likely sitting with tea in that half-broken mug you insisted was still useful.

Frank parked the van before leisurely walking up to your doorstep. Peeling steps creaked under his weight as he went. He’d always felt like he was too loud around you even though he didn’t say a lot.

For years it had been just him. No one to come home to. No one to take care of. No one to call his own.

Until he met you and his entire world flipped.

You’d memorized the scuff of his boots on the porch. You could tell what type of mood he was in just by the pace of his movement. It wasn’t something you’d meant to happen. It just… did.

That was a pattern in your relationship. Nothing but the way you two touched seemed intentional. You learned through sitting in the quiet with each other. Learning every breath, every change, every unspoken thought.

Frank didn’t even have to knock when all of a sudden you were there, opening the door.

His breath caught when his stony eyes landed on his sweater adorning your body. It was a sight he could never get used to—seeing you wear something that belonged to him.

You looked so pretty, standing there so vulnerable in only that oversized sweater and cotton socks that bunched at your ankles. And that smile you always have when he came around?

Oh he was gone.

You knew it, too. Of course you did. You saw it in the way his usually stoic expression broke, replaced with something almost too soft for a man like Frank Castle. But in all honesty, it ruined you as well in the best way possible.

But you also noticed how the cords of his neck were tense. How those broad shoulders hidden under that black coat were full of unresolved tension.

You stepped aside without a word, letting him in like you always did.

His boots scattered snow over the wooden floors as he stepped inside, taking off his damp coat and hanging it up. It left him in a matching black thermal long sleeve that showed off every hard muscle beneath. Ones that your soft hands had mapped a dozen times. You wanted to do it now. To feel that tension melt away at the slightest of your touch.

Frank took a minute to look you over again. He had believed he would never find something like this again. But here you were.

His girl.

His lover.

His everything.

“Hi,” you said softly, smile softening and cheeks turning pink like they did under his gaze.

Frank, ever the silent one, didn’t say anything for a moment before he bent down slightly. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, making your body go molten. When he stood back to his normal height, it made your feet come off the floor as he lifted you against his chest.

“Hi, baby,” he finally sighed out, voice dragging out of him as he buried his face in your neck, inhaling the sweet vanilla scent of your hair.

You clung to him, arms around his neck even though you knew he’d never drop you.

“You’re warm,” Frank murmured against the smooth, freckled skin, pressing a soft kiss behind your ear. You let out a contented sigh. He always knew what spots to give attention to. And the feel of his course beard scratching against your flesh made it feel even more enjoyable.

After a long moment of just basking in each other’s presence, he gently set you back on your feet. Compared to you he was much bigger and being surrounded in his embrace was where you’d always want to be.

You looked up at him before tugging at his sleeve. “I got you a present.”

He looked too weary to give a proper reaction so he just nodded and gave your hand a squeeze. “Show me.”

You didn’t waste anytime dragging him to your room down the hallway. You let go of him for only a moment, grabbing a rectangular shaped box off the wooden dresser.

Gift giving had always been your love language. Even while Frank’s was physical touch, you balanced each other out.

Once it was in his hand, his gaze proceeded to linger on you. It was your encouraging smile that made him move.

His rough fingers slid the top off and in the box was a gleaming new knife. His eyes widened a little and he picked it up, letting the box fall to the floor.

You watched with a barely suppressed grin as his fingertips trailed over the hilt where his initials were engraved. “Do you like it?”

You’d known he needed a new knife after the last one got so old it could barely slice through anything. However, you were also aware how much he’d liked his old one considering he had it since he was still in the marines.

“Baby,” Frank spoke, breaking off in a rare smile as he shook his head and brought the blade to the light, watching it shimmer.

Something warm ignited in your chest at the sight. Getting Frank Castle to smile like a kid on Christmas morning was the hardest thing you’d ever attempted to do.

But, unbeknownst to you, it wasn’t as difficult as you thought it would be.

He looked back at you, a smile still permanent on his lips. “You fuckin’…”

You let out a surprised yelp as he tossed the blade onto your floral sheets and was suddenly spinning you around. He didn’t let go when he set you back down, calloused hands cupping your face as he watched you smile and laugh.

“How did you know to get that one?” Frank asked, restraining himself from kissing you right then and there.

“Saw you needed a new one,” you shrugged. “And I knew how much you liked your old one so I pulled a few strings and got it remade even better.”

Frank shook his head again before mumbling, “I fuckin’ love you,” and crushing his lips against your smile.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little at how excited he was over the gift. He pulled back to mutter, “let me kiss you proper.”

Just like that you shut up and let him thank you in his own way. Your hands slid to the back of his neck, holding him close.

His thumbs brushed beneath your eyes. He loved touching your face, getting to map out every beautiful feature that made you. They were large and rough, catching on the soft skin of your jaw before down.

Every time he touched you it was like your body became boneless.

Those thick, strong fingers were at your waist, digging in through the fabric of his sweater. He was getting lost in the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth tentatively.

And you let him because no matter how hard of a day either of you had, it all went quite when you were in each other’s arms.

As night fell, the two of you found yourselves in your bed, limbs tangled together as if you were one.

Frank’s arm was wrapped around your shoulders, keeping you tucked into his side. His fingers stroked your hair while his other hand spun the knife around.

The two sides of a man who knew roughness and still fought to stay soft for you.

[pandoraslxna]

Little flame

Ash!Neteyam x female na‘vi reader x Ash!Lo‘ak

Words: 9.1k

Summary: It is said, that the brothers had learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak. Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo. And right now, their entire focus was on their most recent prey: You.

Warnings: explicit smut, clan swap au, non-con, kidnapping, mmf threesome, body modifications, sex slaves, p in v, oral (f&m receiving), praise kink, possessiveness, abuse of power, power imbalance, teasing, sexual tension, frenum ladder piercing, tongue piercing, prinz albert piercing, consumption of bodily fluids (blood, cum, spit), creampie, pet play, dom/sub, biting, marking

All na‘vi know their story. Of the time when the Omatikaya’s song was silenced.

When the fire came from the mountains and burned what was left of their forest, burned even their last tree of souls and left them with nothing but the ash of grief and the fire of hatred, the Omatikaya had chosen to leave the life they’ve known behind.

They say, the great mother did not hear their crying when the sky-people came to destroy their home. And she closed her eyes when rivers of fire poured through the valleys, burned down their last sanctuary and with it, all the hope that was left. And most importantly, their faith.

The Omatikaya were once proud people, respecting the balance of life and Eywas will. But that was many songs ago.

Now, all na‘vi know their story. They know of their suffering, their pain and their loss. And they know what this had made them become. That Toruk Makto had lead them through these difficult times, whilst their tsahìk spoke words no one had sung before.

She taught the people that Eywa had turned her back on them. That the Great Mother’s silence was not a trial, but a judgment. She would not come to help. She would not come to provide. Not anymore.

But the Omatikaya were not weak. Much like wood to an open flame, their hatred only made them grow stronger.

Soon, the old laws were reshaped, the balance bent until it cracked. They learned to live where nothing else grew. They took from the land of others, took from the people, took more than they could hold in their greedy hands and feed their never ending hunger. Hatred, once a warning emotion, quickly became a weapon. So the Omatikaya endured, but they were no longer what they had been.

They were feared where they had once been welcomed. Remembered where they had once been loved.

And what had once been a peaceful clan, had now become a warning to all.

You remember the stories as they were told to you, quietly, at the edge of the fire, always after the children had been sent away. These were stories meant to teach caution, to strengthen your own faith, like a reminder of what could happen if one were to disrupt the balance and violate eywas rules.

The air reeks of smoke, blood and old ash. The ground beneath you is hard and lifeless, as if even the earth has learned not to come here.

Your mother, the tsahìk, and your father, olo’eyktan of your clan, had been dragged away into Neytiris tent many hours ago and had not returned since then. Worry was gnawing at your very existence as you continue to tug and writhe against the rope binding your hands and feet together, pinning you to a charred down tree. But it’s useless. Aside from the horrible pain of your wrists and ankles being scrubbed raw by the rope, these knots did not budge.

Further away, the people of the Omatikaya moved in hectic, rhythmic circles around a towering fire. Its flames are fed too well, burning bright and hungry, casting warped shadows across their painted bodies. This is not a dance of thanks or mourning. It is a dance of ownership, of victory.

Neytiri, the tsahìk, stands closest to the fire, her silhouette sharp against the flames. Around her neck and wrists hang severed kurus, their tendrils dried and darkened, strung together like trophies.

Your throat tightens and you force yourself to look away. Among your people, to sever a kuru is unthinkable. It is worse than death. And yet they celebrate her, dance around the fire, around the blades she circles in the air. It’s hypnotizing.

Toruk Makto sits apart from the rest, close enough to the fire that its light glints off the metal weapon resting across his knees. You were taught never to touch such things, never to let their poison seep into your hands, your thoughts or your spirit. Metal was forbidden, it was one of Eywas rules. The first and most important one.

And yet, Jakesuli holds them as if they are part of him.

His posture is calm, assured. This is not a leader burdened by duty, but one who has long accepted what he has become. The great shadow of Toruk’s wings loom behind him, his skin scarred from battle.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you let your head fall forward until your chin rests against your chest and your braids slip forward to hide your face.

"Eywa ngahu, kìyevame srak nì’aw, slä oe tsun tivìran san oe lu… [Eywa be with me, even if you are silent, for my song still knows your name…]," Your voice trembles when you begin to sing, thin and hoarse from smoke and fear, but it does not break.

You sing on, letting the words trail into one another, softer now, the prayer dissolving into breath as tears swell behind your closed eyes. They spill anyway, tracking down your cheeks and dripping from your chin onto the hard ground below.

You’re so lost in your prayer, that you don’t even realize that you are not alone anymore, until a low, dark chuckle cuts through your voice, silencing you.

"Ah, look brother. A little birdy is singing a song for us."

Your breath catches sharply and you gasp and jerk your head up, braids falling back to reveal your face. Two figures stand before you, one of them tilts his head, studying you with open curiosity. The other smiles, slow and sharp.

"What is it?" the first asks, his voice smooth with amusement as he steps closer. "Are we not the ones you expected to answer your call?"

"Is your song not ours?" The other one continues, mockingly gentle as he crouches until his eyes are level with yours, tilting your head up with his thumb and finger pinching your chin. "You sang it so sweetly. We thought perhaps it was meant for us."

Anger boils hot beneath your skin at his touch. Before fear can stop you, you bare your teeth and snap at his fingers, jaws closing on empty air as he jerks his hand back just in time.

For a heartbeat, there is only the crackle of the fire and loud drums in the distance that sound so far away.

Then he blinks slowly, before he laughs loud enough to make you flinch.

"Oh, look at that!" He says, grinning sharply and his eyes bright with delight. "This one has fire." His laughter is genuine, almost pleased.

"Fire indeed," The other one behind him chuckles, low and approving.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. You draw back as far as the bindings allow, bark pressing painfully into your shoulders, and swallow hard.

"W-Who are you?" you demand, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. "What do you want?"

The taller one straightens, folding his arms over his chest with an unsettling calm. In the firelight, you can see the markings of an Omatikaya warrior etched into his skin, newer scars layered over old ones, pieces of sharpened bone pieced through his skin, worn like decorations under red paint and black coal.

"Our mother has allowed us to look at our latest prisoners," he explains evenly, as if this was something casual to them. "Before they are sacrificed."

Your stomach drops.

"The others were…" He pauses, searching for the right word, then shrugs. "Less interesting. Nothing worth our attention."

The crouched warrior’s grin widens as his gaze drags over you, lingering far too long. "But you…," he says softly, voice lowering.

He’s purposefully not finishing that sentence, trying to make you uncomfortable, but to you it matters little anyways. You’re too occupied with thinking about what the other one had said earlier.

Mother? But that means…

Your eyes widened as you realized that these two weren’t just anyone. These were not just any warriors of the Omatikaya. They are the sons of Toruk Makto and their gruesome tsahìk. Feared warriors among their clan, brutal and cruel.

You’ve heard of them before.

The elder one is Neteyam. It’s been told, he is as skilled with the bow as his mother. He builds his arrows himself. The heads are carved to break bone and split muscle, dipped into poison to make survival impossible. He knows exactly where to place them so the most damage can be done with a single, precise release. And he could hit a target from any distance, moving through the forest without a sound. Neteyam does not waste shots, he does not miss and he does not need to watch the body fall. You are dead, the moment he aims at you.

The people say, the Sullys eldest hunts palulukan for fun, not for food or glory, but because he can. They say that the great apex predator of the forest, the one even seasoned hunters avoid, knows his scent and turns away from it.

Lo’ak, the younger brother, is another thing entirely.

You’ve heard that he dips his knife in poison too, not ultimately to kill, but to paralyze you. Everyone knew, that Lo’ak took enjoyment from playing with his prey.

But even from a distance, he was just as deadly as his brother. He had been trained by his father in wielding sky people’s weapons from a very young age, metal pressed into his hands as if it were just another toy for a child.

Apparently, he could name a gun without ever seeing it, just from the sound it made when it’s fired. They say he could take one apart blind, fingers moving from memory alone, and then put it back together again without ever opening his eyes.

It’s said, the brothers have learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak.

Where Neteyam ended things with scary precision, Lo’ak made the pain last. One controls, the other destroys. And they don’t need to look at each other to know what the other is about to do.

Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo.

And right now, their entire focus was on you.

"Look at her," Lo’ak calls to his brother. He grins, sharp and pleased, and reaches out again to cup your face and trail a thumb along your cheek. His touch is warm and possessive. "She’s so pretty, isn’t she?"

Your breath stutters at his words. Your entire body goes rigid, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, but there is nowhere to go.

"She is," Neteyam agrees softly.

That, somehow, is worse. His voice carries no hunger, no excitement, only quiet certainty, as though he is merely stating a fact.

"I want to play with her first." Lo‘ak whispers, licking his lips. He talks about you as if you aren’t even really here.

Play? Your eyes widen before you can stop them. Horror flashes across your face as you make up all possible scenarios of what his words could indicate in your head, which the brothers notice immediately.

They chuckle, low, amused sounds shared between them like a private joke. Lo’ak’s grin deepens, clearly delighted by your reaction, while Neteyam watches you with an unreadable expression, head tilted slightly, as if committing the moment to memory.

Then Neteyam steps forward. He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and when Lo’ak glances up at him, he nods once toward the fire. No words. None needed.

Lo’ak clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes like a sulking child denied a toy, but there’s no real resistance in him. He pulls his hand back from your face at last and straightens to his full height.

Before turning away and following Neteyam, he looks at you one more time and winks.

Then, their silhouettes melt back into the firelight, swallowed by shadows, and you’re left staring at the empty space in front of you, heart still pounding hard enough to hurt.

For a brief, fragile moment, you let yourself believe that this was it. That they were just trying to scare you.

Later, when the fire outside has burned down to something lower and steadier, exhaustion finally begins to win.

Your head dips forward once, twice. But each time you jolt awake, forcing your eyes open again. You do not trust sleep here. Still, your body betrays you, muscles trembling from the long strain of fear. You are just slipping again, just for a breath, until you hear footsteps approach.

Immediately, you snap awake.

Two warriors stand in front of you, but not the same brothers from earlier. These ones are much older, their limbs thinner due to the lack of human genes in their blood, heads shaved bare and marked with thick scars that run over scalp and jaw alike. Their faces are hard and unreadable, eyes dull in a way that tells you they did not come to you on their own. Someone had send them.

Your pulse spikes.

Before you can speak, one of them reaches for the bindings at your wrists. Your breath comes fast and shallow as rough fingers work the knots loose. Hands roughly close around your upper arms and haul you to your feet.

You stumble, legs weak, barely able to keep pace as they pull you forward.

No one speaks and you do not dare ask what is happening.

They lead you through the camp, past dying fires and smaller tents. The night is silent, safe for the sound of feet on the dry ground. At the far edge of the clearing stands a tent larger than the rest, looming in the dark.

Your steps slow despite yourself.

Skulls hang from its entrance, some small, some far too large to belong to any Na’vi. Giant teeth are lashed together with sinew, forming crude arches above the doorway. Feathers, bones, bits of metal, decorations pulled straight from a nightmare sway softly in the night breeze, clicking faintly against one another.

The warriors at your side do not hesitate. They roughly shove you inside, past the animal hide that marks the entrance.

You stumble forward, barely catching yourself before falling, and then the flap drops shut behind you.

The first thing you notice is that the tent is warm. Outside, goosebumps had raised on your arms from the cold night air.

But inside, a small fire burns low at its center, casting a soft, flickering glow over furs spread thick across the ground. They’re dyed deep red and black, layered carefully. For a moment, the contrast is disorienting. It almost looks… cozy.

Then you notice the rest.

Skulls arranged along the walls, staring with empty eyes. Bones carved and painted, strung together in careful patterns. Metal chains hang from the high ceiling, catching the firelight when they sway, heavy and cold looking. There is no part of the space untouched by something taken from death.

Your stomach twists.

You take a hesitant step further inside, bare feet sinking into the furs. The tent is silent except for the crackle of the fire and you come to realize that you are alone.

Not for long, though.

The animal hides at the entrance rustle softly, then part, and two figures step inside.

Neteyam enters first.

Firelight rolls over him, catching on the broad plane of his chest, painted deep red. Streaks of grey ash follow the hard lines of his body. His loincloth hangs low on his hips, woven with painstaking precision, the patterns tight and symmetrical to match those of his cummerbund. Everything about him looks intentional and controlled.

His ears twitch and his tail flicks the moment he sees you.

Your eyes immediately catch on the marks littered across his body, bone and carved ornaments lining his torso and arms, heavy but balanced. From one earlobe hangs a thin metal chain, dark feathers threaded through it. It sways gently as he moves, brushing against his braids that are adorned with bones too. His gaze settles on you without surprise, as if he had been expecting this moment.

Lo’ak slips in behind him and the contrast is immediate.

The sides of his head are shaved clean, the rest of his braids pulled back into a low ponytail that is decorated with spines. Two loose braids frame his face, beads carved from bone and bullets clicking softly as he walks. His skin is painted much like his brother’s, red and ash, but where Neteyam’s markings feel ceremonial, Lo’ak’s look careless, almost playful, as if he smeared them on without patience.

Your eyes begin to wander despite yourself.

One of his ears is chipped, but both are lined with piercings too. But they’re are not bone. His are made of steel. You could tell by the way they reflect the firelight. Across his chest hangs a belt of bullets, resting against painted skin, and you wonder if these are part of his decorations too or if these are there to be used.

Your gaze flicks back to Neteyam, who walks with his chin lifted, shoulders squared. He looks like a man meant to be honored and feared.

Lo’ak sways as he follows, grin already pulling at his mouth, eyes bright with amusement, as if this is all just a joke, and a good one at that.

Fear claws its way up your spine.

You retreat instinctively, backing up as far as the tent allows until your calves hit the furs piled near the wall. Your heart hammers, breath coming quick and shallow, eyes darting between them as they move farther inside.

"Welcome, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam says, as though this is a meeting long overdue.

His voice is calm. Pleasant, even. He folds his arms across his chest, rolls his shoulders once as if settling into himself and then looks at you with open interest. You can’t help but shiver as his eyes roll over you body before he holds your stare with warm intensity.

Lo’ak, on the other hand, moves immediately.

He takes two long, quick step toward you, too fast and too close. You flinch, but Neteyam’s hand comes out just as quickly, pressing flat against his brother’s chest. It stops him cold.

Lo’ak clicks his tongue, irritation flashing across his face as he stares back up at Neteyam. He leans back a fraction, shoulders loose, posture anything but obedient, but ultimately stays where he is. When your eyes finally meet his, the scowl melts into a slow, knowing smirk.

"What do you want from me?" you ask immediately, forcing the words out before your courage could fail you.

Neteyam’s gaze sharpens, just slightly. "We’ve come to propose a deal, txeptsyip. [little flame]"

Your brows furrow. "A… deal?"

Lo’ak laughs under his breath, rocking back on his heels like he’s enjoying this far too much, while Neteyam continues, "You have two paths ahead of you."

He lifts one finger.

"You will be sacrificed, like the rest of your clan. No one will mourn or even remember you, and your kuru will adorn my mothers necklace like all the others before you."

You swallow thickly. Then, he lifts a second finger.

"Or," he says evenly, "you can live."

Lo’ak’s grin widens as he adds, "with us."

Your chest tightens as understanding sinks in, and it’s almost nauseating.

"You mean like a prisoner or… a slave," you say quietly, already shaking your head.

Fear trembles through you, yet your hands curl into fists at your sides.

"I’d rather die," you whisper, then louder you say, "I’d rather join the great mother than live like this!"

The brothers laugh at your answer. Not cruelly. It is the kind of laughter that carries disbelief, as though you have said something naïve rather than brave. Embarrassed, your ears fold flatly against your head.

Lo’ak lets out a short breath through his nose then, shaking his head and Neteyam’s mouth curves into a smile as their laughter dies down.

"Slave," he repeats with a chuckle. "That might be the wrong word for it."

Lo’ak moves then, but this time, his brother doesn’t stop him. You suck in a sharp breath as he begins to circle you, feet soundless on the furs, his presence pressing in from behind, from the side. You track him with your eyes until he slips out of view, until you feel him more than see him.

"You think in extremes," he murmurs. "You forget there are other ways to belong."

Lo‘aks hand reaches out and a finger gently traces the curve of your spine, making you jump.

"You would have everything you could dream of," Neteyam continues, eyes sharp as they watch your face for any kind of reaction. "No more hunger. No more running from the vrrteps [demons]."

He steps in closer, voice lowering, almost intimate. "You would be protected. No one would touch you without our say. No one would take from you ever again."

Truthfully, he made it sound like safety. As if this was an act of kindness.

And for a brief, dangerous moment, your body betrays you, because it remembers what it is like to be cold, to be hungry, to sleep with fear curled tight in your chest. It remembers empty days and long nights and prayers whispered to eywa for protection.

The brothers see the hesitation flicker in your eyes.

Lo’ak smiles immediately. "See?" he says from behind you, his voice much closer than before. "You’re thinking about it."

You do. But deep down you know, everything they offer comes with an unspoken price. May that be obedience, gratitude or something else. A life wrapped in comfort, yes, but lived on your knees. Fed by the very poison Eywa forbade.

Before you could pull back, Lo’ak reaches for your hand.

His grip closes tight around your wrist, firm enough that you know fighting it would be useless. Your breath stutters, but you do not give him the satisfaction of struggling. He tugs once, guiding you toward the center of the tent.

The furs beneath your feet are impossibly soft, thick and warm. You’re so tired, only kept awake by adrenaline and fear, you knew you’d melt into them the moment you were allowed to rest on them.

Lo’ak releases your hand only once you are where they want you, fingers lingering just a moment too long. He grins at your tension, at the way your shoulders are drawn tight, your jaw clenched like it is the only thing holding you together.

"You would be no slave, txeptsyip, [little flame]" Neteyam says quietly.

He steps closer now, finally closing the distance he had allowed you. He stops at your other side, not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.

"You would just be…," he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "ours."

There’s warmth on your backside too, and you gasp softly when you turn your head and find Lo‘ak this close to you. He leans down, until his lips nearly touch the lobe of your ear.

"Ours to kiss. Ours to touch…", something warm and wet touches your ear, before you realize that’s his tongue teasing your lobe, "and ours to fuck."

Goosebumps raise all over your skin at his words.

Their bodies radiate heat, caging you in, and for the first time since they‘ve entered the tent, you understand something with sick clarity.

They are not trying to frighten you. They are trying to persuade you.

"No," you say, breath shallow but voice firm. "I can’t— I won’t!"

Neteyam’s expression doesn’t harden. If anything, it softens.

Lo’ak’s fingers brush your hip— barely there, a featherlight touch meant more to distract than to claim. It’s infuriating how gentle it is. He’s not brutally grabbing you, how you expected them to. Not forcing. Just enough to make you aware of where you are. Of who stands behind you.

Neteyam steps closer then, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. He lifts his hands and carefully cups your face in them, thumbs resting beneath your cheekbones.

"We’d take good care of you," Neteyam tells you, voice calm, almost reasonable. "We protect what is ours."

"And we never let it go," Lo‘ak adds, his smile sinister.

Your heart hammers painfully against your ribs. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, to bite and fight them. But another part of you, traitorous and tired, feels the pull of their attention. The certainty with which they speak, as though the world outside this tent no longer exists and it’s just the three of you.

"If you need proof of this," Neteyam says, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, "then we can show you."

The words are barely spoken before the space between you disappears. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away— time you do not take. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips, and then his mouth meets yours in a way that steals the very air from your lungs.

The kiss is firm, claiming and unyielding, but also controlled. Like everything else about him. The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the heat of his hands still cradling your face and his tongue as his slips between your lips. A small, helpless sound escapes you before you can stop it, but Neteyam greedily swallows it down.

Behind you, Lo’ak inhales sharply, a sound that borders on a groan. As if he were the one kissing you, sucking on your tongue, tasting your salvia.

"We’re gonna show you just how good you would have it with us," he murmured into your ear. "Belonging to us is a privilege not many have been allowed to."

Your pulse is racing. Your thoughts are tangled.

Lo’aks hands are still at your hips, squeezing soft flesh before they wander up higher, cupping your breasts. They’re so big and warm, and you feel each little scar on his skin as they impatiently rip away your top. Your too busy meeting Neteyam eager lips to do something against this, so you just gasp into the kiss when Lo‘ak begins to tease your nipples, rolls them between his fingers until they turn into hard pebbles.

"Mmmh, these would look so good pierced," he purrs lowly, kissing your shoulder and letting his canine rake over the nape of your neck. "I will put my mark on them soon, txeptsyip [little flame]."

As Lo‘ak kneads your breasts in his hands, Neteyam’s slowly move from cupping your face to squeezing your hips, gliding over your backside.

You don’t know who’s doing what or where anymore, but your limbs are becoming unstable and weak as both pair of hands explore your body. Heat was quickly spreading through your core, slithering deep in a place where you suddenly began to crave them.

Their low hums vibrated against your skin, surrounding you like a subtle lullaby. They were slowly caging you in between their bodies, more and more, until you began to squirm.

Sucked into an abyss of sensations, your head began to swim, until you were unable to focus on anything else besides their lips and hands all over you. All you could see, hear and smell was them. You were swallowed between them like a trapped bird.

Finally breaking the kiss with a gasp, your head falls back against Lo’aks broad chest as Neteyams hand sneaks it’s way lower and between your thighs. He cups your sex, feeling for how wet you are and then slides his fingers between your folds.

"You are very wet here," he groans, his finger rolling your clit easily with how slippery it was. Then he slides it lower, before he slips his finger into you in one, harsh thrust that makes you gasp. "But you are soaking here."

Your inner walls are clenching down around the single digit Neteyam thrusts into you, curling it slightly until you can’t hold back a long, drawn out moan.

"I want a taste," Lo‘ak says to his brother, his voice urgent and commanding. For a moment you fear they will start fighting over you, but then the older one slips his hand free from your loincloth and you pant heavily at the sudden loss.

It’s not for long, though, because he then spins you around so you’re facing Lo‘ak.

They work as one, starting to undress you by pulling down your loincloth and coverings. Neteyam settles himself down onto the furs first, maneuvering you so your head rests comfortably on his lap and spreading your thighs wide enough for his brother to settle himself between them.

His hands and lips are everywhere, kissing your cheek, nibbling at your earlobe, hands stroking your hair, as you watch Lo‘ak sink down to his knees.

The grin on his face is sharp and dangerous and you swallow to wet your dry throat. Raw nerves make your limbs shake, and you want to close your legs to hide yourself from them, but Lo‘ak does not allow it.

His hands glide along the inside of your thighs, keeping them apart. He kisses you there, kisses your navel and mound too. Kisses the inside of your knee as he drapes your legs over his wide shoulders. His teeth tease your skin, and when he bites into the softness of your inner thigh, you yelp in pain.

Neteyam keeps you pinned when you try to wriggle free, as if the pain had somehow managed to bring back the rational thinking part of you, the one that made you realize that this was wrong, so very wrong.

Your hands claw at Neteyam’s arms, but he coos softly into your ear, "shh, you will be fine. My brother is just teasing. We would never hurt you."

"That is, if you’re being a good girl," Lo‘ak adds from between your legs, licking the bite marks that are slowly turning purplish on your blue skin. Your tail thrashes against the furs, your chest rapidly raising and falling.

Behind you, Neteyam’s chest vibrates with a dark chuckle. You want to protest, want to tell them that you are neither their slave nor their pet, and that you would never be good for them. But then Lo‘ak grins and sticks out his tongue, ready to lick you there, yet is stopped short by the sound of your sharp gasp.

There, in the middle of his tongue, sits a small bead of steel. It reflects the light of the fire nearby, shiny and wet with spit, and your whole body goes rigid at the thought of it touching you.

"Kehe [no]— wait," you nearly choke on your own words with how hastily your force them out, "you— you can’t, it is forbidden to touch metal!"

Both brothers laugh softly at your words, neither of them giving you the impression that they were taking your pleas seriously. Instead, Lo‘ak just grins at you, his face continuing to lower until you feel his warm breath on your cunt.

"Oh baby, trust me. You want that metal to touch you," he murmurs.

"But…t-the great mother will—"

"There’s no great mother here, no eywa. Just us," Neteyam silenced you. "But you will learn to worship us all the same."

And before you could say another word, that metal is pressed harshly against your clit. The sensation of it is like no other.

"O-Oh!"

Truthfully, you expected it to be cold at first, but the steel is warmed up from sitting snugly against his tongue. It glides against your clit, rolls over and around it as Lo’ak expertly moves his tongue, and your back arches off the furs with how good it feels.

"See?" Neteyam chuckles. "We knew you would like it."

You’re so lost in the moment, you don’t even realize how hard your pressing your nails into Neteyam’s forearms, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He’s just holding you, rubbing his nose along your temple, breathing in your moans and whimpers as his brother feasts on you.

Puckering his lips, Lo‘ak sucks your clit into his mouth until your thighs begin to shake from how quick you were approaching your orgasm.

"I can feel you shaking, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam whispers in your ear. "You’re being such a good girl for him. Yes, keep spreading those pretty legs."

More moans where spilling free as Lo‘ak circled your clit with his piercing, before sliding it down and fucking you with his tongue. Between your thighs he was moaning, slurping up your arousal without care for how filthy he sounded. The more you spread your legs, the more he was pushing his face against your cunt, hungry for more.

It was mind blowing how skilled he was with his tongue. You had never experienced anything like this, and it almost made you forget about the circumstances that lead you here.

"If you want to come, you can just let it go," the brother behind you murmured with a soft chuckle. He was rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and a finger, lightly pinching and tugging to egg you on.

"When you are ours, we will make you come as many times as you want to," he explains, almost casually. "As many times as you deserve, txeptsyip [little flame]."

His words made you feel dizzy.

They were planning to keep you for their pleasure, but that did not mean your own would come short. They made that much clear.

Aware of every new twitch and shudder, Lo’ak was adjusting the patterns of his tongue accordingly, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

"I- I think I’m gonna come," you managed to force the words out between quick breaths.

A low, throaty groan that nearly sounded like a growl broke free from Lo’aks mouth at the sound of that.

"Do it," he growled, barely lifting his lips enough to detach from your clit. "Come for me, c‘mon. Let me taste it."

It was heat against heat, hot mouth against hotter skin. His sharp tongue flicks over your clit a final time, metal hard and hot against it, and then you break into a thousand pieces.

Neteyam holds you as you come, sucking marks into your throat and shoulder, while you claw at his arms hard enough to draw blood. He groans with you, enjoying the pain that your pleasure inflicts on him.

You breath in shallow pants as you come down from your high, suddenly feeling entirely too hot under your skin. But there is barely time for you to process what had just happened.

Quickly, too quick for your liking, Lo‘ak grabs your wrists and pulls you away from his brothers lap.

The grin on his face is a mean one, with the lower half of his face still glistening in your arousal, ash and paint smeared so the pretty blue color of his skin was now shining through.

Your brain isn’t even functioning properly yet again, when the younger brother pulls you into a dirty kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue, swirling the tiny metal ball around your mouth and teasing your lips with it. He releases you only when you think you might suffocate because he leaves you no air to breath, and you gasp when he finally does.

"If you already enjoyed this small piece of metal," Lo‘ak says lowly, grabs your shoulders and slowly turns you over so your head was now resting on his lap while Neteyam settled between your thighs. "Just wait until you find out what my brother will do to do."

Blinking a few times, you stare up at the other brother with wide eyes. Your first instinct is to close your legs and sit up, but Lo‘ak has you secured against him, his wide biceps caging you in. His skin is almost hot to the touch, muscles like steel as you wrap your hands around his arms, much like you did to Neteyam before.

Your thighs are spread further the closer he shuffles between them, his hands holding them up by the underside of your knees. But he’s not looking at you at all.

Neteyam’s entire focus is on your pussy.

His head is tilted slightly, the look on his face almost fond as he admires you. One of his hands comes to lay on your mound, his thumb gently circling around your clit, before he carefully slides the little hood up so he could get a better view at it.

Your breathing comes out heavier then before, and your entire body twitches every time he comes to close to that little bundle of nerves.

His thumb slides lower then, teasing you entrance and carefully pulling your lips apart as if he was examining you. It’s almost too much for you, and you try to hide your face in Lo‘aks arms.

"Still so wet," he finally breaths. "Such a tiny, tight looking body that you have. I will enjoy breaking you in."

The chest that you’re leaning against rumbles with a dark chuckle, then Lo‘ak leans down to whisper into your ear, "he‘s been talking about nothing else ever since we caught you."

His words make you shiver as realization dawns in on you. This was never a moment of impulse or a whim born tonight. You were always meant to end up here, with them.

When they took your people, they didn’t spare you because you begged well enough. You were chosen. Selected by spoiled sons of a broken clan, raised knowing that nothing was ever denied to them.

The fire crackles next to you, and then Neteyam’s hands leave your skin in favor of untying his loincloth.

When the dark piece of fabric finally falls away, you suck in a breath. The sound is loud and impolite, and you immediately want to clasp a hand over your mouth.

The warrior in front of you may be adorned with bones, leather and other natural materials that are not so different from those of any other na‘vi, honoring his heritage. But there, along the base of his cock, sits something foreign and wrong.

"H-How many…" the words come out as a hushed whisper of disbelief, your eyes wide as you try and fail not to stare at him like this.

On the underside of his length, Neteyam’s cock is pierced with four rows of small, neatly placed, shiny metal balls.

"Eight," he says proudly, letting his hand glide over each one of them.

Without thinking, you ask, "did… didn’t they hurt?"

"They did," he smiles. "That’s why I got them."

You swallow thickly. Neteyam makes a show of letting his fingers slip over the piercings, squeezing the tip and huffing out a breath. His eyes are half lidded, pupils blown as he watches you for any kind of reaction, seemingly getting off at the way you nervously bite your lip. Your own breath hitches when he moves closer, your eyes fixed on the forbidden metal that dares to touch your skin.

The soft head of his cock touches you first, making the fine hair on your neck raise as he lets it part your folds and smear your slick arousal over your clit. You hate how good it feels, until warm steel touches you too, and you don’t know whether to cry or moan because that, too, feels incredible.

Neteyam slides his cock against you in lazy strokes, letting you feel each piercing, and your imagination runs wild with how these little bumps might feel inside you.

"I want to watch you take every single one of them," he murmurs then, and your eyes widen slightly at the realization that you are supposed to take him to the last row of them.

"N-No, I can’t!" You begin to struggle, but Lo‘aks arms remind you that it’s no use. One of his hands pinches a nipple hard, like a reminder to stay put and you cry out softly. "Don’t," the younger brother says, his canine crazing your ear. "I like a woman with fire, but we’re trying to play nice because you’ve been good so far. Don’t make us regret that. I’d hate to break my new toy so early."

You bite your tongue in order not to spit venom at him, but your face must’ve given your thoughts away.

Neteyam chuckles softly, "If you want to be bad, save that for next time, txeptsyip [little flame]. But we will not hold back then."

The glare you give them wavers, and it disappears fully when he begins to push the tip of his cock against your entrance.

The stretch that follows makes you suck in a breath. He’s thick and long, and the first inch feels like you’re being split apart. But it’s a good kind of pain, you’re wet and pliant after your first orgasm, so when he pushes himself inside, warmth begins to spread in your core as your body gives way.

But then you feel that first touch of metal, and your thighs instinctively want to jerk close around his hips.

"Shh, relax, you were doing so good taking me," Neteyam coos, his hands spreading your legs wider as he sinks further into you. The first row of piercings slips into you and your mouth falls open with a surprised "oh!".

Those tiny beads feel so foreign against you, so warm to the touch. And eywa forgive you, they felt incredible. The sensation was like no other as he continued to push, making them roll along your inner walls.

"That’s one… and two," Neteyam says lowly, licking his lips to wet them. "Come on, count them for me."

Your head spins. You wouldn’t have been able to even tell them your name if one of them asked you right now, but then he slides in a few more inches and you manage to breath out quietly, "three…f-four."

Behind you, Lo‘ak was whispering sweet nothings into your ear, words you couldn’t really focus on but they made you so much wetter and then, "five, s..ix."

Sweat was slicking your forehead as more and more of his length was pushing past your tight entrance. It felt never ending, filling you constantly until you thought there was no room left inside you anymore. You felt so full of him, until finally the last row of piercings slid inside you.

"S-Seven…" You whimpered and Neteyam let out a deep groan, "eight."

"Smart girl," Lo‘ak teased from behind, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as if he worried you weren’t able to see just how deep Neteyam was inside of you. But even with your eyes closed you could feel him, could feel the heat as he breached you, the weight of his cock, the smooth tip again your cervix and the eight little beads of steel massaging your body from the inside.

You tried to swallow a soft, needy sound, that would give away how bad you wanted him to move, hating how good he made you feel, but unable to hide it any longer.

"Don’t forget to breathe," he grins, and you release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. The moment you exhale, Neteyam withdraws from your tight heat, only to slam himself right back in.

Now you know why he’s told you to breathe.

The moan he practically fucks out of you is loud and embarrassing. You’re sure the entire village had just heard you.

And then, Neteyam begins to move. His strokes are hard, deep and on point, his pace only increasing as time passes. Every time he enters you, you feel his piercings so clearly and your moans turn more desperate with every thrust of his hips. His eyes roam over you, starting from where you were connected— in and out, his cock glistening with your slickness. Then your breasts, bouncing every time your hips meet, only supported by Lo‘aks hands squeezing and toying with them. And finally your face, lips swollen red from occasional dirty kisses, cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded.

Neteyam let out a grunt whenever he pulled back, before burying himself deep again, his cock knocking on your cervix as if he was made of steel too. There are words coming out your mouth, but you don’t recognize them as anything coherent. You think they’re curses, prayers, maybe even both.

You’re so lost in your pleasure, you don’t even realize that your eyes are falling closed, until Lo‘ak gives your cheek a few surprisingly gentle taps with his hand, jolting you back into reality.

"Hey, we‘re not done with you yet, txeptsyip [little flame]." He grins. "Can’t have you passing out on us now."

Lo‘aks hand then cups your face and squeezes your cheeks, forcing your jaw to drop, "yeah, that’s right. Open up for me."

You don’t know what possesses you in this moment to obey them so willingly, but when his face leans over yours, you eagerly stick your tongue out and let him lick over yours, before he let’s a thick droplet of spit land into your mouth.

It’s filthy and humiliating, and both men groan in perfect sync when you swallow down his spit.

"Fuck, you’re making me so hard," Lo‘ak sighs. The cock that’s buried deep inside you throbs in agreement and you mewl sickening sweet at that. Whatever it is that they’re doing to you, you don’t feel like yourself anymore.

This isn’t really you, missing your usual bite, your instinct to survive. This is a woman reduced to pleasure and nothing more. Just a hole for them to fuck. And worst of all, you were enjoying it.

Your head felt empty of all doubts and worries as you watched Lo‘ak move to kneel besides your head and then push down his loincloth to free his own cock. Your vision was slightly blurred from how hard Neteyam was thrusting into you, but you could still see the thin, polished ring of steel that was piercing through the head and the small slit of his tip.

Shuffling closer, Lo‘ak caressed your jaw with his hand, while he used the other to eagerly press his length against your lips, pushing until you opened up for him.

"C‘mon, suck my cock. Get it wet for me, baby."

So you did. Your tongue was stretched out as far as it could reach, and Lo‘ak immediately began sliding his length against the wet muscle. He tasted like ash and salty musk, heavy against your tongue and you moaned from deep within your throat before you slowly took him in your mouth.

"Fuuuck, there you go. That’s a good fucking girl," Lo‘ak groans at the sight, thrusting his hips forward to push himself deeper into your mouth. Your tongue begins to swirl around his head, tasting the metal of his piercing, teasing it, before you hallow your cheeks and suck.

Simultaneously, Neteyam was thrusting into you harder, pushing you further against Lo‘ak’s cock until you were beginning to gag on it.

Everything was too much —too good, too deep, too fast, too rough. All you could do was lay there take it.

Soon, the brothers had found a rhythm both of them were benefiting from, and you were moved back and forth only by the thrusts of both of them.

"Look at her. She is perfect for us," Neteyam chuckled from above you, your inner walls clenching down hard on his cock at his words. "Such a good, obedient pet."

Every now and then your jaw was hanging slack, letting moans fall freely when hands you didn’t know belonged to which one of them started rubbing your clit in viciously fast circles. Sometimes it felt as if they were both fighting for their place to make your feel good, and it was two hands rubbing against that oversensitive little nub.

Lo‘ak gave a loud groan whenever that happened, seemingly enjoying being able to just thrust himself into you until he hit the back of your throat, using your mouth in such a filthy, dirty way that it made your eyes roll into the back of your head.

"So eager to please and so easy to use," he agreed with a grin. "I don’t care what path she chooses, I want to keep her."

It was embarrassing how fast Lo‘ak and Neteyam could turn you into a trembling, whimpering mess. The squelching sounds they expertly worked out of you only added further to your humiliation, but also your pleasure. At this pace, it was impossible not to come. And both brothers knew that.

Soon, you could feel that familiar, addicting, tension building up in your core, stealing the very air from your lungs as you moaned around the cock in your mouth.

Higher and higher you felt that tension building, felt it crawl under your skin, a warmth spreading through your core. You wanted— no, you needed to come. There was no way around it. You found yourself having no control over this, just letting yourself go because it felt too good to care about consequences, or what was right or wrong anymore.

Metal and steel was beginning to poison you from the inside out, corrupting you slowly, turning you into this mess.

It was a buildup of tension that arched your back and curled your toes and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, something in you snapped.

When you come, it’s like a wave of release and you scream.

It pulses throughout your body, making you moan, loud and lewd and you should probably feel a little embarrassed too, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when Neteyam was fucking you through it so good, his head falling back against his neck in pure bliss. And not when Lo‘ak was using the vibrations of your moans to get himself off of them, a fist in your hair to push you down his length.

You felt each of them pulse, and then there was nothing but heat. The heat of your own orgasm as it came crashing down on you, and then the warmth of cum flooding your insides from both ends as the brothers cursed under their breath, holding you down with greedy hands and making you take, take, take and then swallow, until you couldn’t take much more.

Lo‘ak was first to pull himself out of you, and immediately you were gasping for air. The salty taste of cum still lingered on your tongue as he bend down and shoved his own between your lips, leaving you breathless once more as he tastes himself on your tongue. There’s a brief moment of pain on your bottom lip, before he finally pulls back. You catch the glimpse of blood on the tip of his tongue, and when you mirror the way he was licking his lips, you taste copper of where he had bitten you.

"Sorry," he was grinning down at you, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip. "Couldn’t help myself."

Brows drawn together in a frown, a tiny part in the back of your head wanted you to sit up and finally do something— hiss, fight, scratch him, anything. But your limbs feel like molten wax, sticking to the furs like warm honey.

Still grinning sharply, Lo‘ak must’ve noticed, because he bend down to cradle your head in one of his strange, four fingered hands. But instead of helping you sit up, he was merely directing your gaze to what was happening between your thighs.

The older brother was still kneeling there, and only when the sight of his sweat slicked abs and his heaving chest caught your eyes, your core clenched around what you noticed was his cock still nestled inside of you.

As if he had been waiting for your attention, Neteyam then pulled out of you. He was doing it slow enough, you felt each row of metal graze along your oversensitive walls and a whimper broke free from you at the sensation. It was followed by the warm feeling of his cum oozing out of you after his cock had finally made way.

You feel wet, sticky and empty, and a fresh wave of shame washes over you as you watch Neteyam‘s mesmerized gaze, entirely hypnotized by the sight. Too tired to move, you’re forced to lay there and watch as he then raises a hand, collecting the cum that had dripped out of you, before shoving it back inside your cunt with two of his long fingers.

You nearly choke on a gasp as you feel them breach you in one fluid thrust.

"Ah-ah, I want you to keep it in there," Neteyam says, giving his fingers a twist that made you keen. "Until I have marked you properly, you will carry my seed so everyone can smell myself on you."

Once he had withdrawn his fingers, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean of you, his tail curling behind him as if pleased by the taste.

It’s the last thing you see before Lo’ak finally lets your weight sink back, your head resting against the thick furs beneath you again.

Before you know what’s happening next, they move with unsettling ease, one on either side of you, bodies closing in not to trap but to hold.

Neteyam lies down first, an arm sliding beneath your shoulders, steady and sure. Lo’ak follows a moment later, lazily stretching out behind you, his presence warm and close, like a living wall at your back.

Their hands are everywhere at once.

Cradling, stroking. Slow, absent motions meant to soothe you. Fingers trace idle patterns along your arms, your side, the curve of your waist, even your breasts. You hate how careful they are. Hate how your body responds to the warmth, the closeness, the simple fact of being held after all that had happened.

The fire crackles softly from somewhere behind you, and exhaustion presses down on you like a tide you can no longer fight. Your eyelids flutter despite your efforts, growing heavier with every slow breath you take.

"Sleep," Lo’ak murmurs. He nuzzles briefly into the crook of your neck, spreading his scent onto your skin. "You’re going to need it."

You feel a hand find your tail, fingers brushing along its length, teasing the soft hairs at the tip in a way that makes you shiver despite yourself. Neteyam leans in, his lips brushing your temple. The hand on your tail glides to its base, squeezing gently and your eyes finally fall shut.

The last thing you register, before sleep finally takes you out, is Neteyam’s voice in your ear, whispering softly,

"You belong to us now, txeptsyip [little flame]."

Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:

Credit: @xyla1181

Credit: @porpunta

Credit: @fisheyea16

Credit: @liam_nae2

(If you want your art removed from this post please let me know!!)

[slutforgrey]

Obedience

Prisoner Daryl Dixon x Negan's Wife Reader x Negan Smith

Summary: Negan’s wife was never meant to be tamed. She was the fire that matched his, the chaos he couldn’t control. But when she’s given charge of a certain prisoner — a man who won’t kneel, won’t speak — something inside her shifts. What begins as punishment turns into desire, and soon, even Negan can’t help but watch.

Tags: Smut with plot, Dark romance, Slowburn, Dubcon themes, Stockholm syndrome?, Morally grey behaviour, Threesome MFM, PIV, Oral sex, Breeding, Flashing, Psychological manipulation, Coaxing, Degrading, Power play, Slight mentions of blood (not sexually), Very slight gay theme in the threesome if you really squint, Slight overstimulation, Cockwarming, No use of Y/N or any OC.

Word count: ~10k

A/N: This is my first time writing, i accept all feedback. please tell me if there's any typos or if i missed a tag. also sorry it took me so long lol. requests are open. 🍒

The Sanctuary was quieter than usual that night. The hum of the generators outside the window was steady, low, almost comforting — the kind of sound you stop hearing after a while. Inside Negan's room, the lights glowed warm against the cold concrete walls. The air smelled faintly of gun oil, whiskey, and her perfume — Negan's wife. One of many—yes, though everyone knew she was something different.

Negan’s favorite. His shadow. His echo.

The Sanctuary had seen dozens of women pass through his orbit — some trembling, some desperate, some pretending to love him to survive, some brave enough to show their annoyance. But she wasn’t any of those things. She never flinched when Lucille cracked skulls. Never looked away from the blood.

Where the others sought safety, she sought control.

She had arrived at the Sanctuary like a whisper — from where, no one knew. She carried herself like she had never needed saving, like the world had ended for everyone else but not for her. She was beautiful, yes, but not the kind of beauty that softened men — the kind that made them cautious, even afraid.

Negan noticed her the way a wolf notices another predator.

It wasn’t her face that kept him interested; it was her mind. She didn’t tremble nor cling like the others. She watched, like a hawk. She was attentive, like a predator. She understood things before he said them. When he punished someone, she didn’t turn away — she asked why he’d chosen that punishment, what it achieved.

Negan loved that about her, that she never recoiled from the blood, that her eyes always gleamed when others looked away.

From that moment on, she stopped being one of his wives and became his partner in cruelty. The one he trusted to be in the room when blood was spilled. The one who kept order among the others. The one he relied on if he wasn't there. The one who made the Sanctuary’s luxury look civilized when everything underneath was rot and terror. The only one —after him— to swing Lucille.

Negan adored her because she was the only person who didn’t need him to feel powerful.

She wasn’t calm where he was chaos. She was the spark that made it worse.

When Negan grew tired of speeches, when the world stopped feeling like a game worth playing, she reminded him what kind of king he was. She whispered things that made his blood boil — You saved them. You own them.

And he’d grin again.

She wasn’t his balance. She was his reflection, or perhaps his gasoline — the same hunger, the same darkness, just hidden behind perfume and soft skin. — and that balance made them lethal.

Where Negan took power by force, she did it by silence. By the tilt of her chin. By the way she could walk into a room and make the wives stop talking mid-sentence. The men didn’t know what scared them more — Negan’s grin or her eyes. Together, they ruled through pleasure and punishment, laughter and fear.

To her, the Sanctuary wasn’t a home. It was a stage.

And she was the only one who could play it better than him.

Although she never said it out loud, she liked it that way.

Power had a taste — rich, metallic, intoxicating.

And she’d been drinking it ever since the world ended.

She was sitting by the window, one leg tucked under her body, running her fingers idly through her hair and reading a book when the door swung open.

Negan’s voice filled the room before his body did.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart… you would not believe the day I’ve had.”

He looked different — still swaggering, still carrying that manic grin — but his shirt was spattered with dried mud and blood. Lots of blood. He dropped Lucille against the wall with a heavy thunk, the wood stained red and parts of skin — or flesh — too stuck in the barbed wire to clean. He took his leather jacket off and yanked it somewhere across the room, wiping a hand across his jaw, and laughing under his breath.

She didn’t flinch. She never did.

“Let me guess,” she said, her voice smooth, almost amused. “Another fool thought he could play hero?”

Negan’s grin widened. “Oh, darlin’, not just a one. A whole goddamn lineup of ‘em. Tried to play soldier, made a big show of it. So I had to remind everyone how things work.”

He moved closer, his boots thudding against the floor. His tone was light, but she could hear it underneath — that current of adrenaline, that rush he always came home with after a kill.

“Caught a few strays too. One of ‘em’s still alive.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “A redneck. Dirty. Stupid. But hell, the bastard tried to punch me.”

She smiled faintly. “A survivor.”

Negan’s eyes gleamed. “For now.”

He crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her to her feet. She tilted her chin up, eyes locked on his, studying that mix of pride and exhaustion.

Her smile deepened — slow, deliberate. “Good job, baby.”

He grinned at that. The words always hit him just right. “Damn right it was.”

He smashed his lips against hers. She didn’t pull away — she welcomed it, the way she always did after one of his victories. It was ritual, almost sacred in its corruption, him, drunk on control. Her, drunk on the man who embodied it.

Negan's hands roamed up her sides, rough palms sliding under her shirt to grip her bare skin. He backed her against the wall beside the window, the cool glass pressing into her shoulders as his mouth claimed hers again, deeper this time, his tongue thrusting against hers. She arched into him, her fingers digging into his blood-streaked shirt, pulling it up and over his head in one swift motion.

She nipped at his jaw, tasting his skin, her body already heating under his touch.

He growled low in his throat, yanking her shirt open, buttons scattering across the floor. Her breasts spilled free, nipples hardening in the air, and he wasted no time—his mouth latched onto one, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak until she gasped. His hand cupped the other, pinching and rolling the bud between his fingers, rough enough to sting. She threaded her fingers through his hair, holding him there, her hips grinding against the thick bulge straining his pants.

His free hand reached up her thighs. He hooked his fingers into her panties, ripping them aside with a sharp tug that made her pussy clench in anticipation. Two fingers plunged into her wetness without warning, curling deep, pumping fast as he felt her slick heat coat him. “Soaked already?”

She moaned, her walls fluttering around his fingers, her clit throbbing as he ground his palm against it. Her hand fumbled with his belt, freeing his cock—thick, veined, and leaking pre-cum at the tip. She wrapped her fingers around it, stroking firmly from base to head, thumb smearing the slickness over the sensitive tip.

He pulled his fingers out, bringing them to his mouth. “You taste like danger, darlin'.” Then he spun her around, pressing her chest to the wall, her cheek against the cold concrete wall as he kicked her legs apart. His cock nudged her entrance, teasing for a split second before he slammed in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

She cried out, the stretch burning deliciously, her pussy gripping him like a vice. He didn't give her time to adjust—his hips snapped forward, pounding into her with relentless force, each drive shaking her body against the wall.

They didn't give a fuck who heard.

She was Negan's favourite wife and everybody knew it.

The smack of his skin against her ass filled the air, mingling with her gasps and his grunts.

Her breasts dragged against the rough wall with every thrust, nipples scraping, sending jolts straight to her core. She pushed back, meeting his pace, her juices dripping down her thighs. “Harder,” she demanded, voice breaking.

Negan obliged, his pace turning rougher than before, cock dragging against her inner walls, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind her eyes. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing circles fast and rough. The pressure built, coiling tight in her belly, until she shattered—her orgasm crashing over her, pussy spasming around him, milking his length as she screamed his name. “That's my girl,” he rasped.

He followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, flooding her with hot cum, ropes of it painting her insides as he groaned, body shuddering against hers. They stayed locked like that, breaths ragged, his cock twitching inside her as aftershocks rippled through them.

Finally, he pulled out, a trickle of their mixed release sliding down her leg. He turned her to face him, kissing her slow and deep, tasting the sweat and satisfaction on her lips. “Now that's how you celebrate,” he murmured, grinning that manic smile, and she returned it.

⟢──────────

The first light of morning filtered through the blinds, thin and dusty. The room was a wreck — clothes scattered, Lucille leaned against the nightstand, and Negan sprawled beside her with that same lazy smirk.

She lay on her side, tracing a finger idly along his chest. He stirred, grunted something that might’ve been a curse or a laugh.

“Stay,” she murmured, her voice soft but certain. “The world can wait.”

He cracked one eye open, and spoke with that deep sleepy voice that made her —secretly— throb. “Mmm, wish it could, sweetheart. But it’s already out there waitin’ for me to keep it in line.”

Her lips curved. “Let it fall apart for a few hours. You’ve earned a morning.”

Negan chuckled, that low, rasping sound that always made her smirk. “Tempting. But I got a prisoner needs feedin’. Simon’s supposed to handle it, but that jackass can’t do two things at once.”

She raised a brow, feigning mild curiosity. “The redneck?”

Negan grinned, rubbing a hand over his salt and pepper beard —possibly her favourite part of his body—. “You remember, huh? Yeah. Got him locked up downstairs. Stripped him, starved him, stuck him with that catchy little tune we play on repeat. Should break in a day or two.”

Her expression didn’t change. Just a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You and your toys.”

He laughed. “Gotta keep things interesting, sweetheart. Keeps the people in line.”

She stretched, the sheet slipping down from her shoulder. “Maybe I’ll come with you.”

Negan glanced over at her, smirking. “You? What for?”

“I’ve never toyed with one of your prisoners,” she said, her tone casual but eyes sharp. “Might be fun.”

He gave her that look — a long, amused one, like he was trying to figure out if she was teasing him or dead serious. “You are one twisted little thing, you know that?”

“Your fault,” she replied easily, leaning over to kiss him once before she stood, bare feet silent against the cold floor.

Negan laughed again, low and genuine this time. “Fine, darlin’. Come watch the show. Just don’t fall in love with the merchandise.”

She smiled over her shoulder as she reached for her clothes. “Don’t worry, baby. You’re still my favorite monster.”

⟢──────────

Morning light cut through the Sanctuary’s windows, thin and dusty. The place was alive — voices echoing down steel corridors, footsteps, the hum of labor.

And in the middle of it all, they walked.

Negan and his wife.

The king and his queen.

People froze when they saw them. Tools dropped. Eyes lowered. Men went to their knees.

She loved that part.

The weight of it — the hush that followed wherever they went.

Not out of respect. Out of fear.

She could almost feel it roll off them, thick and sweet.

Negan thrived on it, feeding off their trembling loyalty. He smiled wide, swinging Lucille against his shoulder, his steps long and careless.

They moved together like a storm front.

Simon caught up with them near the railing overlooking the main floor.

Negan's gaze flicked to the men packing crates below. “Everything squared?”

“Mostly.” Simon hesitated. “Except for your little pet project.”

Negan turned his head slightly. “Daryl.” The name came out like a bitter taste.

Simon gave a small shrug. “He’s still not talkin’. Barely eats. I can’t deal with him today — not with the supply run.”

Negan’s tongue clicked against his teeth. “Well, that’s a damn shame.”

She stood quiet beside them, listening — the faintest smirk curling at her lips.

Her eyes glittered when she said, almost too casually, “I’ll handle him.”

Both men turned to her.

Negan’s brow rose; Simon blinked.

She didn’t flinch. “You said he needs a push, right?”

Her tone was smooth, dangerous, sweet with challenge. “Consider it done.”

Negan studied her for a long beat — the corner of his mouth twitching, that slow, wolfish smirk spreading.

“My girl wants to feed the dog?” he said finally, a low laugh rumbling out of him.

He leaned in close, eyes dark with mischief. “Well be my fucking guest.”

Her grin matched his — wicked and knowing.

She turned on her heel and started down the corridor toward the hallway where the cell is, the echo of her boots snapping in the air like a promise.

Negan watched her go, shaking his head with a grin that was half amusement, half warning.

Simon muttered something about ‘bad ideas,’ but Negan just laughed.

“That woman,” he said, voice dripping with pride. “She’s my kinda crazy.”

⟢──────────

The corridor leading to his cell was colder than the rest of the Sanctuary. The air carried that damp metallic scent — rust, concrete, and old fear.

She liked it.

The guards at the end of the hall moved aside when they saw her coming. No questions. No greetings. Just nervous glances, and the click of a switch as the song playing through the speaker — that maddening, cheery tune — looped again.

We’re on easy street…

With one flick of her wrist, she cut the music.

Silence hit like a slap.

A deep, ringing quiet that seemed to hum against the concrete walls.

She reached for the keys that Simon handed her earlier, turning them inside the doorknob to reveal the prisoner.

Inside, he sat slumped on the floor, knees to his chest — filthy, bruised, naked, the air clinging to him like a punishment.

Daryl Dixon.

He didn’t look up right away. His hair hung over his face, his body a map of dirt and defiance.

A stale slice of bread hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Eat,” she said. Just one word. Calm.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Her head tilted slightly. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Something flickered in his eyes — not obedience, not yet, but a flash of calculation. His stomach growled, betraying him.

Finally, he reached out, slow and hesitant, taking the food.

She watched him eat.

Every motion.

The trembling of his fingers. The way he chewed, jaw tight, shoulders rigid — a man refusing to break even when every muscle in him screamed submission.

It fascinated her. The pride of it. The stupidity. The beauty.

“You’re smarter than they say,” she murmured after a while.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up.

She crouched slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, voice dipping lower.

“Kneeling’s not so hard, is it?”

His silence roared.

For a second, she thought he’d look up — maybe snarl, maybe beg, she didn’t care which. But he stayed still, jaw set, breath rough. She smiled.

Then stood, slow and deliberate, dusting invisible dirt off her jeans.

She didn’t move to leave just yet.

Something about watching him eat — watching the raw, reluctant way he gave in to the simplest need — pulled at her in a place she didn’t know existed.

Her eyes flicked to the hallway. “Hey,” she called.

One of the guards, a thin man with a rifle slung across his chest, appeared almost instantly. He looked nervous — they always did when she spoke directly to them.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Get him his little outfit.” she said. Her tone wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t cruel either. It was something worse — casual. Like she was giving an order about the weather.

The guard blinked, uncertain. “Now?”

She turned her head slowly, one brow lifting.

He swallowed hard. “Got it.”

She looked back at Daryl. He still hadn’t spoken.

There was a cut along his shoulder, near his chest — old bandage browned with grime. She made a mental note to check that out later.

A few minutes later, the guard returned. She took the folded bundle herself without a word.

He had finished eating, his head hung forward, strands of hair hiding his eyes.

She stood over him — immaculate, pressed fabric against filth.

She tossed the clothes at him. The dirty fabric slapped against his face, sliding down into his lap.

He flinched — just barely. But it was enough to make her lips twitch.

For a breath, she waited, almost expecting him to throw it back. But he didn’t move. Just sat there, the orange A burning bright against the dull concrete.

“Better wear it before he decides you don’t deserve it,” she said, and turned toward the door.

The hinges screamed as she slammed it shut behind her — hard enough that dust fell from the frame.

The guards straightened when she walked past, but she didn’t look at them.

Inside the cell, silence fell again.

And for the first time since he’d been thrown in there, Daryl Dixon felt something new creeping under his skin — a kind of fear that wasn’t about Negan.

⟢──────────

Later that night, she sat on the edge of Negan’s bed while he paced the room, talking about the workers, about production, about keeping control. His voice was fire — loud, alive.

But she wasn’t listening.

Not really.

Her mind was still in that cell — in the darkness where Daryl Dixon’s eyes had followed her every move.

Negan stopped mid-sentence.

“You even listening, sweetheart?”

She blinked, meeting his gaze. That sharp, dangerous grin spread across his face — the one that always meant he’d noticed more than she wanted him to.

“What’s got you so quiet?” he drawled, moving closer. “You been thinkin’ about my pet downstairs?”

She didn’t answer. Just smiled, slow and devilish, like she always did when she was caught.

Negan laughed — a deep, raspy sound — and ran a hand through his hair. “Little bastard’s still got fight in him. I like that. Keeps the boys on their toes.”

“You said you wanted him to break.”

“Oh, he’ll break.” Negan’s grin widened. “They always do.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his — cold, bright, electric.

“Let me do it.”

Negan blinked, caught off guard for half a second. “Do what?”

“Handle him. The punishment. The breaking.” She smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve got bigger things to run. Let me take this one off your hands.”

Negan studied her — half amused, half intrigued. “You wanna play jailer now?”

“I want to make myself useful.” Her tone was soft, almost purring. “You always said I had a way with people.”

“Yeah,” he drawled, leaning down until his face was inches from hers, “a dangerous way.”

She smirked. “Exactly.”

Negan’s grin spread slow, lazy, knowing.

“So you wanna feed the dog?”

“Maybe teach him a trick or two.”

For a long beat, he stared at her — assessing, curious, entertained. Then he laughed, a deep rumble that filled the room.

“Goddamn, woman,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re worse than me.”

She tilted her chin up. “You love that about me.”

He grinned wider, stepping closer until she could smell the faint mix of leather, smoke, and whiskey on him.

“Oh, I fuckin’ live for it.”

He kissed her — hard, rough — but her mind was still flickering between the fire and the dark. Between Negan’s heat and Daryl’s silence.

Between the man who owned the world and the one who refused to kneel for it.

And maybe that’s what she wanted.

To see what would happen when those two worlds finally collided.

⟢──────────

Morning in the Sanctuary always began the same — the chatter of workers, the low hum of generators, and the faint, mocking echo of Easy Street bleeding faintly from somewhere down below.

But this morning, she didn’t wait for permission.

She walked straight to the cell block, the guards straightening as she passed. No one dared speak her name — only the sound of her boots striking concrete. When she stopped in front of his cell, the music was still blaring.

She gestured to the man at the switch.

“Turn it off.”

The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.

She nodded to the him again. “Unlock it.”

He looked uncertain — glancing between her and the cell door. She smiled sweetly, all venom and charm.

He had no choice but to obey.

The door creaked open.

Daryl lifted his head slowly, eyes burning through the grime.

She didn’t look away.

“On your feet.”

He hesitated, that same quiet defiance she’d seen before flickering in his eyes. It made her lips twitch — not in annoyance, but in delight.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she said, voice soft but lethal.

He stood.

She stepped back, letting him stumble forward into the light.

She turned and started walking, the sound of her boots echoing in the hall. After a few steps, he'd stopped following her. She looked back over her shoulder.

“You work for me now.”

He didn’t move.

“I said walk.”

He followed. Head low.

They crossed through the Sanctuary’s heart — workers pausing, wives whispering, eyes tracking every step.

Negan’s woman leading the prisoner.

Barefoot power leading broken defiance.

By the time they reached her quarters, she pushed the door open and motioned him inside.

“This,” she said, gesturing around the room — the neatly made bed, the bourbon bottle on the dresser, the low light — “is where you’ll be working. You’ll clean. You’ll serve. You’ll learn what it means to be useful.”

He just stared at her, breathing hard, jaw locked.

She tilted her head, amused.

“Don’t look so shocked. You should be grateful. Most men in your position are out there dealing with walkers or worse.”

Still nothing.

She smiled — that slow, dangerous curve that always preceded cruelty.

“You’ll start with the floors.”

When he didn’t move, she stepped forward, close enough that he could smell her — perfume, bourbon, smoke.

“You’ll move when I tell you to,” she whispered.

He clenched his fists, but the sound of her voice — calm, precise, unshakable — broke him more than shouting ever could.

Hours later, she sat on the edge of the bed, watching him scrub. The orange A on his back burned like a mark of her own making.

“Good boy,” she murmured, half to herself.

He froze.

“Something wrong?” she asked lightly.

He muttered something under his breath — too quiet to catch, but sharp enough to make her smile widen.

“Oh, I like that,” she said. “Still got teeth.”

When he finished, she said, “Shower.”

He hesitated in the doorway of the shower.

“Water’s there,” she said simply, leaning against the frame.

He didn’t move.

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” she clarified. “Can’t have you doing anything stupid. Safety measure.”

The corner of her mouth lifted. She was enjoying this — the way his jaw tensed, the way the word safety sounded like a lie from her lips.

Daryl's fingers gripped the hem of his worn shirt, his back to her as he stood there, the air thick with the scent of rust and damp concrete. He pulled the fabric up slowly, revealing the map of scars etched across his skin—jagged lines from old fights, an X-shaped scar on the center of his back, a testament to years of survival that twisted like lightning over his shoulders and down his spine.

She watched, eyes tracing every ridge and valley, the way the muscles in his back knotted under her gaze. The way his back tattoos looked slightly faded.

He didn't glance back, just let the shirt drop to the grimy floor with a soft thud. His hands moved to his pants next, shoved down his hips, pooling at his ankles. He kicked them aside, fully exposed from the rear, legs braced apart just enough to steady himself.

The humiliation burned in his chest, but he kept his face turned away, stepping toward the faucet without a word.

She didn't hide her stare, drinking in the vulnerability of his bare form, the way his body tensed like a coiled spring under the weight of her attention.

It wasn’t lust — not yet. It was power, fascination. Watching a man stripped down to nothing and still refusing to break.

The water was cold, spraying from the rusted showerhead in uneven bursts that did little to wash away the grime of his suffering.

Daryl kept his back to her, arms crossed over his chest as if that could shield him from the exposure. His skin prickled under the stream, soap bar clutched tightly in one hand while the other scrubbed hastily at his arms, his neck, avoiding anything that might invite more of her scrutiny.

Heat flooded his face, a deep flush that had nothing to do with the temperature—he could feel her eyes on him, boring into the scars, the curve of his hips, the subtle shift of his thighs as he moved. Every rinse felt like a surrender, his cock hanging soft and heavy between his legs, untouched and ignored, but the awareness of it made his stomach twist with shame and humiliation. He washed his hair roughly, suds running down his back in white trails that highlighted the old wounds, his breaths coming short and ragged. The vulnerability clawed at him, turning his defiance into something raw and exposed, like he was on display for her amusement, every drop of water a reminder of how little control he had left.

When he finally turned the water off, Daryl pivoted toward her slowly, his eyes wide with a mix of defiance and mortification, frozen like prey caught in the open. Both hands clamped down instinctively over his groin, cupping his cock and balls in a desperate bid for modesty, fingers splayed to hide as much as possible. The motion drew her gaze downward immediately, and a low, mocking laugh escaped her lips, sharp and cutting through the sudden silence —and let's be honest, that move turned her on more than she'd like to admit—.

“Aw, look at you, all shy and covered up like that,” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement as she snatched the bundle of fresh clothes from the nearby chair. With a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed them at him—shirt and pants tumbling through the air to land in a heap at his feet. Water still dripped from his skin, pooling around him as he stood there, cheeks burning hotter than the scars on his back.

Daryl snatched up the clothes with one hand still shielding himself, the fabric rough against his damp skin as he turned away again and yanked on the pants first, tucking his softening cock away with hurried motions, followed by the shirt that clung slightly to his wet torso. He avoided her glare burning into his back the whole time, the orange A glaring back at him from the material like a fresh brand, sealing his place in this hell.

“Better,” she said softly. “Now maybe you’ll remember who’s keeping you alive.”

⟢──────────

He’d just finished scrubbing the floor when the door swung open. The faint smell of bleach still hung in the air. Daryl was on his knees, shoulders tense, palms raw from bleach.

She stepped inside — immaculate as always, boots clicking against the wet tile. Except this time, those boots were caked in dried mud and specks of blood.

“Oh Daryl you would not believe the day I ha-”

He glanced up at them —obviously irritated— then at her. “Jus' cleaned tha'” he muttered.

It was the first time she'd heard his voice since he got here.

She stopped mid-sentence, her head tilting slightly like she hadn’t quite heard him right. “What was that?”

He didn’t look up again. “Said I jus' cleaned it.”

Her silence stretched thin — almost delicate. Then, a slow smile curved her lips, cold and amused. “Did you, now?”

She took another deliberate step forward, letting the mud grind into the damp floor. The sound was soft but sharp enough to make him flinch.

“You gonna complain about dirt now?” she asked, voice smooth as honey but burning at the edges. “In my room?”

He didn’t answer. His hands tightened around the rag, jaw flexing.

She crouched down a little, enough to make him meet her eyes. “You forget who you’re on your knees for, sweetheart?”

That word — sweetheart — hit like an insult. His glare flicked up, full of exhaustion and anger. “Ain’t cleanin’ up after you forever.”

There it was. The spark.

Her expression didn’t change, but something behind her eyes shifted — a flare of wild satisfaction.

She straightened slowly. “Oh, you’re not?”

Before he could move, she grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet with surprising strength. The bucket tipped, water spilling over the clean floor.

“Guess we need a reminder,” she said.

Her fingers locked around his arm, nails digging through the thin fabric of his sleeve, and she yanked him hard enough to make him stumble. She shoved the door open, dragging him out into the hallway.

The guard outside looked up, startled. She'd moved too fast for him to even get a chance to speak to her.

Her pace was sharp, boots clicking against the concrete, and he had to keep up — half-dragged, half-shoved — until they reached the long corridor that led to the outside overlook.

The air out there was thick with heat and smoke. Below, the yard seethed with noise — the clang of metal, the growl of walkers, the hiss of molten steel. Prisoners in the same orange-marked rags as his were working the fences, shoving walkers against the wire, pouring melted metal over their thrashing bodies. The stench of burning flesh and rot clung to everything.

She stopped at the railing and pushed him forward until he was right against it. “Look,” she said flatly.

He kept his eyes down, jaw tight. The sight was too much — the agony, the screams, the way the others’ hands shook as they worked.

Her hand shot out, fisting a handful of his dirty brown locs, yanking his head back so hard his teeth clicked. “You see that? That’s what happens to the ones who don’t listen.” She hissed against his ear.

He said nothing, muscles straining under her grip, but his eyes stayed forward.

“You could’ve been one of them,” she went on, voice low, steady, cruel. “But look how lucky you are. You’re breathing. You get food. You get a shower. You get me.”

Her fingers tightened once more before she let go, and he exhaled through gritted teeth.

“Should be fucking thankful you ended up in my hands,” she said, leaning closer. “You see how lucky you are now?”

“You wanna complain about a goddamn floor now?!”

Down below, Negan’s laugh carried over the noise — loud, sharp, unmistakable. He turned toward the sound of her voice, that grin spreading across his face the moment he spotted them on the overlook.

“Well, would ya look at that!” he called, throwing his arms wide. “There’s my girl! Brought the dog with you too, huh?”

A few workers turned their heads, then immediately looked back down, terrified.

Negan started up the stairs, Lucille swinging lazily in his hand. He looked almost proud when he reached them — sweat on his neck, a streak of soot across his jaw, eyes glinting like a man too alive for the world he’d built.

“Well, ain’t this a damn sight,” he said, glancing at Daryl — filthy, tense, barely breathing. “You givin’ my pet a field trip, sweetheart?”

She tilted her head, “Thought he could use a reminder,” she said. “Some perspective.”

Negan chuckled, that deep rasp rolling up from his chest. “Oh, I like that. Perspective.”

Negan looked at Daryl before he turned back to her, eyes burning with approval. “You keep that mean streak, baby. Makes me hard as a goddamn bat.”

She smiled, slow, dangerous. “Maybe that’s why you keep me around.”

Negan laughed loud enough for the whole yard to hear. “Hell, that is why I keep you around. That and the way you look when you’re pissed. Christ, woman, I could watch you break things all damn day.”

He reached out, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, smearing a little ash across her cheek without caring. “Don’t tell me you dragged him up here ‘cause he mouthed off.”

She didn’t deny it — just smiled with that same quiet, vicious calm.

Negan’s grin widened. “Ah, that’s my girl. You do whatever you want with him, sweetheart. Long as he’s still breathin’ when I need him.”

“I’ll handle it,” she said, eyes locked on Daryl.

Negan turned her head towards him and leaned in, pressing a kiss against her mouth — rough, possessive, like the world didn’t exist beyond it.

She reached her hand to tangle in his hair, his adrenaline rush and her anger making the kiss hungrier and dirtier.

Daryl froze. The sound of the yard blurred in his ears — the metal, the screams, all of it muffled under the sudden, burning clarity of realization.

She wasn’t just some sadistic overseer.

She was his. Negan’s wife.

And standing there, watching them kiss while the world burned below, he finally understood what real hell looked like.

⟢──────────

The afternoon light poured through the slats in the blinds, a thin gold that caught on the dust in the air. She sat in the corner of the room, one leg crossed over the other, her short denim skirt riding up just enough to tease the edges of propriety. No panties, nothing beneath the frayed hem—bare skin waiting to be noticed. A glass of amber liquor balanced loosely in her hand, something that always seemed to quiet her mind after a long day.

The chair creaked when she shifted, tilting her head as her eyes followed him moving across the floor.

“Daryl,” she said finally.

His name cut through the silence like a command. He stopped what he was doing, turned just enough to see her without meeting her eyes.

She leaned back in the chair, stretching her legs out until the toes of her boots caught the light. The black leather was scuffed from patrols, dust caked into the creases. “They’re filthy,” she said. “Fix it.”

Daryl's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. Survival meant playing along, at least on the surface.

He dipped the rag into a bucket of soapy water nearby, wringing it out with a twist that made his knuckles whiten. Starting at the toe of her boot, he rubbed in firm circles, the leather warming under his touch as suds bubbled up.

His knees ached against the hard floor, but he focused on the task, wiping away grime with methodical strokes, buffing the surface until a faint gleam emerged.

She watched him as he worked — the slow, rough movement of his hands, the set of his jaw. Every motion carried that same reluctant obedience. He kept his eyes on the floor, polishing until the dull leather of one boot began to catch a faint shine.

She uncrossed her legs then, shifting in the chair with deliberate slowness, the skirt hiking higher as she planted both feet in front of him. The motion parted her thighs just enough, exposing the soft folds of her pussy—lips slightly parted in the humid air. Daryl's eyes flicked up involuntarily, catching the sight before his brain could catch up. Heat exploded across his face, cheeks burning crimson as his stomach twisted in a knot of shock and unwanted awareness. His hands froze mid-wipe, rag dripping onto the floor, and he jerked his gaze away so fast it made his neck ache, staring hard at the boot instead, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

She reached down and ran her hand through his hair, slightly damp from sweat but surprisingly soft. The sight of him on his knees infront of her knowing that he saw her pussy turned her on more than anything.

He froze for half a second before continuing, faster this time. She smiled, that small, dangerous curve of amusement that always meant she was winding him tighter.

“You’re rushing,” she said softly. She saw how flustered he'd gotten. It thrilled her. The gasoline to her fire.

Embarrassment flooded him, hot and humiliating, his cock twitching achingly in his pants despite the flush of shame. It had been years since Daryl had ever seen a pussy, and the closest he'd ever gotten was a magazine that Merle had given him back before the apocalypse. To say his heart was racing would be an understatement. He wished that somehow the ground would open up and swallow him whole than to be in the same room as her ever again.

He pushed to his feet abruptly, rag clutched in his fist, turning half-away as if distance could erase what he'd seen.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that echoed off the walls, her eyes sparkling with wicked delight. Leaning forward, she inspected her boot with exaggerated scrutiny, running a finger along the still-damp leather. “Oh, honey, these aren't shining yet. Not even close.” She said with something between sarcasm and pity.

“Get back on your knees. Now. And finish the job properly this time.”

He looked up, the faintest flash of frustration breaking through the quiet. She raised an eyebrow — a silent challenge — and after a long breath, he knelt again.

The sound of the rag on leather filled the room, steady and rhythmic. She sipped her drink, letting the silence stretch until it was unbearable.

She spread her legs a fraction wider, watching him scrub the other boot now, her pussy still on blatant display, lips glistening faintly in the low light. He didn't dare to look up again. No matter how hard his eyes were tempting him to—wait. Why was he tempted to?

“Better,” she said at last, her tone low and smooth. “You learn fast.”

He didn’t answer. But his shoulders were rigid, his movements sharp — as if he wanted nothing more than to be done with it, to get away from her gaze, and away from this feeling bubbling up inside him that he couldn't quite figure out.

She smiled to herself, leaning forward just enough that her voice brushed the air between them. “Don’t forget,” she murmured. “You work for me now.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t look up — but she could see the pulse in his throat, quick and uneven. And that, more than anything, made her smile wider.

⟢──────────

It had been weeks since Daryl first arrived to the sanctuary, and he'd been slaving away every day since. She never stopped taunting him, teasing him and breaking him day by day. And it was working. The tension that sparked when she walked in the room was impossible to ignore. For her, and for him.

The night was quiet — almost too quiet. Only the faint crackle of the oil lamp filled the room, its glow licking at the walls, pooling over the mess of tools, wood, and scattered papers. The air smelled like iron and smoke.

She sat in the corner chair, legs crossed, a blood-streaked rag in one hand and her knife in the other. The blade caught the light each time she turned her wrist, gleaming dull red.

Across the room, Daryl was hunched over a half-built shelf, the soft rhythm of his hammer the only thing keeping time. She’d told him to build it — not because she needed one, but because she wanted to keep him busy. Keep him where she could see him.

He didn’t speak. He rarely did. Just worked, jaw tight, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes. Every now and then, he’d pause to wipe his hands or study the alignment of a board, and she’d watch him — quietly, steadily, like studying something wild in a cage.

Her mind wandered, though — to the sound of his breathing, the sweat clinging to the back of his neck, the veins in his forearms, the slight grey stubble that caught the light every so often, the defiance that still lived somewhere under all that silence. She was still watching when the knife slipped.

The cut was quick. Clean.

“Fuck–” She muttered, barely audible.

Blood welled up, slow and dark, tracing down her palm to her wrist. She hissed softly through her teeth, staring at the red spreading across her skin.

Before she could move, he was there — crossing the room in a few strides. He knelt in front of her without a word, snatched a clean rag from the table, and pressed it against her hand.

The contact startled her. His touch was firm but careful, like he didn’t know whether to help or to hesitate. His head was bowed, hair dripping shadows across his face, breath uneven as he focused on her hand.

She stared down at him, at this man who was supposed to hate her — supposed to want her dead — tending to her instead.

“Did I say you could touch me?” she asked, voice low, sharp.

He looked up just enough for her to see the flicker in his eyes. “Ye were bleedin’.”

Her lips curved, something between mockery and amusement. “You care now?”

He didn’t answer. He just let go, stood, and went back to his shelf without another word.

She watched him for a moment longer, then rose from the chair. “Clean that up,” she said, tossing the bloodied rag onto the floor beside him. The knife had been left behind beside the chair, still slick with her blood.

Then she walked off toward the bathroom.

The sound of water started — steady, constant. He could hear it, feel the weight of it in the silence she left behind. His gaze drifted to the knife.

It was right there. Inches away. The handle glinted under the lamplight, the edge of it catching a faint shimmer.

He could take it. He could end this. Her. All of it.

But something stopped him.

He didn’t know if it was fear or exhaustion or something worse. Maybe it was the knowledge that he’d never make it out alive — or maybe, deep down, it was that pull again, the one that had been growing heavier every day.

He dragged his hand down his face, exhaling rough and low, and went back to work.

The water came down hot, fogging up the cracked mirror and running red for a moment as it rinsed away the dried blood from her hands. She stood still under it, eyes half-closed, head tilted back. The sound of the pipes was the only thing keeping her grounded.

She should have been thinking about work — the next shipment from any of the communities, the next order, the next way to keep the place from falling apart. But her thoughts kept circling back to him.

Daryl.

She didn’t understand him. He’d taken every order, every threat, every cruel joke, and turned it into silence. Like his silence was a wall and she could barely dent it.

Today had been different, though. He’d moved when she bled. Not because she’d told him to, not out of fear. Instinct. Reflex. And that… bothered her.

She pressed her palms to the tile, watching water drip down between her fingers.

Negan would’ve called it progress. Said she was getting results. But this didn’t feel like victory. It felt like balance tipping somewhere unseen.

She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling hard, letting the steam blur everything until the world dissolved into nothing but noise and heat.

When she finally turned off the water, the silence returned — heavy and waiting.

And she realized she wasn’t sure anymore who was breaking who.

When she came out, the steam followed her. Her hair was damp, clinging to her skin, her shirt half-tucked, her movements slow and sure. She stopped by the table, eyes scanning the shelf he’d finished.

He looked up — and for the first time, his eyes didn’t hold anger. Just something quiet. Watching her. Then, briefly, his gaze dropped to her injured hand, now wrapped in white cloth. There was a flash of something like concern there before he turned away, pretending he hadn’t looked at all.

She caught it, though. Noticed every beat of it.

Then she noticed the knife — still there. Untouched.

A slow smile spread across her face. Not cruel this time. Not mocking. Just… knowing. Finally knowing.

“Good work,” she said softly.

He looked up, briefly. Nodded once.

⟢──────────

The dim light of the Sanctuary filtered through the heavy curtains of Negan's wife's private room, casting long shadows across the rumpled bed. She'd been stealing glances at Daryl all day—his rough edges, the way his jaw tensed under that poker face, the quiet intensity in his eyes that mirrored her own restless hunger.

Negan, ever the observant bastard, had noticed it. The way Daryl was barely spending anytime in his cell anymore. The way she always needed him for building a shelf or fixing a cabinet when there was always Simon or any of the other saviours.

Later, alone in their shared quarters, Negan cornered her against the wall, his leather jacket creaking as he leaned in close. “Darlin', I see the way you look at redneck,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. She smirked, but somehow there was still heat flooding her cheeks. “Is that so?”

Negan smirked, swirling his whiskey. “You two think I don't see that spark? Darlin',” he drawled, locking eyes with her, “You want the dog? Go ahead and fuck him if that's what you're cravin'. I'll watch. Should be a hell of a show.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What? Negan, you're... you're not jealous? Not possessive?”

He chuckled low, the sound rumbling in his chest. “Jealous? Darlin', I got multiple wives. Hell, I might even join in if the mood strikes.” He slapped her ass lightly, propelling her toward the door. “Go get yours.”

⟢──────────

It had been a few days since Negan’s offhand permission, and she hadn’t stopped finding reasons to touch Daryl.

A hand through his hair when she said it was getting in his eyes.

A thumb swiping the grime from his cheek when he came in from the yard.

A careless bump of her shoulder when they passed in the corridor.

Each time she tossed a quick comment—half excuse, half dare—and kept walking as if nothing had happened.

After a week of this torment, she had him cornered in her room again, casual as a cat circling a mouse. Her hands rested on his arms, her smile cocky and bold. “You know,” she said, voice low, “you could just admit you like it.”

Daryl blinked, jaw tight. “I… I don’t—”

“Oh, don’t lie to me, Dar” she interrupted, tilting her head. “I see it. Every time. Every damn time I touch you, your muscles go stiff, your chest… oh, you know what I mean.”

He told himself he didn’t like it. Repeated it the way you recite a prayer: She’s Negan’s wife. You don’t belong here. You need to find your way back to Rick.

But the words never stuck. They scattered every time she drifted close enough for him to catch the scent of smoke on her jacket.

The worst part was how normal it started to feel.

She’d give an order, he’d follow. She’d find a speck of dust on his shirt, brush it off, and the world would shrink to that one point of contact.

Then the moment would snap, and he’d remember where he was—what she was—and the guilt would burn hotter than the touch itself.

By the end of the week, the entire Sanctuary seemed to notice.

She didn’t whisper or hide it. When she called for him across the work floor, her tone carried like a whip. When she stepped too close, people pretended to be busy.

It was only a matter of time before someone told Negan. The thought frightened him. He didn't know yet.

That thought sat heavy in his stomach as he tried to keep his head down, but she didn’t stop.

And he couldn’t stop reacting.

⟢──────────

It was a day like any other in the sanctuary. Negan and his wife walked the sanctuary, asserting dominance upon the saviours. It thrilled her, her position of power. She liked how good it felt to be in charge. But it could never beat the feeling of having her own little pet waiting in her room at the end of the day.

She walked the corridor and slipped into her room, the door clicking shut behind her. Daryl was there, sitting on the floor knees to his chest. He'd do that often when he was done with whatever useless job she'd assigned him.

He looked up from the spot on the floor where he’d been sitting, surprise flickering in his blue eyes. The tension in the air thickened as she approached him, a playful smile curling at the corners of her lips.

“Hey there, Daryl,” she purred, her voice low and inviting, an alluring contrast to the harshness of his reality. She knelt beside him, her presence both intoxicating and dangerous “What are you doin’ sitting like that?”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as he took in her closeness. “Jus’ thinkin’,” he muttered, his voice gruff, but the way she leaned in made it hard to concentrate on anything else.

“Thinking? About what?” she echoed, a teasing lilt in her tone. Her fingers brushed against his forearm, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin.

He swallowed hard and pulled away, the heat of her touch igniting something restless inside him. “This... this ain’t righ’,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, though the way he leaned toward her suggested he was fighting his own instincts. Daryl knew he shouldn’t be drawn to her, not when she was Negan's wife, not when she was part of the very system that had imprisoned him.

“Why not?” she replied, her smile widening as she captured his gaze.

Daryl swallowed, his voice low and wary. “’Cause… Negan’s gonna come down on me if he finds out what you’re doing. I ain’t… I ain’t tryin’ to get myself killed.”

“Negan doesn’t mind. He thinks it’s cute, you know? You working so hard for me.” She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his skin, and the air crackled with unspoken tension. “He knows I need a little entertainment.”

Daryl got up and stepped back slightly, running a hand over his neck. “You’re settin’ me up, ain’t you? Some kinda trap.” He spoke almost in a yell.

For a long moment neither spoke. Then she sighed, half-annoyed, half-satisfied.

“You don’t believe me,” she said finally. “Fine. You want proof? I’ll get it.”

Daryl’s chest tightened. He didn’t like waiting. Didn’t like the way his pulse sped just watching her walk out of the room. But he stayed, frozen, standing like a mannequin beside her bed.

The minutes stretched long. He could hear muffled voices through the thin walls—Negan’s low, rumbling chuckle, her sharp, confident drawl. The sound made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t want to admit.

He rubbed at his cheek where her fingers had lingered earlier, the warmth of her touch still ghosting over him. Over and over he told himself: She’s Negan’s. She’s not yours. You don’t belong here.

But the words rang hollow, drowned out by the pull of her presence.

She returned a few minutes later, a sly grin tugging at her lips. Behind her, leaning in the doorway, was Negan, his arms crossed, Lucille resting casually against his shoulder.

Daryl’s chest tightened, and he stepped back instinctively. His mind screamed at him: she’s his. This isn’t real. He shouldn’t…

Daryl's eyes flicked to Lucille, a reminder of how he'd gotten here in the firstplace. It gave him unwanted flashbacks. His head screamed.

Run. Run. RUN.

But he stood frozen in place.

Negan’s grin was wicked, and his eyes sparkled with amusement as he stepped in and shut the door behind him. “Figured I’d join the fun. Don’t want my girl doing all the work herself.”

Daryl froze, caught between desire and terror. Every warning he’d drilled into his brain—she’s Negan’s wife, you’re nothing here—clashed violently with the heat pooling in his chest.

Negan's wife started walking towards Daryl, reaching her hands out to cup his burning face.

Negan followed her, silent as a shadow, settling into the chair in the corner with a nod of encouragement.

She was already on Daryl, pushing him back onto the bed. “Relax,” she cooed, straddling his lap, but his muscles were stiff as a board, eyes flickering between her and Negan.

Negan watched from the shadows, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Go on, Daryl. Obey the lady. Give her what she wants.”

Daryl's resistance crumbled under her touch—he obeyed, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Her lips crushed against his, tongue invading his mouth with demanding hunger. He groaned into her, his body arching instinctively. She broke the kiss to tug at his pants, freeing his hardening cock. It sprang up thick and veined, already leaking at the tip. She wrapped her hand around it, stroking slow and firm, feeling him throb in her grip.

He was sensitive, extremely sensitive. He couldn't remember the last time he'd touched his cock. It might've been way back at the prison. He didn't know. He didn't care.

She started slow, her grip firm and unyielding. Up and down she stroked, feeling every ridge and throb as he hardened fully in her palm. Daryl's hips jerked upward, seeking more friction, but she pinned him harder with her thighs. She twisted her wrist at the top, thumb smearing the slick bead over his sensitive tip, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “You cum when I say.”

He bucked again, a low “Fuck” escaping his lips as she edged him mercilessly. Faster now, her hand flying along his length, bringing him right to the brink—his balls tightening, muscles coiling—then slowing to a torturous crawl, denying him release.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, his chest heaving as he fought for control. She watched his face contort with need, reveling in the power, her own arousal building between her legs. Negan shifted in his chair, his eyes dark with lust and amusement.

After what felt like an eternity of teasing, she released his cock with a final, lingering squeeze, leaving it twitching in the air. Daryl panted, eyes wild and heart racing. There was nothing playing in his head other than how wrong this is, how he shouldn't feel this way, or even be here. But he his, and it made his heart skip a couple beats. Half out of fear. Half out of the intensity of this situation.

“Well come on,” Negan chuckled cruelly. “Be a gentleman and return the favor.”

Daryl's eyes darkened with need, but he nodded, sliding down the bed. She stripped off her jeans and panties, baring her curves, then positioned herself above his face, lowering her dripping pussy onto his mouth. His tongue dove in eagerly, lapping at her folds, sucking her clit with rough, hungry pulls. She moaned, grinding against him. He devoured her like a starved man. Sloppy, messy, hungry, primal.

Negan rose then, unable to stay sidelined any longer. He approached the bed, his boots thudding softly on the carpeted floor. Kneeling beside her, he captured her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, his tongue battling hers while his free hand roamed her body. Fingers pinched her nipples hard, twisting the hardened peaks until she moaned into his mouth, the sharp pain mingling with the pleasure from Daryl's relentless oral assault below. Negan's other hand slid down her back, gripping her ass cheek and spreading her wider for Daryl's access. “Taste how wet she is for us,” Negan murmured against her lips, his voice gravelly.

Daryl obliged, his tongue plunging deeper into her core, then retreating to circle her entrance before returning to her swollen clit. He sucked harder, the wet sounds filling the room as she rocked against his face, coating his chin with her wetness.

“God, yes... don't stop.” Her hands fisted in Daryl's hair, holding him in place as waves of building ecstasy coiled in her belly. The dual assault overwhelmed her—Daryl's hungry mouth devouring her pussy, Negan's teasing fingers on her sensitive nipples, his kisses swallowing her cries.

Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, snapping suddenly as she came hard, thighs clamping around Daryl's head as she grinded on his tongue harder. Juices flooded Daryl's tongue, he growled and lapped them up greedily.

She broke Negan's kiss and looked down at Daryl. His face was soaked, greying stubble soaked with her cum, lips shining, even his nose shining with wetness. And his eyes, oh his once blue eyes were half lidded and darkened with forbidden desire. In that moment, with her towering over him, and her taste still lingering on his tongue. He knew it, he was addicted.

She got off Daryl's face, and Negan got up stripping off his clothes with a grin. His own cock stood rigid, thick and ready. “My turn to play,” he said, lying back and guiding her over him. She straddled him reverse, her back to his chest, ass pressing against his hips as she sank down onto his length. He filled her completely, stretching her pussy around his girth as she rocked slowly, grinding deep.

Daryl knelt in front of her, cock still aching from the edge. She leaned forward, taking him into her mouth, sucking the head with wet, slurping pulls. Her tongue swirled around the shaft as she bobbed, hollowing her cheeks while Negan thrust up into her from below, his hands gripping her hips to control the pace. The room filled with wet slaps and muffled groans.

Daryl's hands fisted in her hair, grounding himself. The whimpers that poured out of his mouth were music to her ears. “Shit... gonna cum,” he grunted, pulling out just in time. Hot ropes of cum splashed across her tits, coating her skin in sticky white streaks as she milked the last drops with her hand.

Negan's voice cut through the haze, commanding. “Eat her again, Daryl. Make her scream.”

Daryl dropped to his knees, face burying between her legs even as Negan kept pounding into her from behind. He leaned in, tongue tracing her clit as she rode Negan, the angle perfect for him to lap at her while Negan's shaft pistoned in and out. Occasionally, Daryl's mouth brushed Negan's balls, inadvertently licking them gently every now and then, adding an extra layer of sensation that made Negan growl in approval. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, hitting that spot inside her that made stars burst behind her eyelids. She collapsed onto Negan, her back against his chest. Daryl's hands joined his mouth, fingers spreading her lips wider so his tongue could delve deeper, flicking and sucking with fervor. “Jus–just like that..oh fuck.. I'm gonna–” She screamed out as she came again, her pussy clenching around Negan as waves of orgasm ripped through her, her moans along with Negan's filled the room, walls fluttering and milking him. Her legs shook violently as her eyes rolled back.

Daryl's movements were relentless, still sucking her clit hard, overstimulating her to the point where she couldn't stop shaking.

“Fuck. yes.” Negan snarled, thrusting harder until he followed, burying himself to the hilt and flooding her with his cum, hot spurts filling her up.

She reached down and pullled Daryl's head up by his hair. His face was flushed and they both were gasping for air.

Daryl sank onto the bed beside her, every muscle in his body finally letting go. He felt like he could barely breathe, chest still pounding from the intensity of it all. He wasn’t supposed to feel this… alive, this warm, this… wanted. And yet, here he was, pressed against her, heart hammering in a rhythm that seemed impossibly right. She’s not just Negan’s wife… she owns him now, too. More than just being a prisoner or a work slave, and his brain had a hard time processing it.

She lay in the middle, caught between them, and the absurd perfection of it made her head spin. Two men. Both hers. Both here. How did she even get here?

She felt Negan’s arm over her waist, firm and possessive, and Daryl pressing closer, lips brushing her skin, and she let herself sink into the dizzying warmth, letting the boundaries blur. She could stay like this forever. Maybe she should.

Negan, still inside her, ran his fingers along her sides, possessiveness mingling with something he hadn’t expected—pride, perhaps, or satisfaction that someone else wanted her just as badly. Damn it, she’s his wife… but hell, it turns him on seeing Daryl feel it too. He could get used to this—both of them, like this.

He felt her shift between them, and in that simple motion, he understood: this wasn’t about control. Not entirely. This was something more dangerous, more intoxicating. Something that belonged to all three of them, tangled up in ways that didn’t make sense but felt undeniably right.

In the quiet aftermath, the three of them drifted toward sleep. Exhausted, tangled, and unsteady, every thought and heartbeat lingering on the others, a slow, heavy hum of satisfaction wrapping around them. It wasn’t just sex. It was possession, desire, trust, and something purely forbidden.

A/N: If you've reached this far, please tell me your opinion :) (i hope this doesn't flop)

also I'd appreciate it if u check out my fanfiction for JDM, it's linked in my bio :)

we're also gonna ignore the fact that the Tumblr 10 image limit made me change my dividers, and the fact that i suck at writing smut.

divider by @suupersonic

[bring-forth-his-sac]

Stained: The Dinner Party

summary: you made Negan a promise and now it's time to deliver... if you can get some time alone with him

word count: 9.5k

tags: ! NSFW ! dad's best friend trope, pre-apocalypse, cheating, blowjob, face fucking, cum eating, facials, swearing & crude language, vaginal fingering, degrading names (slut, whore), semi-public kinda public secret sexual acts in front of others? Idk how to word that one but you get the gist

you can find part 1 here!!

“Hey everybody, welcome back to my channel! Here are my top tips for giving some gluck gluck before you fuck fuck!”.

You can’t believe you’ve reached this point and yet here you are. “Shit,” you mutter to yourself, turning down the volume on your phone. The last thing you need is for one of your parents to walk past and hear that introduction.

It’s been a month. One long month since you had your romp with Negan. You were supposed to see him sooner, your parents having arranged another dinner, but the Smith’s had to cancel due to Negan having Summer exams and assessments to get through. 

“Ok, first tip for when you’re slobbering on some man meat. Just because your mouth is the main focus doesn’t mean you can’t use your hands too!”.

You let the video you found online play in the background as you try to tame your hair. You have one thing on your mind tonight. The last time you saw Negan, after he gave you a fucking of a lifetime, you made him a promise. The next one of your parent’s dinner parties that he attends, you’ll suck him off. And damn right you plan on keeping that promise.

Pulling out your clothes, you dump your options on to the bed. You have to be strategic about this. Slutty but not too slutty. Modest but in a sexy secretary way, not like a nun.

“Make eye contact! And no, I don’t mean with his third eye! Guys love it when you got their… y’know… haha! …God, I hope this doesn’t get demonized but y’know, their sausage in your mouth and you look up at them”.

You cringe at the fake laughing the video is filled with. The only reason you’re watching this is to make sure you give Negan the best blowjob of his life. Where, you’re not sure yet. Under the table sounds hot but isn’t practical. Dragging him to your bedroom is way too suspicious. 

The video continues as you think. 

“And don’t forget, be enthusiastic! Take charge! Just because he’s the one getting off doesn’t mean he needs to have complete control… although that can be fun too. Huh, maybe I should do a video on not gagging next”.

Your attention shifts to a long-sleeved top. It doesn’t show much cleavage but it’s snug enough to stir the imagination. Pairing it with a skirt is non-negotiable. You already know a skirt is a must, especially if you want to give Negan easy access.

With a sigh, you reach over and turn off the video. Useless. The advice wasn’t wrong but it wasn’t the almighty best blowjob of his life material you were hoping for.

You glance at the outfit laid out on the bed. You slip them on, smoothing the fabric over your hips as you turn towards the mirror.

Not bad.

You had planned to try a few other looks, maybe something a little more casual in case this one didn’t feel right. But before you can assemble the second outfit, a cacophony of voices creeps under your door.

They’re here.

You freeze for a second. The moment’s no longer theoretical. Negan’s in your house… and so is his wife. Your name rings out, your mother’s voice carrying it. “Come say hi” she calls, her voice already in host mode. You take one last look in the mirror, fix a stray hair and open the door. 

The hallway is buzzing with life. Negan stands near the entryway, his presence commanding but relaxed in that way only he can pull off. He barely glances your way, offering a polite nod before turning his attention back to your dad, who’s already launching into something about cars. 

Lucille, on the other hand, pulls you straight into a hug the second you’re within reach. “Look at you, gorgeous! All dolled up!” she says, bracelets clinking on her wrists. You manage a smile and hug her back, slightly overwhelmed.

Everyone starts moving deeper into the house, your dad talks Negan’s ear off and your mom is caught in a flurry of Lucille’s questions about what’s for dinner. Overlapping voices bounce off the walls. You try to hang back for a second but you’re forced to move along with the chaotic current.

And then you feel it. A hand brushes against your waist and gives a brief, deliberate squeeze. It’s fleeting but you know it’s him. 

The second Negan saw you, he knew the night was going to be trouble. That outfit didn’t have him fooled. The way that top hugs you, the sway of your skirt. He barely let his eyes linger as you’re swept into the kitchen with the other ladies. Tonight, you’re a woman on a mission and damn if he didn’t respect the hell out of that.

“Honey,” your mom blindly shoves a fistful of cutlery in your direction, not bothering to look up from her work on the kitchen counter. Even with the whole day to prepare, she’s somehow behind schedule and only whipping up the batter for dessert now.

“Help set the table,” she politely orders. You know there’s no room for debate, taking the array of forks and blunt knives.

You don’t mind helping out, especially when you see Negan and your dad in the dining room already. Where Lucille has wandered to, you’re unsure. Maybe the bathroom, or maybe she entered the kitchen a few moments after you left, barely missing each other. It’s like there’s a constant rotation in and out of each room. As if to prove your point, when you enter the dining room, you almost bump into your dad as he leaves. 

You don’t waste your opportunity, not knowing any many times you’ll get to be alone with Negan tonight. “Your sweatshirt is inside my bedroom, by the door, in a bag,” you keep your voice low as you set the table “I can get it if you’d like to put it in your truck”.

You figured he’d appreciate the gesture. Straight to helping sort this shit out. Not trying to get in his pants straight away or acting as if nothing happened. Simply being practical. 

Negan gives a soft scoff but you can’t quite tell if it’s amusement or annoyance. “That’s all I get?” you almost melt as the smirk he gives you as he whispers “No hi, how are you? How’s your dick doing?”.

A mischievous smile plays at your lips. You shrug casually “Well, since you asked… how is it?”.

“Missing you” Negan answers, not missing a beat.

You try to ignore the flutter in your stomach. “I haven’t forgotten about my promise,” you mention, watching out of the corner of your eye as Negan rounds the table to you.

“Neither have I” he practically growls, crowding behind you. “The other morning, I woke up with my dick about to explode just thinking about it,” he nuzzles against you, pressing a light kiss to the side of your neck.

Despite needing to stay alert, your eyes slowly shut. You savor his scruff against your neck, making the sensitive skin tingle.

Negan isn't as aggressive as he was that night at the bar but he isn’t very soft either. It’s like he has a natural roughness to him, the way he kisses, the way he fucks. All of which you know a little too well.

Bringing your comfort to an end, you hear your mother laugh, probably at something Lucille is saying. Negan must know it too as his lips leave you. 

“My sweatshirt is in your room?” He repeats.

You nod immediately “In a Target bag, yeah”.

Negan moves away from you, back to his casual position at the other side of the table as you hurriedly finish setting the cutlery. He goes to speak again but before Negan can get a word out, your mother is bustling into the room with a hot bowl of mashed potatoes.

“New recipe!” She announces to Lucille, who trails in after her. You try not to catch her eye. 

“Instead of the usual spices, I tried being more adventurous with my potatoes” Your mother rambles. 

Lucille simply nods along, her eyes studying you instead. You barely said hi to her when she first got here, despite how friendly she was to you. All Lucille got was a smile she can only describe as pitiful and now you won’t even look at her. 

She goes to examine Negan’s body language next but when Lucille turns, she’s met with empty space. Like a ghost, he’s vanished.

“And I actually listened to the recipe this time and put honey in with the carrots!” Your mother prides herself on her skills “Carrots… oh shoot, the carrots!”. Much to your horror, your mother darts out of the room and back to the kitchen, leaving you and Lucille alone.

A beat of silence. 

Another. 

It’s only when the silence stretches a little too long do you finally lift your eyes to meet hers. She’s smiling.

“I like your skirt,” she says, her voice soft and strangely warm. “I used to wear things like that all the time when I was your age”. 

You offer a small shrug “Thanks. Honestly, I kinda forgot I had it”.

She lets out a light laugh, as if you’ve both been part of some unspoken mischief. Well, maybe you both are but if Lucille found that out, you don’t think she’d be laughing. 

“It’s a bold choice for daylight,” she says “I almost wore a dress that short today, but I came to my senses before stepping out the door”.

You're not sure whether to laugh with her or lob the nearest utensil across the table. Something about how she talks feels like both an invitation and insult.

“Negan liked it though,” she adds, her lips curling into a teasing smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The comment lands too precisely. It’s enough to make you wonder if Lucille knows or if everything she says now feels like an interrogation thanks to your own guilty conscience. You force a smile, lips pressed into a thin line and you offer a silent ‘thank you’ to the universe when your mother’s voice floats in from the kitchen, calling your name.

Lucille’s smile lingers, soft and undisturbed, as you retreat. She doesn’t so much as blink. The image must remain untouched: the perfect wife with the perfect life, part of a marriage that still radiates that golden glow of first love. At least, that’s what she tells herself. Now, if only she could track down her damn husband to complete the illusion.

Lucille moves with practiced grace, her heels silent on the floor as she slips out of the dining room. She skirts the kitchen without a glance, already knowing if Negan were in there, she’d have heard his laugh by now, booming and obnoxious as always when he's trying to charm someone. Either you or your mother. The uncertainty around which one makes her queasy. 

The bathroom door hangs open. No voices float down the hall. No telltale murmur of sports stats or banter with your dad. Her brow twitches. Where the hell did he go? As she passes the front window, something outside catches her eye. A flash of movement. Bingo.

Negan shuts the car door with a thud, leaving the bag with his sweatshirt on the back seat. Thankfully, he’s already decided to grab the opportunity to have a cigarette while outside, giving himself the perfect alibi as Lucille steps out the front door.

“Hey” she plainly says, walking down the porch steps.

“Hey yourself,” Negan mutters, flicking his lighter to life. The cigarette catches and he takes a long drag, eyes half-lidded as if this were the most peaceful moment he’d had all day.

Lucille doesn’t return the ease. “You already need a smoke break?”.

Negan lets out a dry laugh that doesn’t quite make it past his throat. “Nope. Just figured I’d come out here and take a shit on their lawn” he answers sarcastically.

Lucille doesn’t suppress any part of her reaction. The breath she exhales is sharp. Her arms fold across her chest, shoulders drawn tight. The eye roll is textbook. And none of it is subtle.

 “Can you not for, like… the two hours we’ll be here? That’s all I ask” she snips back. She pauses for a moment, sniffs and then sighs “Now you’re going to stink”.

He shrugs, glancing toward the house with vague disinterest. “The place already smells like someone cremated a vegetable patch. I doubt my cigarette’s gonna make the top ten list of offences”.

Whatever fantasy Lucille has been holding onto, the white-picket fences and synchronized laughter, begins to waver and fray around the edges. Her lips press into a tight line.

“Just put it out and get back inside,” she says, already turning on her heels.

She doesn’t wait for his reply. If she stays out here any longer, she’ll lose whatever thread of control she has left. The door swings shut behind her.

Negan watches the smoke curl up from his cigarette, then exhales a slow stream of it through his nose. The evening has already been a pain in the ass. Now, it’s worse. If he had been thinking about dragging you somewhere quiet before, that thought’s locked in now.

Guilt doesn't hit as hard when all he gets from his wife are barbed jabs and a cold shoulder. Maybe he’s not innocent either. He knows his jokes have a way of biting back but hell, lately it feels like even breathing wrong is a crime.

They’re fucked, really. Negan knows it and deep down and he assumes Lucille does too. But how can either one of them back out of the marriage now when they’ve sunken so much into it? A mortgage, a house, loans, debts. Damn, Negan really needs your sweet mouth around him now. The perfect distraction from the hole he’s dug himself.

You try not to be obvious as you look for Negan. He’s not with your dad or in the dining room. You haven’t seen Lucille either which gives you an odd feeling of dread, knowing they’ve both disappeared. But before you have to worry for long, your mother calls for everyone to get seated for dinner. 

You settle into your seat, subtly ensuring the chair next to you remains vacant. You're not confident (or stupid) enough to give a Negan a handy while everyone is having dinner but a little touching here and there shouldn’t hurt, right?

Even when your mother sits at one side of you, you still have some hope as Negan and Lucille enter. You don’t let it interfere with your plans, the empty space on your other side holding your hope. His eyes meet yours and you feel like a tween going through puberty as you instantly smile. But that’s when the free chair beside you scrapes against the floor.

Like a bewildered animal, your head snaps in that direction to see another smile. Lucille. Again. 

… Great.

“This seat taken?” she asks, already sitting down.

Like some sick nightmare, Negan has to sit in front of the two women in his life: you and his wife. He tries not to be awkward about it, selfishly not meeting your eyes as Lucille badgers you with questions.

"Got a boyfriend yet? I’m sure there’s a line of them after you,” she compliments “When I was your age, it was boys, parties, always out with friends. Life never slowed down”.

She barely takes a breath before continuing.

“Have you thought about moving out? Getting your own place? I did it around your age, had a place with a few girlfriends. It was wild. Eventually it felt like home, like it was really mine. Maybe it’s time you tried that too. Not just yet, I guess, but hopefully soon, right?".

You spear a forkful of greens and chew with exaggerated focus, nodding along as if Lucille’s barrage of personal questions hasn’t just lit your cheeks on fire. Sure, because still living with your parents is something you want to be quizzed about! 

Thankfully, or maybe unfortunately, Lucille moves the conversation on to your mother instead. “How would you feel about it? Think you would get empty nest syndrome?” she asks.

Negan tries not to wince as he eavesdrops, pretending to listen to your dad shittalking his co-workers. People say Negan’s the brash and direct one but goddamn, he knows Lucille can come straight out with it sometimes.

He sees it happen, so slow and subtle, and yet the most obvious thing in the room. Your posture, once open and lively, now folding in on itself like a page being creased. The spark behind your eyes has dulled, replaced by that quiet look people wear when they’re trying not to feel too much. You’re retreating and something about it twists in his chest in a way he didn’t expect.

Negan hates it. Hates that look on you. Hates that Lucille’s running her mouth without a clue, and that he’s just sitting here, watching it happen.

Without thinking, he shifts in his seat and slides his foot across the floor under the table. Just a small nudge. A silent gesture. He hopes it lands gently against your ankle, enough to catch your attention without making a scene. 

His way of saying ‘I see you, baby’.

But the contact he makes isn’t with your foot. 

Across from him, Lucille doesn’t say a word. Her smile doesn't change, and her tone stays light as she continues chatting with your mother. Negan feels the light pressure in return. A slow and smooth, gentle graze up the side of his calf. He exhales, just a little, the knot in his chest loosening.

In his mind, this is your way of answering him. A quiet ‘I’m okay’. 

He doesn’t look at you directly. Just a small, sweeping glance. But what he sees only deepens that warmth: the way you're acting completely natural, your face still quiet but softer now, as if you feel it too.

Negan doesn’t realize that it’s not your foot gently stroking his leg under the table. Nor does he see the barely there smile playing at the corners of Lucille’s mouth as she continues her conversation, pretending nothing is happening. Her leg remains where it is, answering a call Negan isn’t actually posing her.

Remaining completely oblivious, you chew mundanely on your food. You pray you’ll get a chance alone with Negan, trying to come up with different excuses or scenarios that would allow it. Unable to help himself, Negan steals another glance your way. His gaze is gentle but full of something far too close to longing.

He doesn’t even realize the softness in his expression, the unguarded affection carved into his features. It’s the kind of look no one gives their wife after years of a marriage built more on duty than desire. It’s the look of a man who’s found something he thought was long gone. Hope. Lust. Yearning.

And Lucille sees it.

At first, she’s still convinced the foot under the table means what she wants it to mean. Her leg lingers against his, her smile patient and waiting for him to respond. Anything. A smirk or a quick look her way to confirm the game she thinks they’re playing. But when she follows the direction of his gaze and sees who it’s truly meant for, something shifts in her.

The realization comes slow. She watches the way Negan looks at you and her stomach turns. There’s no flirtation in his eyes when they land on you. No coyness. Just a quiet ache of something raw, real and undeniably not meant for her.

Her smile falters. It’s small, almost imperceptible but it’s there. The first crack in the polished exterior. She blinks, refocuses on her plate, and subtly draws her leg back under the table, leaving a space between her and Negan where, for a brief moment, she thought something still lived.

Negan still hasn’t noticed. His eyes going from you to the occasional nod and look in your father’s direction as he pretends to pay attention. 

You only look up because the scrap of your fork against your plate feels too loud. The hum of overlapping conversations blurs into the background as your gaze lifts, landing on him. Negan. Goddamnit maybe dropping your fork and getting under the table wouldn’t be such a bad idea. 

At this point, any apprehension you felt about sucking him off is long gone. Now you just want to unzip his pants and get it out.

The rest of dinner unfolds in a muted haze. Your mother and Lucille carry most of the conversation, chatting about mutual friends and upcoming functions, their voices a constant thread weaving through the meal.

Across the table, Negan and your father exchange low, obligatory small talk. Work, sports, something about the grill. You mostly keep to yourself, quietly eating while nodding politely whenever your mother or Lucille pulls you into the flow of conversation.

After the plates are clean of any food, the table begins to empty. Your father claps Negan on the back and steers him toward the living room, already launching into some half-hearted commentary about the game that’s on. Negan goes with him, disappearing into the living room as your dad shuts the door.

Your mother, ever the hostess, is already stacking plates, humming to herself as she bustles into the kitchen. You follow with a handful of glasses and Lucille trails behind, offering to help put things away. You nod along, moving through the motions of cleanup while the conversation floats around you.

But you’re not done yet. You still have a dick appointment you’re determined to get to. You catch a moment and begin to meander towards the hall when your mother notices your slow edging towards the door. 

“Honey? Where are you off to?” she questions but thankfully doesn’t give you enough time to answer, already continuing the conversation on her own “Just leave the boys alone, ok? You know what they’re like when it comes to sport”.

She turns to Lucille, having already lost interest in you. “They act like they’re in their own personal conclave! And I don’t mind it, it gives us some peace and quiet but do they always have to hog the tv?”.

You slip out before Lucille replies to her. Unfortunately, you know your mother is right. Going into the men while they’re in sports mode won’t achieve anything. Actually, all that will do is make you more horny since you’ll be in his presence again. So instead, you haunt the hall, hovering so you’ll hear any movement. Maybe then you can coax him into your room.

In the living room, your father leans back into the couch with a low grunt, beer in hand, eyes on the muted game on the television. Negan sits beside him, feigning interest. His gaze drifts towards the door. Negan can feel himself getting antsy but he knows he has a role to play.

“Jesus, you see that throw?” he commentates on the game, chuckling “Kid’s got an arm like a rocket launcher but that defense makes me think he has shit for brains”.

Your dad laughs, and the two keep the steady rhythm of back-and-forth, Negan tossing in his usual sarcastic jabs and colourful commentary. 

But every few minutes, his eyes stray toward the door again. Negan knows he needs to see you, to feel you. Being as casual as possible, he stands with a stretch. 

“Alright,” Negan says “Think I’ll go see what the ladies are up to, ask how long ‘til dessert’s ready”. Your dad waves him off, paying more attention to the game than Negan slipping out.

When Negan goes out to the quiet hallway, he breathes a silent sigh of relief. He needs a moment to slip away, to ease the itch under his skin with a quick smoke and silence. Laughter can be heard behind the closed kitchen door. It’s the kind of sound that should feel warm but only makes him feel out of place.

He slides a hand into his pocket, fingertips brushing the worn edge of his lighter when he hears you.

“Hi,” is all you say, almost shyly.

That’s already enough to make Negan want to scoff. You’re a lot of things but as you displayed the last time he saw you, you ain’t shy. 

“Tonight’s not really going how I expected” you admit.

Negan assesses you carefully. “So you weren’t expecting dinner and a headache?” he says, voice low and a little rough. He doesn’t have to glance toward the kitchen for you to catch his meaning. The nattering, the laughter, neither wife has let up.

You shrug, the slow curl of your shoulder borders on playful. “I mean, I was expecting a headache,” you murmur “just not from them”.

A faint ghost of a smirk graces his face. “Not exactly the easiest place for a… quiet moment,” he mutters. 

You huff a soft laugh through your nose, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “A few minutes of privacy is all we’d need” you reply in a teasing tone.

That brings out his smirk unapologetically. “Just a few minutes? Someone’s confident in their abilities” Negan muses. 

A few minutes. It doesn’t sound like a big ask but apparently it is. With your dad planted on the couch and the kitchen full of wine-soaked commentary and stories that won’t end, every chance keeps slipping through your fingers.

You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to call your name. Instead, you notice something at the end of the hallway. 

The bathroom door cracked open. 

You look back at Negan, a spark lighting behind your eyes. “What about in there?” you ask, tilting your head towards it. Your voice is just above a whisper now, conspiratorial. 

His eyes follow your line of sight, then return to yours. For the first time all evening, it feels like maybe the night isn’t a complete loss.

That glint in his eyes sharpens, like he’s been waiting for the green light that he didn’t think would actually come. “You serious?” he questions, already angling his body toward the door like gravity’s working in your favor now.

You don’t answer, the flash of a promiscuous look being enough. Turning on your heels, you hear Negan already moving behind you, both of you making a b-line for the bathroom. 

A hand brushes against your lower back to urge you forward, or maybe to steady himself from the thrill of it. A burst of laughter echoing from the kitchen makes you almost break into a run. Negan must feel the pump of adrenaline too as he nudges you along. 

You slide inside first, turning quickly to pull him in behind you. He catches the handle just before it clicks too loud, easing it shut with the care of someone defusing a bomb. Then the lock turns with a soft yet satisfying snap.

Your heart flutters and you try to convince yourself it’s the adrenaline and not the nerves of giving a bad blowjob. But you don’t let it deter you. This isn’t the time to get hesitant and coy.

Like that video said, be enthusiastic! Time to put your money where your mouth is… well, put his dick where your mouth is actually.

Negan took charge the last time and so you do what you can to set yourself up as the one controlling things this time. Getting down on your knees, your hands latch on to his belt as you look up at him.

“I’ve been waiting for my dessert,” you purr, slowly tracing a hand down to his bulge. 

Negan sucks in through his teeth, back hitting off the wall. He can see you’re eager, that’s for sure. And so he keeps his hands by his side, letting you have your fun first. 

He groans at the pressure of your hand giving his bulge a small squeeze. “Fuck me…” he whispers, trying to compose himself already. With a deep breath, he asks “You sure you wanna do this?”.

“I made a promise, didn’t I?” You reply with a smile, slowly unbuckling his belt.

“Fuck yeah you did,” he keeps his voice low, hands twitching to bury into your hair.

Popping open the button of his jeans, you tug down the zip. There’s a nervous excitement in your stomach as you unwrap your present, the tips from the horrendous video linger in the back of your mind. 

Pushing his jeans and boxers down just enough, you free his stiffening cock. Negan can feel his lust dulling his inhibitions. All signs say to stop and yet he can’t help himself growling out a command to you.

“Suck”.

Slowly, you bring your mouth to the tip. You remember to use your hands, holding the base as you lick the smooth head. "Sweet Jesus..." he hisses through clenched teeth, watching as your tongue teases the sensitive tip. 

"Baby," Negan groans, hips shifting forward slightly "Less teasing, more sucking. Time's a-tickin'.”

As much as he loves this, he knows your time together is limited. His hands can’t help themselves anymore, going to your hair as if there’s a magnetic pull. 

You take the tip and just a bit more into your mouth. You suck gently, applying light pressure as you pull back, letting the head slip out of your mouth with an audible pop. You repeat this motion slowly, taking as much as you can into your mouth.

Negan watches as you try to take him deeper, your cheeks hollowing out as you suck. He's too big for you to deepthroat but he loves how your lips stretch around him.

When you tighten your grip, wrapping your hands around what you can’t get into your mouth as you bob your head up and down, Negan thinks you might suck whatever measly soul he has straight out of his dick.

His eyes roll back slightly, enjoying the sight of you working him. "That's it," he encourages, hips instinctively moving in sync with your mouth "just like that". He groans, his hand guiding your head gently. You gag, more of him having gone into you than you anticipated. With a slight splutter, you pull back and breathe. 

“Sorry” you quickly wipe away some spit threatening to dribble out of your mouth. "Shh, it's okay," he whispers "but fuck sweetheart, I'm gonna cum in your mouth if you keep doing that”. 

You give a smirk, regaining your breathing. Holding his cock, you lick up the underside, feeling Negan’s hands tighten in your hair.

“But you promised me a facial” you pretend to pout before focusing on sucking the tip again.

"Fuck I know..." He watches hungrily as you suck the head, his balls tightening. His grip in your hair starts to guide you faster as he yearns to cum and paint that pretty face of yours.

"Suck harder, I know you can… where’s the fuckin’ slut from before gone, eh?" Negan pants, that degrading man you met at the bar starting to come out.

You give a small moan, staring up at him. His cock goes further back your throat again but this time you try not to gag, concentrating on sucking him off. 

You’re a walking contradiction and Negan loves it. Big innocent eyes looking up at him, but with the eager  mouth of a whore that just got a hundred bucks.

"You look like you should be on your knees taking communion, not sucking dick,” his voice drops an octave, watching your lips stretch around him "Choke on it?".

You blink for a moment, tears almost running down your face as you take in his request. Going as far down as you can, his cock fills your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. You feel your throat convulse but you hold position. 

A strangled noise leaves you but it only makes his dick throb. “Y’could be a world class slut, you know that?” With lust taking over, Negan’s hands pull your head down further. 

Drool pools in your mouth, overflowing down your chin. Despite your brain hardly functioning, you gently cup his balls with your hands, trying to do as much as possible for him. Holding position for a few seconds, you pull back, spit following you as you catch your breath again. 

"You’re killing me..." Negan groans as you pull back, letting you catch your breath before diving back in. His hands guide your head, setting a pace that's fast but shallow.

"Keep looking up at me like that,” he orders “wanna see you take it”.

As you concentrate not gagging, you can feel the wet warmth between your own legs building. Each shallow thrust of his hips, each taste of pre-cum, makes your core ache with desire. Your panties become damp as your arousal grows and you can't help but press your thighs together.

"Fucking beautiful," he says, his voice thick with lust. It’s like Negan can’t decide what he wants. One moment he’s pushing your head further down his dick but the next he’s pulling your head back so he can see your tear-streaked face better. You don’t mind though, trying to catch a breath whenever you can.

You don’t hear every word he says, the noises coming from your own mouth distracting you. " …pathetic slut..." you hear him say, before he corrects himself “... my pathetic slut“.

The words only encourage you. Your hands work in tandem with your mouth, knowing you can’t possibly have much more time with him alone. Surely someone will come looking for one of you soon. Or someone will need to use the bathroom.

He grabs a handful of your hair, forcing your head down harder onto his dick “Open your fucking mouth wider”. You try to do so but you gag around him.

"Take it, baby, I know you can" he growls, pushing your head down further despite your gagging. His hips start moving, fucking your mouth roughly. Each thrust resonates through your entire body. Thankfully, your gagging eases but you can still feel your reflex attempt to trigger with each thrust of his dick.

"Shit..." Negan sees the mess he’s making of you. The spit. The tears that naturally come with gagging so much. And he can only fantasize about the mess in your panties.

Pulling your head back sharply, his length slaps against your cheek. You give a small whine as he does, having little time to process what’s happening as you follow his orders.

"Open," He grunts, fisting his length tightly “Wanna see how much I get in”.

Your mouth stays open, tongue out and ready to catch his cum. You don’t have to wait long until you feel the ropes of warm cum landing, but not just on your tongue. Negan paints your face.

Cheeks. Nose. Chin. Lips.

“That’s it” He approves, giving a few final strokes before squeezing out the last drops onto your tongue.

You don’t need a mirror to know you look a mess and the laugh Negan let’s out seems to confirm your thoughts. "You look like a damn porno" he says.

Letting go of your hair, he brings a hand around to your face, spreading the cum by your mouth around your lips. You take the opportunity to suck his thumb, licking the cum off and swallowing all he had given you.

You let it go with a small pop, mimicking the same treatment his dick got. “Was it good?” You ask, your hoarse voice surprising you.

"Was it good?" He repeats, chuckling deeply as he stuffs his softening dick back into his pants. "You're fucking kidding me, right? Look at you. You're a goddamn mess” He gestures to your cum-covered face, a smug grin on his face. 

You're unsure whether or not that answers your question, or if any of it is a good thing. Negan sees the cogs turning in your head. ”You took that like a pro, sweetheart" he assures you, gently helping you up onto your feet.

Not done teasing yet, you gather other spurts of cum from your cheeks and lick that off your fingers next.

“Thanks” you shrug, playing off how relieved you are. 

Negan grins widely, impressed by your dedication. “You’re a fuckin’ keeper, you know that?” He drawls, reaching a hand out to ruffle your already messed up hair. It’s strange to feel such a platonic action after he’s just fucked your face but that’s who Negan is, you suppose. 

One minute you’re being chastised for wearing provocative clothing. The next, Negan is tearing your dress off in a public bathroom. One minute you’re slut or whore, the next you’re ‘sweetheart’ again. 

The only constant so far is bathrooms. That makes you pause for a moment before saying “We have to stop doing this by a toilet. It’s weird”.

He barks out a laugh at that, quickly covering his mouth. Negan waits a moment, waiting for someone to come see what’s going on. But when no one interrupts, he continues “You stay at, uh… what’s that friend of yours name again? The one you lied to your folks about being with the last time?”.

“Lydia,” you answer, turning on the sink tap. Catching a look of yourself, you’re surprised you don’t look half bad. Maybe stained looks good on you. 

“Right, you sleep over at hers often?” He asks, taking his time as he buckles his belt.

You carefully splash some on your face “I guess, yeah… why?”.

“So if you told them you were staying at hers some night, they’d believe it?” Negan asks “No questions asked?”.

You nod, eyes meeting his and you try to manage your hair. The smirk says it all.

“Huh… all I’d need to do is feed Lucille some shit and we could have a night away somewhere, finally get you alone without sneaking around”.

Your body screams at the idea but you try not to show your excitement. “You’d have to pay for the hotel room though,” you say snarkily “I think that’s the least you could do”.

He laughs again, lower this time. “Careful baby,” he gives you ass a firm smack as he passes for the door. The sting makes you jolt, half from the hit but half from the way he’s already slipping away.

You always knew your time with him came in fleeting, stolen slices. But that doesn’t make it any less confusing. Or any easier.

“Wait,” you blurt out, the word catching before it’s fully formed. Negan freezes, one hand resting on the lock. Slowly, he turns his head back to you.

“What about me?” you ask, voice quieter now. He doesn’t answer straight away. Letting it linger for a moment, the anticipation builds.

Negan lets out a low whistle. “Oh, sweetcheeks,” he drawls, voice dripping with that infuriating charm “You know I wanna eat that pussy like it’s my last meal but…”. He clicks his tongue, mock sympathy curling in his tone. “Time just ain’t on our side, honey.”

And just like that, he slips out the door with maddening ease, leaving behind a whole lot of unfinished business. You let out a huff.

He called you a whore but at least they get paid. All you got for your efforts was a smack on the ass and a bare face, most of your make-up having washed away with his cum. 

Negan knows your type, knows you’d probably jump him if he didn’t leave the bathroom. One taste of dick and you’ll be wet all day. The thought alone makes his dick throb again, already missing your mouth.

Going back into the sitting room, your dad is like a statue, in the same position as before. Negan gives a grimacing tight lipped smile, as if he got caught doing something he shouldn’t. 

Sitting back down on his spot on the couch, Negan apologizes “Sorry if I smell like smoke”.

He’d rather your dad think he was having a cigarette outside rather than face fucking the man’s daughter. Your dad waves off Negan’s faux concern, mumbling the moments of the game he missed. Negan sinks into the couch comfortably, knowing that as long as you don’t make it obvious, you’ve both gotten away with another escapade. 

Still in the bathroom, cool water runs over your wrists as you try to bring your heart rate back down. You smooth a hand down your top but thankfully everything looks fine. Small mercies there’s not drops of Negan splattered all over your outfit.

The click of the doorknob spins your stomach before your brain can catch up. The door swings open and your mother steps in, mid-sentence on about wine refills when he sees you.

“Jesus!” she yelps, hand flying to her chest “You scared me half to death!”.

You whip around, just as startled. “Sorry! I—sorry, I mustn’t have locked it” you blabber.

She narrows her gaze, scanning your face like she's the Terminator instead of your mother. Subtle, trained and looking for anything out of the ordinary.

“You okay?” she asks.

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I just needed a minute. I’m feeling a little weird” You gesture vaguely toward the sink as if it can be your alibi. 

She frowns, but not suspiciously. You thank whatever higher power there is when her tone seems more concerned. “You feeling sick?” she presses.

“No, no. I’m fine,” You say too fast before shrugging, deciding that maybe you shouldn’t deny a good excuse “I mean, maybe, I just feel kinda strange y’know?”. 

She studies you for a moment longer. You’re fully dressed, your hair’s in place, and nothing smells like guilt or sex. Just a hint of soap and whatever dignity you managed to salvage.

“Well,” she sighs, brushing past you to grab a hairpin from the vanity. “Don’t lurk in here too long. I was about to serve dessert if you’re up for it”.

You nod again, giving a sheepish smile you hope might look weak in a sickly way. “Yeah, I think I can muster up having some cake”.

She gives you one last glance and then steps out, leaving the door open this time. Giving yourself a quick look, you silently tell yourself to keep it together.

You’re glad to see how refreshed you look. Maybe slightly breathless. And looking sort of flustered. With your panties sticking to your pussy with how wet you are. But you’re still holding it together! 

…Barely.

Squaring your shoulders, you walk out of the bathroom as if you’re going up to the frontlines of a war. Voices and clinking dishes subconsciously call for you from the dining room.

It feels a little weird to walk, your pussy practically dripping and making each step feel like another ride down the slip and slide between your legs. But you carry on nonetheless, ready to act as boring and normal as humanly possible.

The moment you round the corner, you spot an empty chair at the table and (more importantly) who’s beside it. Negan sits back in his seat, fingers curled loosely around a can of soda. 

He’s laughing at something Lucille just said as she stands with a knife in hand. Whether he’s laughing because she’s actually funny or he’s fearing for his life, you can’t tell. 

Even if Negan is a little affected by what happened five minutes ago, it doesn’t show. Not in the way his mouth curves lazily around the rim of his can, or how he only glances your way without missing a beat.

You slide into the seat next to him, carefully letting your leg brush his under the table. Lucille gives you a slight look but you can’t tell if it’s because you sat next to her husband or if you look more flushed than you initially thought. Well, if she wanted the seat, she should’ve moved faster instead of just standing there. You snooze, you lose.

Your mother bustles in from the kitchen, wearing oven mitts and holding a tray that sends waves of warm sugariness through the room.

“Hot out of the oven,” she announces proudly, placing the cake in the center of the table “Chocolate, just like old times”. 

Lucille lights up as she passes the knife, letting your mother do the honors. Once she’s sat down across from you both, she starts to gush “God, remember when you used to make this every weekend? I’ve been dreaming about this!”.

Your mom beams, already cutting thick slices while steam curls up from the soft centre. Your father’s voice calls faintly from the other room, a low rumble over the TV. “Pass on dessert! Game’s getting good!”. Typical.

Your mom rolls her eyes affectionately. “He’s glued to that couch,” she mutters, placing a plate in front of you.

You thank her, then glance sidelong at Negan. He finally meets your eye. Just for a second. You get no smile. No words. Just that look. That quiet, smoldering acknowledgment of what no one else knows. You lower your gaze and pick up your fork. 

The cake is warm and melts on Negan’s tongue. Still, it’s not the sweetest thing he’s wanted to taste tonight.

He chews like it‘s delicious, nods appreciatively at your mother’s proud smile as she tells them about how she found the recipe somewhere. Negan isn’t sure where though, he was too busy thinking about your pussy when your mom said that part of the story. 

He doesn’t look at you much. Negan knows it’s ridiculous but he’s sure Lucille can smell it off of him. The lies. Deception. She’s like a goddamn cadaver dog when she picks up the scent of something being awry.

Every now and then, he risks a glance your way, just to see the way your lips part around the fork in a way he knows all too well. He clears his throat and takes another sip of his drink, hoping the fizz will ground him. It doesn’t.

As delusional as it sounds, Negan was hoping to fuck you again. Now he sees that was just a wet dream. You both had your moment in the sun, where you turned his world upside down and gagged around him like there’s no tomorrow. 

He shifts in his seat, trying to play it off his own dirty thoughts. He adds a lazy comment to the conversation, a dry “Mmhmm,” and “Yeah, taste’s great”. Lucille nods along and Negan hopes he’s doing enough to convince her he’s listening.

But no matter how much he tries, his mind isn’t on the cake. It’s on the bathroom and on what he didn’t get enough of.

Lucille dabs the corner of her mouth and launches into a story from years ago. Negan nods at the right moments, even chuckles once or twice. But under the table, his hand edges across to your soft thigh.

His fingers splay out and spread across your thigh possessively. You shove a piece of cake into your mouth to stop yourself from smirking. You may have it bad for Negan, but it certainly feels like he can’t get enough of you either.  

Trying to act natural, you slowly open your thighs under the table. It’s difficult to look bored above the table, while below you're trying to angle your body in such a position that gives Negan access to everything.

His thumb draws circles on your inner thigh, inching closer to what he really wants. He keeps his focus on your mom, conversing normally as his hand inches dangerously close to your panties.

Nodding your head, you add “Yeah, I remember hearing about that”. Although neither your mother or Lucille directly acknowledge your participation, already jumping to some other old memory.

Negan acknowledges you though, under the table. His middle finger nudges its way around your damp panties and smoothly slides down your folds. You eat your cake casually, lowering your head so neither woman will see the pleasure in your expression. 

Like a man on a mission, the finger glides through your obvious wetness until it reaches your entrance. The finger teases your hole, pressing gently before slowly sliding inside. He enters you effortlessly, your wet pussy eagerly greeting him. His finger curls slightly, hitting that sweet spot deep inside of you.

Both of you look like the definition of calm, neither one of you letting on what’s happening. Negan keeps his arm low, making sure all the action occurs below the table cloth so that the others can’t tell his arm is angling towards you.

His finger moves with agonizing slowness, barely withdrawing before pushing back in deeper each time. He's not fingering you aggressively or quickly like he might if you were alone; instead, he's drawing out each stroke deliberately slow and shallow to torture you silently.

He snaps you out of your quiet tranquility with a compliment. "I have to say, this cake is fucking amazing,” he looks directly at your mother, a wide grin on his face as if he doesn’t have his finger in her daughter.

She waves away his compliments before Lucille steals her attention “You’ll have to give me the recipe”. It acts as the perfect distraction for Negan to add another finger inside you, stretching you out. 

“Anyways, dinner has been great but we should really get going soon” Lucille glances Negan’s way before showing off her sympathetic smile to your mom.

But your mom doesn’t catch the smile. Instead, her eyes land on you. Breathless with your mouth slightly agape. And worst of all… hardly eating your slice of cake!

"Are you feeling okay?" she asks concernedly.

Negan’s movements stifle but just for a second as you come up with a reply “Yeah— I think I’m just feeling a little flushed”.

His finger suddenly shifts upwards, finding your swollen clit and applying pressure. You have to fight to keep your breathing steady as pleasure shoots through you. Your eyes flutter briefly closed before you regain composure, trying not to squirm visibly in your seat. 

Your core tightens with impending release. With aching thighs, you do the one thing your body is begging you not to. You move your legs away from Negan and abruptly stand up, nearly knocking your chair back. The movement forces Negan’s hand to fall away, loosely dropping to his side. Your skirt whooshes slightly but it looks as though that’s been caused by your abrupt movement and not Negan’s hand. 

“Actually, I think I might lay down for a while,” you announce, eyes darting to each person “I don’t feel so good”.

Your mom simply nods, taking your excuse at face value. “Ok, I can save you some cake for later” she assures. Her eyes follow you out, giving Negan the perfect opportunity to bring his hand up to the table.

His fingers are coated with your wetness but before the others can notice, he uses his hand to pick up his last piece of cake on his plate and pop it into his mouth. He deliberately licks each finger, letting out an exaggerated groan of approval as you leave.

That asshole. Surely he wasn’t trying to make you cum. He knew you’d pull away in the end. That you’d be the one to disrupt your own pleasure. As if you had a choice.

You’re only in your bedroom a few minutes when you hear the goodbyes begin.

“We’ll have to do this again soon!”.

“Next time, I’ll make brownies!”.

“Just make sure the next time it’s not on the same day as the game, ok?”.

You’re not called to say goodbye. After all, you’re too ‘sick’ or ‘faint‘ or whatever excuse is most believable to your mother. With a huff, you flop on to your bed. Your panties are still sticking to you but now all you have is yourself to fix that problem. Rolling over on to your side, you mutter “Fucking asshole…”.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

Lucille doesn’t start talking until they’re nearly home. Negan doesn’t press her. He can feel the weight of whatever she’s building up to and figures it’s only a matter of time before she lets it out.

“She looks at you weird”.

Negan makes a low sound in his throat. It’s not quite agreement, more like he’s trying to figure out where she’s going with this. He silently hopes the next name she mentions is your mom but of course, it’s your name that leaves her lips. 

“It’s like she just… watches. Everything. But especially you” Lucille explains “You haven’t noticed that?”.

Negan raises an eyebrow. “So she’s the one doing all the watching but somehow you’re catching every second of it? Sounds like you’re doing a fair bit of eyeballing yourself”. He gives a short laugh, hoping to deflect her unease with a joke. It doesn’t work. She responds with a scoff, all sharp edges.

“I’m being serious”.

“Yeah and I am too,” he lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug, eyes still on the road “so she’s not a chatterbox. Whatever”.

Lucille quietly stews for a few moments. Negan hopes he’s almost in the clear when he turns down onto their street, but peace is a fickle thing.

“I bet she’s got a thing for you.”

He rolls his eyes instinctively. “Nice to know you think I’ve still got universal appeal, honey,” he replies dryly as if it doesn’t stroke his ego.

He pulls into their driveway. Their little house, slightly run-down but comfortably familiar, greets him with its tilted porch steps and overgrown lawn. Never has crooked suburbia looked so inviting.

He tries to use Lucille’s next stewing period of silence to make his escape out of the car, swiftly turning off the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Do you know the last time I went to theirs, she came back from her friend's place wearing your sweatshirt,” Lucille watches his movements pause at that revelation. “Wouldn’t know how she got that, would you?” she questions.

Negan looks to her, tongue running along the backs of his teeth as he thinks.

“I gave it to her as a souvenir after I fucked her, is that what you want to hear?” he shoots back “Jesus fucking Christ, Lucille, is this going to be it now? Is she the next woman I must be fucking?”.

It’s shitty, he knows. But Negan also knows the best form of defense is attack. Or, at least it’s always worked out for him that way.

Lucille physically shudders at the idea of that, her voice raising as she argues back “Well, you were definitely eye-fucking her tonight at the table. Right in front of me!”.

Negan snorts. “Before or after you tried to embarrass her in front of everyone?” his tone is sharper now “Because what you call eye-fucking, I call trying to make sure she didn’t burst into tears in the mashed potatoes.”

Negan hopes none of the neighbors are passing by. Even with the two of them still in the car, he’s sure anyone passing by would be able to hear their raised voices.

“You really think I didn’t just toss her that sweatshirt the last time they came over here for dinner? Maybe when I was showing her shit in the garage? That ever cross your mind?” His voice tightens as he adds, “Or was I fucking her in the back of the car then too, Lucille? You tell me since you apparently know everything”.

“You're twisting my words!” She argues “All I’m saying is she obviously has the hots for you and you being friendly will give her the wrong idea”.

To Negan, this feels like a win. A messy, backhanded one but still a win nonetheless. Lucille has shifted from accusing him directly to blaming it all on you, like she’s just trying to warn him of your supposed crush.

“Fuck, it’s like I can’t even talk to you anymore,” Lucille mutters, rubbing a hand down her face, not caring whether it smears her makeup.

“Not without accusing me of fucking somebody” Negan jabs back. 

That’s enough for Lucille, undoing her seatbelt carelessly and kicking open the car door.

Ding!

Negan feels his balls tighten when his phone dings with a message. But if his balls are telling him one thing, it’s to lean into the mess.

“Want to check that?” Negan pulls his phone out of his pocket, waggling it as Lucille gets out of the car “Could be her, maybe she’s sending me a nude”.

Lucille doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just slams the car door hard enough to rattle the windows and throws a middle finger over her shoulder as she storms towards the house.

Negan watches her go, expression flat. He knows he’s going to be in the shitter for the night but when he opens up the notification, he thinks it might be worth it. There to greet him is a text he assumes must be you.

“Got number from dad’s phone. Book that hotel room asap”.

[morutelolita]

────𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞 ⋮ 𝔑𝔢𝔤𝔞𝔫 𝔖𝔪𝔦𝔱𝔥

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: He's everything you should fear, yet somehow everything you crave. One night. One decision. And no turning back.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Age Gap ⋮ Loss Of Virginity ⋮ Smut ⋮ Language ⋮ Angst ⋮ Cunnilingus ⋮ Unprotected Sex

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.975 ⋮ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Virgin Fem!Reader

𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋮ 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨 ⋮ 𝐍𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐒𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋮ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

You hadn’t seen him before, not like this. The way he walked into Alexandria, like he owned the place with that grin that made you gulp in a way you hated to admit. Negan. The man who’d haunted your nightmares, the man who had killed Glenn, Abraham—friends who mattered. You had heard of it, of course. Everyone had—the infamous Negan—the man who controlled the Saviors.

And he didn’t come alone. Of course, he didn’t. His Saviors stood right behind him, all armed and ready to kill whenever he told them to.

Rick was already waiting near the gate of Alexandria, looking more than just nervous while trying to act like he wasn’t following Negan’s orders. But you could see it in his eyes—the way his body was tense like he was trying to remember how to breathe around this man who had broken him several times by now.

And that was it. The first time you laid eyes on Negan.

He went over to Rick immediately while the rest of the group watched silently, and you couldn’t help but watch too, unable to look away.

"Negan," Rick greeted, in a way like he was trying to hold on to some dignity. "What do you want this time?"

"Oh, Rick, Rick, Rick," Negan said, clicking his tongue. "Always so goddamn polite." He let out a laugh, stepping toward him. "I’m here for my shit, as usual. You know how it goes. Supplies, gas, and food. Everything you can manage. And you sure as shit can manage that, right?"

Negan looked around then, his eyes looking over the rest of the group. He seemed amused as he watched the faces, and when he caught your eye, you felt it. That feeling. That weird moment where it felt like the entire community was watching. It was short, but it was enough to make your heart race.

And then he was back to Rick, giving him a pat on the shoulder that made him visibly flinch.

"You’ve done well, Rick," Negan said as if Rick were some dog that had finally learned to roll over. "Now, if you’ve got any more of my stuff, we can end this real quick, and I’ll be on my way. You sure as shit don’t mind a little bonus, do you?"

You hated the way Rick flinched and how he didn’t say anything. He just nodded.

Then Negan’s eyes were back on you, and this time he didn’t look away, while that grin of his turned into something a little less mocking and a little more… calculating. There was something about the way he looked at you—like he was trying to figure you out, or maybe just taking his time with the show.

He straightened up fast, pushing Rick aside as he moved closer to you. "What’s your name, sweetheart?"

"None of your damn business," you shot back, unable to stop the hate in your voice.

Negan raised an eyebrow, amused. "So aggressive… I like that. But you’re still not going to tell me, young lady?"

You didn’t answer.

With a final smirk, Negan turned his attention back to Rick, shaking his head as he moved on to collect his supplies.

"Now, Rick, I’m going to need some more supplies, or we’re going to have a problem. And you don’t want that."

You stood there, watching. And it wasn’t just Negan’s words that stuck with you—it was the way he had looked at you. That quick second where you felt something. Something dangerous.

Negan Smith sure as hell was trouble—the kind you didn’t need, but the kind of trouble you wanted to know more about.

Over the next few weeks, you couldn’t avoid him. No matter how hard you tried to stick to your routine or slip away from Alexandria, Negan always seemed to cross your path.

It started small—little things, like looking into his eyes again. It wasn’t just the way he looked back at you; it was the way he began to size you up—like he knew you inside out. He wasn’t just playing with you—at least not in the way you thought. He seemed interested.

You’d be working with the others, repairing gear, or doing your usual chores, and he’d just appear, like some bad dream, some nightmare that wouldn’t leave.

"Well, well, look who it is," he’d said, standing a little too close. "What’s it like, huh? Living in this boring-ass little town?"

"Don’t you have something else to do, Negan?" You didn’t even try to hide the annoyance and the irritation in your voice. But you hated how easily he made your heart race, how every word out of his mouth felt like a game, one that you weren’t sure you wanted to play.

"Oh, I do have something to do," he said, smirking at you. "But I can always make time for you." He leaned in, just enough to make you feel trapped.

You stiffened, swallowing back the urge to snap at him and tell him to go fuck himself. But before you could say anything, one of the Saviors—Simon, you thought—approached.

"Negan," Simon called out. "We’ve got the supplies loaded. We're ready to go!"

Negan looked over his shoulder, nodding slowly. "Alright." Then, with a wink, he'd turned back to you and said, "I’ll catch you later, sweetheart."

The next few times he showed up were no different. You’d be working or standing around with some of the others, and you’d feel his eyes on you, always there—always on you. Every time you caught him, it was as if he was trying to break you open, piece by piece.

And he wasn’t afraid to cross the line. Not once.

"Hey, doll," Negan called out one afternoon when you were walking toward his truck, your arms full of supplies. "You know, Rick’s got himself a real tough girl on his hands. Bet he doesn’t know how to handle someone like you. Or does he handle you quite well?"

You could feel the heat in your face, your cheeks turning red just a little. You knew what he was doing—trying to get under your skin, trying to make you react. But the more he did it, the more you found yourself struggling to hide the fact that you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Even when you told yourself to stay cool and not let him get to you, it was somehow impossible.

"Keep it up, Negan," you shot back. "I’m not impressed. Try harder."

Negan’s grin only widened. "Oh, but I sure as hell think you are. Why, do you like it hard?"

But before you could answer him, a voice cut you off.

"Hey!" Rick shouted from a few feet away. "Leave her alone!"

Negan looked at him, laughing out loud. "Oh, Rick, Rick, Rick," he said, shaking his head, still eyeing you. "Don’t worry, your little girl here can take it. And she likes it hard. I can tell."

Rick stepped forward, but Simon and the other Saviors moved in quickly, creating a barrier between the both of them. It was a warning to everyone: stay in your place.

"Fuck off, Negan," you whispered, trying to push past him, but he didn't let you.

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. "Oh, I will. But first, tell me something, doll," he said, leaning in close. "How about you stop pretending you don’t like the attention?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because the truth—that truth—was something you didn’t want to admit.

Not yet.

You didn’t have time to process it. Rick was already pulling you aside, his face looking angry.

"Listen," he growled, gripping your arm a little too tightly, which made you wince. "You need to keep your fucking distance from him. I’ve warned you about Negan, about the Saviors. Told you what they did, what he did."

"I can handle myself just fine," you snapped back, ripping your arm free from his grip.

Rick’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not seeing things clearly. He’s a monster. Don’t let him get in your head, alright?"

You scoffed, shaking your head. "I’m not some helpless little girl, Rick. I might still be young in your eyes, but you don’t need to babysit me. I'm not a damn child! Not anymore!"

"You think I’m babysitting you?" Rick hissed. "I’m trying to keep you safe, trying to keep all of us safe. You can’t fuck around with him, and you sure as hell can’t challenge him like that in front of the rest of the Saviors. Do you know what you’re doing? It’s dangerous."

Dangerous? The thought was gnawing at you. You hadn’t challenged Negan—at least, you didn’t think you had.

The days passed again after Negan’s last visit, and you found yourself constantly wondering when he’d show up again, what he’d say, and what he’d do. You told yourself you hated him—what he represented, the way he treated Rick and the others in your group—but the truth was you couldn’t deny that he made you feel something.

Then it happened again. Negan rolled into Alexandria, and you were standing off to the side, as usual, trying to stay out of his way, but your eyes couldn’t help but follow him.

Then, everything went to shit.

Carl soon was on his knees, Lucille raised high above his head. The sudden sound of the bat against the ground sent a shiver down your spine. Rick was scared, just like the others—defeated, sobbing, begging.

"Do you see what happens when you don’t follow the damn rules, Rick?" Negan's voice was cold. "Your little boy here gets a taste of what happens when his Daddy doesn’t play nice and doesn't give me what is mine."

You clenched your fists, your body trembling. Rick was a wreck, barely holding it together as he watched his son kneel in front of Negan like a lamb ready for slaughter.

"Please," Rick whispered as he tried to reason, "just… just let him go. I’ll do anything. Just don’t kill him! I swear, there must've been a misunderstanding while loading up the supplies the last time! We gave you everything we could! I promise!"

"Excuses… excuses. Bullshit. I warned you to not fuck with me. Do not make me tell you twice, Rick. You know I’m going to do it if you don’t get me what I want. Now, what’s it going to be? I could end this little bastard right here, right now."

Rick’s face was pale, his eyes all red and swollen, and Negan smiled, loving every second of it. "You’ll do anything, huh? Well, I’ve got an idea. Now, you see, I can’t kill this little piece of shit—not yet. That’d be too easy. But I could take something else from you. I’ll let him go… but I need her."

Everything inside you froze as he pointed Lucille straight at you.

But you didn’t hesitate, not because you wanted to go with him, but because you knew—if you didn’t—Carl was dead.

"Fine. Take me." It somehow was the hardest thing you’d ever said. You hated that you had to do it, but for Carl’s life, for Rick’s sake, and everyone else, there was no other choice.

Rick's words died in his throat as he tried to keep it together. "No, no, no, no, you don’t have to—"

"I do," you interrupted, stepping forward. You wouldn’t let the Saviors take Carl’s life. "I’ll go with him."

Negan’s grin widened as he nodded, and without another word, he pulled you toward him and he began leading you to the truck. You could hear Rick’s desperate voice calling after you, but it didn’t matter anymore. This was happening.

The ride to the Sanctuary felt endless. Your mind was spinning with a dozen thoughts, none of them making sense. Once you got inside the Sanctuary, the Saviors separated you from the rest of Negan’s people, and you were brought to a small, actually cozy room.

You just stood there, trying to gather your thoughts. You couldn’t look at him—Negan—who had just played with a life like a prize.

Meanwhile, he was leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. "This is one hell of a nice room, huh? I thought you’d appreciate it. After all, you’re a guest now."

"I’m not your fucking guest," you snapped, finally looking at him, unable to keep the anger at bay. "You think this is some kind of joke? You’re the reason I’m here! You’re the one that made me choose between Carl’s life and my fucking dignity!"

Negan didn’t flinch. He just stared at you. "No, no. You’re here because you made the right choice. You chose life. You chose Carl’s life. And that’s what I like about you."

You stepped forward, fists clenched, heart racing in your chest. "You’re a monster. And you—you just walk around like you own every single person that crosses your way like you have the right to decide who lives and who dies!"

Negan pushed himself off the doorframe. "You think I like doing that?" His voice was colder now, but still, he seemed strangely calm. "You think I enjoy seeing my people get hurt? To watch my people die? No. I do what I gotta do. And what I did? Hell, ask Ricky-boy about the real reason why I… attacked. This world doesn’t give a damn about feelings, doll. It’s survival."

"It’s not survival to make people suffer, Negan. It’s not."

There was a pause, a long one, where Negan looked at you again, his jaw tightening as though he were processing something.

And then, before you could say another word, his lips were on yours, pressing against you and leaving you breathless. You froze, shocked, but his kiss wasn’t hard or punishing like everything else about him—it was tender, almost gentle, even though you could feel the force of it.

When he pulled back, he let out a soft sigh and turned, walking toward the door again. "You’re still not ready for the real world as it is now, even though you've survived it since the beginning," he said, more to himself than you. "But I think you will be."

Soon enough, it again had been a few days since you were brought to the Sanctuary, and each day felt like an eternity. The walls seemed to close in, and inside of them were shadows of people who whispered their secrets when they were alone.

You had the room to yourself, which you hated and appreciated at the same time. At least you weren’t forced to be together with the rest of the Saviors—most of whom still looked at you like you were some sort of prize to be claimed.

Negan had kept his distance after that kiss, which left you feeling like you were constantly on the edge of something threatening. You felt how your body betrayed you, how every time you heard his voice or saw his grin, something inside you changed. It was fucked up, and you knew it.

You were pacing in your room one late evening, trying to get your mind off the curiosity and disgust you felt when you heard a quick knock at your door. Quiet, but loud enough for you to notice. You opened it cautiously, only to see Dwight standing there.

"Hey," he said quietly, almost a little too nervous. "I… uh, just wanted to thank you."

You blinked at him, confused. "Thank me for what? What are you talking about?"

"For doing what you did. For agreeing to stay here. For… for keeping Negan off our backs."

You still didn’t know what he was talking about. "What the hell are you thanking me for, Dwight?" You asked, narrowing your eyes in suspicion.

He let out a slow breath, his eyes looking down to the floor. "For the women," he whispered. "Negan’s been leaving them alone ever since you… Well, ever since you caught his interest, I'd say."

You’d been hearing rumors of the women, those who lived in the Sanctuary with Negan as his wives, but you hadn’t understood how deep it went. "What do you mean… leaving them alone?"

Dwight’s eyes met yours again. "The women… his wives," he said. "He hasn’t touched any of them since he saw you."

Your mind struggled to process it. "You’re telling me there’s a bunch of women just waiting around for him?"

"It’s not like that. Not anymore. He used to call on them whenever he wanted to—" He continued, but trailed off. "When he saw you, he stopped. He hasn’t touched any of them since, and I… we just wanted to thank you for that."

You were quiet for a long moment, his words sinking in. Your mind wandered to those women. It wasn’t disgust you felt—it was a strange kind of curiosity, the kind of curiosity you couldn’t ignore. He hadn’t touched them, but why? What did that mean for you? What was it about you that made him stop?

But you didn’t say any of that to Dwight. You just stood there and didn’t ask him about the women or what they’d gone through.

Instead, you looked at him and said quietly, "You don’t need to thank me."

Dwight stared at you, and then he finally nodded. "Well, I do. And I’m not blind, and I know that, as fucked up as this place is, it’s better for them. Better for her… Even if you don’t want to hear it."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the Sanctuary. You shut the door slowly, your mind racing. You couldn’t get the thought of the women out of your head. And you sure as hell couldn’t stop wondering what would happen to you now that you were here.

In this place, with him.

You didn’t know. But the question—oh, it burned itself into your mind.

It was confusing. On one hand, you knew Negan was a monster. And yet, here you were. You were drawn to him, to the dangerous pull he had over you.

You tried to push it all away; you tried to tell yourself you were just looking for a way to survive. You weren’t one of those women. You wouldn’t be. He wasn’t going to control you like that.

But still, there was that pull. The way his eyes watched you when he thought no one else was looking, the way his voice changed when he spoke near you.

You were now sitting on your bed, head spinning, when you heard the familiar footsteps outside your door. You didn’t have to look to know it was him. That presence—his presence—it was unmistakable.

He knocked once, hard and loud, before pushing the door open, his grin already in place.

"Well, well," he said. "I see you’ve been keeping yourself busy by talking to Dwight."

You didn’t speak right away; your eyes were staring at him, fighting the need to look down. "I’m not interested in small talk, Negan, and not in an interrogation either," you shot back.

"Of course you’re not." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyeing you like he was taking inventory. "You know, you can talk to me in a normal way, right? My attention's all on you right now, doll, but your attention isn't on me."

You scoffed, trying to hide the blush on your face. "Normal? Right. Why don't you go and beg for attention elsewhere?"

"Because I don’t beg."

Negan didn’t seem to care about any response. Slowly, he moved into the room, stepping closer, making you instinctively slide back on your bed, though there was no escape, so you stood up, standing in front of him.

"You know," he said quietly, now looking down at you. "I’ve been thinking about you. A lot."

You swallowed hard, your throat dry, unable to find the words to answer. He was so close now… You could smell him—sweat, leather—and something else you couldn’t quite place.

"I’m not gonna lie to you," he continued. "I don’t wanna fuck this up."

"And I don’t want you to want me," you said before you could stop yourself.

He laughed in response as if he enjoyed seeing you stumble over your own words. "Then why the fuck are you standing so goddamn fucking close to me, huh?"

You didn’t have an answer for that.

You wanted him, but you were scared. Scared of the person he was. Scared of being another name on his list. But you couldn’t deny it. Your body, your mind—they craved him. It was like a hunger you couldn’t ignore.

"Maybe that’s why I’m here," you whispered, looking up at him. "Maybe I’m only curious."

"Curious, huh?" His fingers moved slowly up your arm. "Curious about what, exactly?"

You took a shaky breath, fighting the urge to close the space between the two of you. "About what it’d be like."

His smile disappeared, and for a moment, it seemed like he was holding his breath. Then, without a second thought, he stepped back. "I think that’s a conversation for another time."

You didn’t even think; the words just came out. "What is this even to you?" You growled, watching his smirk come back as he leaned against the wall with that irritating look of his. "So what if I haven't… I mean, since the world ended, I haven’t been with anyone. I mean, before it all went down neither, but… Just… Not once, okay. But, I mean—"

That caught his attention, though he tried to hide it. He raised an eyebrow, and for once, he looked like he might take you seriously.

"Wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me," he started, "that in all this time, you haven’t felt the need to… fuck?"

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you shot back, "Why do you even care, Negan? You've got your… supply of it at all times, don't you?" The words came out more bitter than you’d meant, but you were fed up.

Negan blinked several times, looking thrown off. But it only lasted a second, though this time his usual grin looked more like a mask. "Well, that’s the damn thing, doll. Haven’t been with any of them, not in a while. Guess I had my eye on something else."

"While I don’t know what I want," you suddenly whispered. "I don’t even know if I should want this—with you. I feel horrible. Fucking horrible."

One of his hands came up, fingers brushing along your jaw and down your neck. "Shit, I get it," he said. "But this isn’t some game, alright? You want this? I’m going to give it to you. But if you’re not all in, you better tell me right fucking now."

"Yes, I… I'm sure."

He watched you carefully. "You sure, sweetheart? Not just saying it 'cause you think it’s what I wanna hear?"

"No, I’m sure."

"Alright," he mumbled. "Then we do this slowly. No rushing, no stupid bullshit."

You finally leaned forward, your lips pressing against his in a kiss that was soft at first, hesitant. But then his arms wrapped around you, and the kiss turned rougher as he pulled you closer, hands now moving down your back, pulling you against him while kicking the door of your room shut.

"Hell," he breathed against your lips, "didn’t realize you’d be this damn sweet."

His fingers moved to the hem of your shirt as he broke the kiss. "Last chance to change your mind, darling," he whispered, though, with a bit of restraint. But you shook your head, pulling him closer again, your teeth biting his neck, feeling the shiver that went through him.

Negan let out a growl, and his hands moved quickly under your shirt. "Been wanting to touch you like this for some time now."

You could see him smile—that provocative, arrogant grin that only made you want him more. His hands soon moved to your pants and undid them teasingly, drawing it out until you were almost trembling.

He took his time, his knuckles pressing against your hips as he slid the waistband of your pants down, along with your panties. You swallowed hard, but it wasn’t from fear. It was pure lust—the way he made you feel like the most important thing in the world just by looking at you.

"Relax," he whispered, "I’m not in any damn hurry."

You closed your eyes, letting yourself fall into the moment, letting yourself get lost in the touch of his hands, his lips, and the way he held you like you were something precious, something worth cherishing. You’d expected roughness, maybe even cruelty, but this—this was different.

"You… you’re being so… gentle."

Negan froze. "Of course I am. Why? This isn’t just about me, you know. I want this to feel good for us—for you. Just trust me," he mumbled as he pulled your shirt over your head and undid your bra. "Damn, look at you…"

Heat rushed to your face, and you ducked your head, only for him to gently lift your chin. "Don’t hide from me," he said softly. "Let me see you, all of you."

Negan's hands moved to your tits, his fingers brushing over your nipples until they hardened under his touch, before he leaned down, his mouth following where his hands had been. "Now, just tell me if anything is too much, alright?"

You nodded breathlessly, and he rewarded you with his lips sucking on your nipple, his hand quickly finding its way between your thighs, fingers moving over your clit, rubbing softly until your hips bucked, wanting more.

Somehow, you managed to push one of your hands down between you both, squeezing his cock through his pants. He let out a groan, but you felt clumsy, even unsure, and fumbling a bit as you tried to stroke him the way you thought he’d like.

He laughed a little, grabbing your hand with his own. "Slow down, sweetheart," he said, grinning as he helped you to open up his pants and let them fall with his boxers. "Take your damn time."

But even though you felt uncertain, Negan's reaction told you that you were doing something right, his breathing stopping from time to time and his hands grabbing you harder as you continued. His groan was almost a growl as he finally stepped out of his pants, quickly getting rid of his shirt before pulling you up and pushing you down onto your bed.

"Think you’re ready for this? Might hurt a little, but that's nothing to worry about. Just tell me if you feel uncomfortable, okay?"

You nodded, your heart racing as he lined himself up with your pussy, one hand steadying you while the other was pushing his cock inside you.

The stretch was intense, your body trying to adjust to him, and he paused every inch or so, letting you get used to the feel of his cock, making sure you weren’t in any pain. As he pushed further, his other hand found yours, both your fingers intertwining to keep you from getting lost in the slightly uncomfortable pressure at first.

"You’re alright, sweetheart. Just breathe," he mumbled, kissing your cheek, waiting until you gave him a signal to keep going.

Negan’s forehead rested against yours as he pushed further inside. "You’re doing so well for me. So damn good."

Each inch he gave you felt thicker, the pressure hard but not painful. "You alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I’m good."

"That's a good girl," he whispered. "Let me know if it’s too much, and I’ll stop. I mean it."

Finally, he was fully inside, filling you up in a way that felt overwhelming—almost too much.

But Negan didn’t move right away. He stayed there, deep inside you, as you both caught your breath. His free hand moved down, sliding up your thigh as if to calm you. "You’re taking me so damn good, doll. Feels like you were made for me."

You tightened your legs around his hips, clinging to him as if letting go would somehow destroy the magic of the moment.

"How’s that feel, huh?" he asked as he started to move. "Don’t hold back, baby. I wanna hear you. Bet it feels so fucking good."

Between moans, your free hand found his shoulder, nails scratching his skin as you held on. You could feel how he was holding himself back from losing control, but now and then, a loud groan slipped out, followed by a deeper and quicker thrust.

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "It’s—oh fuck—it’s so good, Negan!"

That was all he wanted to hear from you. "Fuck, you’re so tight," he growled, starting to rub slow circles over your clit.

And the feeling of his cock, the fullness, was maddening, each faster thrust of him making you hold harder onto him.

Tears started to appear in your eyes, but not from pain. Negan noticed immediately as he untangled his hand from yours and cupped your cheek. "Hey, hey… You okay? Tell me if this is too much."

You shook your head quickly, blinking back the tears. "It’s not that—it’s just… I didn’t know it could feel like this."

"But you deserve this," he said quietly. "Deserve to be treated right. To be fucked right."

And it didn't take long until a new, even stranger pressure built itself inside you—something new but irresistible like you were on the edge of something intense, or maybe even embarrassing, but you couldn’t reach it, and he didn't let you.

You rolled your hips against him, searching for more—the need for something harder, something faster. Both your hands now gripped his shoulders tightly while you whimpered in frustration.

"Negan… more," you begged with urgency, only to make him stop.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. "Oh, you want more, huh?" He asked, teasing you.

You nodded, arching your back to meet his next thrust. "Please," you gasped, your thighs tightening around his hips as you tried to pull him deeper.

"Easy, sweetheart," he said, his hands gripping your hips firmly, pushing you back down. "You’ll get what you need, but you’re gonna take it slow."

He thrust into you again, painfully slow, his cock pushing against your sensitive spot inside you. You tried again to lift your hips, but his grip tightened, holding you still and him thrusting harder.

"You feel that?" He growled. "How good I make you feel when you let me take my time?"

"Negan, I think… I think I need to… pee." You could barely get the words out, too caught up in the feeling and your sudden shame, until you felt like you might burst.

"You think you need to piss? Nah, that’s just me fuckin’ you so goddamn good."

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but the overwhelming feeling between your legs pushed it away.

"Let it go, baby. Let me make you lose it." As if on cue, he thrust faster, burying himself in your pussy just right, over and over again, until your whole body stiffened. "That’s it," Negan groaned, watching with fascination. "Fucking perfect."

Suddenly, without warning, your pussy clenched tightly around his cock as you came, your entire body trembling.

"Oh… yes, yes, yes!" You moaned out loud, your nails scratching down his whole back and grabbing his ass, trying to push him deeper again. "That feels so fucking good! Don't stop! Don't stop! Don't—"

Negan ate your moans and whimpers up like a man starved. "Goddamn, baby, next time you're gonna be squirting all over me," he groaned, not slowing down. "Could feel you coming like this all the time."

It was like everything went black, your orgasm shooting so intensely through you in a way that left you breathless, with you clinging so tightly to him as your body shuddered, moaning his name in pure need.

Watching you come so hard around him had done something to Negan, something he wasn’t expecting so fast. That look on your face, the way your body was shaking, the way you’d gasped his name—hell, he wanted to keep that image burned into his mind forever.

He slowed his movements just enough to not come too soon. His eyes never left your face, watching you ride out your orgasm, writhing against him and wanting more, given that blissed-out expression on your face. He was right there, on the edge himself, and for another moment, he let himself get lost in the way you squirmed, all desperate, a sight simply too good for words.

Just before Negan came, he quickly pulled out, but your hand grabbed his wrist. "Negan, please," you begged, your thighs trembling as you reached for him. "I want you to come inside me."

He froze, staring down at you in disbelief. "Fuck, doll," he said, his hand stroking his cock as he positioned himself over you. "Believe me, I sure as hell would."

"Then do it," you demanded as your hips moved toward him, trying to push him back inside.

But Negan shook his head, his grin returning as he leaned down, his lips kissing yours. "Not gonna happen. Can’t let you get knocked up… just yet."

He was squeezing his cock and pumping a few more strokes until he finally exploded, his cum shooting all over your stomach and tits. It was everything he loved about moments like this. The sight of you, the feeling of his cock pulsing in his hand and marking you with his load… everything.

"Shit... You know, that might just be my new favorite view," he soon smirked, letting out a shaky laugh.

You blushed, suddenly very aware of his cum all over you and the ache that you still felt between your legs.

You were sprawled out on the bed, your body still trembling, your legs twitching slightly as if they couldn’t handle the sudden emptiness.

"Fuckin’ hell," he continued, as he now knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands spreading your thighs apart again. "Look at this, sweetheart. Look at how bad your pussy still wants me."

Before you could process what was happening, he leaned in, his tongue licking over your oversensitive clit. You screamed, and Negan’s strong hands pinned you down as his mouth tasted you, his tongue teasing you like he had all the time in the world.

"Negan—fuck, it’s too much," you whined, trying to squirm away, but his grip tightened.

"Nah, sweetheart," he growled, pulling back just long enough to smirk up at you. "You can take it."

His tongue moved lower, teasing your folds, and when he finally slid it inside, you let out a loud cry. He groaned against you as he took his time tasting you and eating you out, his nose bumping against your clit.

It didn’t take long before you were coming again as you sobbed his name, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer even as your body begged for a break.

When he finally pulled away, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked at you. "Hell, I think you’re my new favorite meal. You look like a goddamn masterpiece."

You groaned, half-embarrassed, half-needy, and gave him a weak push on the chest with one leg. "Well, don’t just sit there and stare."

"Bossy already, huh?" He laughed, shaking his head as he stood up. He yanked open one of the drawers, rummaging through until he found an old rag.

"Hold still, sweetheart," he said, kneeling back over you and wiping away the cum. "Can’t have you goin’ around lookin’ like that. Might make people think I’ve got myself a favorite," he winked, his grin looking just a tiny bit arrogant.

But as he leaned over you, moving the rag over tits and cleaning them, his thumb brushed over one of your nipples, and you let out a soft moan.

Negan just smiled. "Guess I did a damn good job."

Before you could respond, his lips sucked on the same nipple he’d just touched. He sucked gently, his tongue switching from one to the other, squeezing and massaging your tits.

"Can’t help myself, darling. These tits deserve some extra love."

Once he was done, he tossed the rag aside, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, his mouth all tender against your skin.

"You did so good. Real damn good,” he whispered like he wanted you to feel every word as he moved next to you again, putting an arm around you and pulling you close against him.

You let out a sigh, the exhaustion quickly starting to catch up to you as you cuddled up to him, feeling safe, even here, even with him. "I… didn't bleed down there, right? Or did I?"

"No, you didn't; don't worry. Not every woman does. But don’t you go getting used to this," he teased. "Next time, I’ll just have to make sure I don’t leave you so damn worn out. Can’t have you fallin’ asleep on me every time."

You mumbled something he couldn't make out, half asleep already, but he just held you tighter.

"Alright, alright, get some sleep then, sweetheart," he whispered, his hand brushing through your hair. "I’ll be right here, don’t you worry. Just sleep. That was your first time, after all."

And you did, soon drifting off, strangely feeling safer than you had in a long time, to the sound of his heartbeat that stayed with you even as you slipped into sleep.

But the next morning slammed into you like a brick to the face. Your eyes blinked open to the sight of Negan’s chest and the scratch of his beard against you. The rest of the day before came back quick—too quick—every moment of his hands on your body, his mouth… him so deep inside of you.

You flinched away, heart racing as you pushed yourself out and away from under his arm. Every bit of you wanted to scream with shame and anger. This was Negan—the man who’d terrorized everyone you cared about, and here you were with him, completely naked.

You grabbed the first thing you could reach—a glass on the nightstand—and threw it at the wall. A pillow went flying, then a chair.

You saw him waking up, but you couldn’t stop. It was a need—this craving to let it all out. That man had you wrapped around his finger without you even realizing it—and now you wanted out. It was impossible, but right now, nothing was making sense; nothing felt real. And you were scared.

"Hey, hey, calm the hell down, would you?" Negan’s voice came from behind you. You ignored him, anger rising again as you grabbed for anything else you could throw, maybe even at him.

"Get away from me!" You snapped, turning to look at him, fists clenched at your sides. "I can't—you're… This is all so fucked, Negan! Do you even get that?" You shoved him back, but he grabbed your wrists tightly.

"Oh, I get it, alright," he smirked, his grin widening as he held your wrists. "Seems like someone’s a little sore, huh? Confused, even?"

"Let go of me!" You struggled, trying to move away, but he didn’t let go. The more you fought, the tighter he grabbed, his eyes watching you with amusement.

"Think I’m going to let you throw shit around and just walk away?" He asked, pulling you closer.

"Negan, let me go!" You shouted again, your voice cracking as he turned you around, holding you close against his chest from behind, both of his arms wrapping around your body. You tried to fight, legs kicking, elbows shoving, but it was no use.

"Keep fighting, doll. You’re just making this more fun."

He pressed his mouth against your neck, kissing and biting down just enough to make you moan for him. It only made you angrier and more desperate to get away, but he held on to keep you exactly where he wanted.

"Why are you doing this?" You hissed, still struggling, but your strength was fading. "What do you want from me?"

"What do I want?" He loosened his hold just enough to spin you around to face him again, one hand keeping you close, the other tilting up your chin softly. "Shit, maybe I just like the way how sexy you look when you’re all riled up and pissed."

Adrenaline was still rushing through you, but now it was also confusion—and a feeling you could hardly even name. But you knew better. You just didn't want to acknowledge it.

And as Negan finally let go of you, letting you step back, neither of you spoke. You couldn't look at him as he took his sweet time reaching for his clothes across the floor. He didn’t seem the slightest bit worried by your outburst, your fury, or any of it. He just slid on his pants, putting on his shirt, and the leather jacket slung over one shoulder as he walked back to you.

And he stopped right in front of you, tilting his head with a smirk that now seemed almost cruel like he knew exactly what you were going through.

"You see, there’s a certain fine line, baby," he whispered, his voice sounding like gravel against silk. He leaned in close, his breath touching your ear. "Between everything we thought we hated… and everything we can’t seem to stop craving."

Then, just as casually as he’d fucked you, he moved his lips to yours, teasing you with a kiss and watching your reaction closely before pulling back, letting you stand there while he grabbed Lucille from the ground.

Negan wasn't looking back at you as he stepped out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the fine line he’d just cut straight through you.

⋆˖⁺‧⋆₊꣑९₊⋆‧⁺˖⋆ © 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒂 ⋮ ᴇsᴛ. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 – 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ⋆˖⁺‧⋆₊꣑९₊⋆‧⁺˖⋆

[etclouie]

kinktober day six — guided masturbation + stepcest

ཐི♡ཋྀ — warnings; your stepdad catches you touching yourself, and offers to help (Rick Grimes x fem!reader)

ཐི♡ཋྀ — warnings; stepcest, stepdad!rick (don’t like it, don’t read), pre apocalypse, rick is a little crass about it?, lowk hinted at a semi drunk!rick, smut, minors do not interact!!!, guided masturbation, allusions to oral, rick calls her a good girl towards the end, pet names (baby, sweetheart, darling), but that’s it?

ཐི♡ཋྀ — word count; 1,773 words

ཐི♡ཋྀ — a/n; back on my liking pervy old men shtick lol

prev day | next day kinktober masterlist | main masterlist

you were home alone with Rick, your mother out for the night with her friends, leaving just the two of you home.

it was late, you thought he’d already gone to bed, so you took that as your chance to try and scratch that burning ache between your thighs.

carefully, you pushed down and off your sleep shorts until they were discarded elsewhere in your bed, while your fingers snaled between your legs.

a gasp fell from your lips as you quickly found a rhythm, fingers moving in the way you liked it.

you had worked yourself close, right to the edge where your calves trembled and your breathing went ragged, but then there was a knock on your bedroom door.

“shit..”

you grumbled, breathless and a little whiny. 

quickly you pulled up the blankets before calling out to Rick on the otherside, because it could only be him.

“what?”

Rick chuckled at your tone, his head tilting as he cast a glance down your dishevelled state.

“well hey to you too sweetheart, heard you curse and wanted to make sure you were okay”

his words made you roll your eyes, hugging the blankets tighter around your chest in a weak attempt to hide what you’d actually been doing before he interrupted.

he eyed the sheen of sweat above your brow, and then the pouty pull to your lips.

“you busy when i knocked?”

your eyes flickered away from him, but he knew.

of course he knew.

“that what the cursing was for?”

this time, you could only nod in response. he already knew, there was no point dragging it out with a lie.

“can you go now?”

Rick swayed on his feet, unwilling to leave now that he had learned the truth, and honestly? you didn’t want him to go either.

but he was still your stepdad, and this was wrong.

“look ‘bout ready to climb the walls, you needing a hand?”

you stared at him, gaze blank as you tried to process his words.

did he really just ask that?

“what happened to all those boys you go out with? they not good at it?”

heat burned through your veins as he continued, he was really going there. your stepdad was talking to you about all this, after catching you in the act.

“they don’t.. it just.. shit, it doesn’t happen with them”

he smirked down at you, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“what doesn’t happen with them, darlin’?”

a deep sigh fell from your lips while embarrassment heated your cheeks, forcing yourself to look back to him.

his eyes shined with that same amusement and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips, making you grumble to yourself.

“it doesn’t happen”

the slow and faux look of surprise that spread across his face would normally have made you yell at him to get out, but you were vibrating with need.

“none of your lil’ boyfriends have made you cum?”

you shook your head as more heat spread throughout your body.

“not one of them? shit baby, really?”

Rick took a step closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne, but still far enough that a whine bubbled in your throat because of his distance.

and by the looks of it, Rick seemed to see the effect he had on you.

he took another step closer, until his knee brushed against the edge of your mattress.

“can’t be having that, what you letting those stupid boys between your legs for then if they ain’t making you finish?”

a subtle ringing appeared in your ears at his words, embarrassment flooding your body again.

“Rick..”

he hummed, taking a step back and towards your door.

the burning need in your belly burned at the thought of him leaving now.

“alright, i’ll get out your hair, let you take care of yourself”

but as he took another step towards your door, you stopped him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist to pull him back to you.

“i can’t do it either.. i just, i get close and then, can’t? i lose it”

Rick went still in your grasp, weighing your words and the tight need of your fingers around his wrist.

and then something changed in his face, the dark lilt to his eyes you only found when he was drunk and a little gone to the wind. but he was drunk, you saw him with a couple bottles of beer earlier.

“really baby?”

you swallowed, both at his tone and the name.

it was different this time, tainted with the line you were both crossing.

“show me what you were doin’?”

he nodded to the blanket, making your stomach drop.

“won’t touch, just need to see how you were doin’ it”

slowly, you pushed down the blankets, kicking them to join your shorts at the foot of the bed before Rick cursed.

his eyes roamed your lower half, taking in the slick coating your thighs and the desperate way your cunt fluttered around nothing.

you should tell him to leave, tell him how wrong this is, but you can’t find the words.

Rick pulled over the chair from your desk, flipping it and straddling it backwards to watch you. 

he rests his arms on the back of it, and then his chin on top, while his eyes follow your nervous movements.

“c’mon let me see her”

carefully, you moved so that your back lay against the wall, somewhat supported by a stuffed animal he had gotten you at the fair last year.

at his words though, you spread your legs, letting him see your most intimate parts once more.

the cool air hitting your core and your breath hitched, making Rick’s eyes drop and his throat bob.

“shit darlin’, she’s pretty”

your head lulled back to hit the wall, embarrassment flooding your bones again.

“don’t say stuff like that.. please?”

he nodded, eyes slowly trailing back up to meet your own while a pout continued to tug at your lips.

“how were you doin’ it then?”

you took a deep breath, tongue poking out to wet your lips before sliding a palm down your belly. your fingers found yourself like they always do, pressing to your clit, and then they rub a little too fast because you’re greedy.

but this time maybe it was because he was looking, watching you do it.

“slow it down darlin’, you’re chasin’. shouldn’t chase it”

you glare at him for a second, hips bucking in a desperate need.

“goes away if i slow down”

Rick shook his head, tutting almost.

it shouldn’t made you want to hide away under your blankets, pray and beg for this to all have been a horrid dream, but it wasn’t.

“won’t if you keep the rhythm”

his arms uncrossed, and he was knocking against the back of the chair, three knocks in an unhurried beat.

“watching? little circles baby, don’t hunt it. invite instead”

your fingers try his beat, using them to draw little circles onto your clit like he said.

he watched you, listening to the way your breath catches and your hips rock subtly into your touch.

“atta girl, ain’t that hard was it?”

you don’t answer him, instead continuing with the little circles.

“little to the right now, yeah like that”

Rick leaned in slightly, watching the new rhythm to your moves.

a whimper bubbles past your lips while Rick smirked down at you, clearly enjoying the show you were putting on.

“there it is, that pressure building? like a little ache?”

you nodded, a little too fast, but it felt too good.

“fuck Rick.. yeah—“

his eyes zeroed in on your fingers, watching the way you drew circles into your clit and your head falls back against the wall when you get it just right.

pleasure sparked through your body, making your hips rock up into your touch.

“easy, keep your wrist loose, baby. relax a little f’me”

the heat in your core spreads, sending a tingly feeling up your spine as Rick continues on.

“breathe sweetheart”

he breaths slowly, setting an example of how to do it, and you copy him.

your fingers continue, listening to the soft guides he gives along the way.

“you want to add a finger f’me? just one, keep it shallow. curl towards your belly instead of down, like you’re beckonin’ it closer”

you follow his guide, nodding slowly while another gasp pushes past your lips.

the angle is different, but it’s exactly what you’ve been trying to find. your fingers hook, causing your hips to jerk up off the bed while Rick chuckled.

“there she is. you feel that? that’s all yours, don’t fight it baby”

his voice is soft, even as your body wants to pull away from it, like it always does when you get close.

but you force yourself to keep at it.

your heels dig into the edge of the mattress, grounding yourself as your breath catches in your throat. 

“Rick.. i’m gonna—“

it comes out in a whine while a moan bubbles in your throat, threatening to slip free as his eyes stay laser focused on you.

“keep it steady. don’t get greedy, okay?”

you nod again, keeping the rhythm and the pace that had the pleasure flittering through your body warmer and faster than you ever had got it before.

and then it happens.

he watches as you break apart with a ragged gasp, spilling onto your own fingers while your thighs trembled.

“fuck Rick..”

his name falls from your lips before you could stop it, using it to ride the wave of your high as the relief floods your body in place of the burning pleasure.

“that’s my girl, stay with it”

Rick murmured, nodding approvingly until your fingers finally slowed.

you stared at him, white burts in your vision while Rick chuckled again, quickly working you out of your thoughts and the high that got you there.

quickly, you pull your hand away from between your legs, squeezing your thighs together as Rick stood from the shair and ushered it back into it’s respective spot.

“such a good girl when you let it happen”

he moved towards you, gently prying your thighs apart to admire the mess between them.

“you’re so pretty, y’know that?”

you want to fight him on it, push him away and tell him to forget about this, but you can’t.

and he knows it.

Rick waits until you nod, easily pushing your thighs further apart to make room for his broad shoulders before he murmured a hairbreadth away from your core.

“gonna let me reward my good girl?”

reblogs are highly appreciated !

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[pedroscowgirl]

The Ranch Next Door

Joel miller x fem!reader x Negan smith | MAIN MASTERLIST

Warnings! smut!! minors DNI! Age gap (I imagine them 50s and reader is in college (20s-30s)), oral m & f!receiving, 3some, p in v (wrap it up), creampie, nipple play, fingering, squirting, gagging, cum tasting (? idk), overstimulation, passing out, size kink, lmk if i forgot something wc: 6.5k Summary: Coming home from college for the break suddenly was intresting when you meet your dad's hot new neighbours

A/n: Okay I actually have soooooo much uni work to do but I needed to get this out of my system before i forgot what i was gonna write :). And I actually need these two to act in something tgt pleaseee. Anyways i hope you guys enjoyed this so def lemme know what you think!

The sun was setting over the rolling hills of the countryside, casting a golden hue over the sprawling farmland. You hadn’t been home in months, and the familiar scent of hay and earth filled your lungs as you stepped out of your car. Your dad’s farmhouse stood in the distance, its porch light flickering like a beacon. You stretched your arms, feeling the stiffness from the long drive melt away. College life had kept you busy, but there was something about coming home that always grounded you.

As you grabbed your bags from the trunk, you noticed movement in the neighboring field. Two figures on horseback were riding along the fence line, their silhouettes sharp against the fading light. You squinted, trying to make out who they were. Your dad had mentioned new neighbors moving in, but you hadn’t expected them to look like that.

One of the men tipped his hat in your direction, and your stomach did a little flip. You quickly looked away, pretending to fumble with your bags. When you glanced back, they were closer, their horses trotting toward you. Your heart raced as you realized just how big they were—both in stature and presence. 

“Well, well, what do we got here?” The first man’s voice was deep, smooth, and laced with a teasing edge. He dismounted his horse with ease, his boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. His dark hair was peppered with gray, and his hazel eyes locked onto yours. He wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. You swallowed hard.

“Joel,” he introduced himself, tipping his hat again. “You must be the college kid your dad’s been braggin’ about.” You nodded, suddenly feeling very small under his gaze. “Yeah, that’s me. I’m, uh, just visiting over the break.”

The second man swung down from his horse, his movements fluid and confident. He looked tougher than Joel, with a smirk that could only be described as dangerous. His leather jacket and black hat gave him a roguish charm, and his eyes–dark and calculating–seemed to see right through you. “Name’s Negan,” he said, his voice dripping with charm. “And let me tell you, darlin’, you’re a sight for sore eyes. We don’t get too many pretty faces around here.” You felt your cheeks flush, and you quickly looked down at your shoes. “Nice to meet you both,” you mumbled, suddenly very aware of how out of place you felt in your city clothes.

Joel chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Don’t let Negan scare you off. He’s all bark, no bite.” Negan feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Now, Joel, that’s just hurtful. I’m a gentleman through and through.” He turned his attention back to you, his smirk widening. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. The tension between the three of you was palpable, and you couldn’t tell if it was intimidation or something else entirely that had your heart racing.

Joel stepped closer, his eyes softening just a fraction. “You need help with those bags?”

You shook your head quickly. “No, I’ve got it. Thanks, though.” Negan leaned against the fence, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure? We’re just a couple of friendly neighbors, always willin’ to lend a hand.” “Or two,” Joel added, his lips quirking into a half-smile.

You laughed nervously, gripping the straps of your bags tighter. “I’m good, really. But thanks.”

They exchanged a look, one that you couldn’t quite decipher, before Joel nodded. “Alright then. You know where to find us if you need anything.” Negan tipped his hat, his smirk never wavering. “And I do mean anything, darlin’.”

You watched as they mounted their horses and rode off, their laughter carrying on the wind. As soon as they were out of sight, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your dad’s voice calling your name snapped you out of your daze, and you hurried toward the house, your mind still reeling from the encounter.

—---------------

The next morning, you decided to explore the farm, hoping to clear your head. The air was crisp, and the sound of birds chirping filled the silence. You wandered toward the old barn, where your dad kept his tools and equipment. As you approached, you heard voices—deep, familiar voices. 

“You think she’ll come around?” Negan’s voice carried a playful tone. “Dunno,” Joel replied. “She seemed pretty skittish.” You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. Were they talking about you? Before you could retreat, Negan’s voice called out.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us.” You turned to see Joel and Negan leaning against the barn, their eyes fixed on you. Joel had a cigarette dangling from his lips, while Negan twirled a piece of straw between his fingers. They looked like they’d stepped right out of a Western movie, and you felt like the damsel in distress. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you said, taking a step back.Joel shook his head. “You’re not interruptin’. We were just talkin’ about you, actually.”Your eyes widened. “Oh?”

Negan pushed off the barn and sauntered toward you, his smirk firmly in place. “Yeah, darlin’. We were wonderin’ if you’d let us show you around. You know, give you the grand tour.” You glanced between them, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “I, uh, I don’t want to be any trouble.” Joel stepped forward, his voice softer this time. “It’s no trouble. We’d like to get to know you better.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something in his tone-something that made your stomach flutter. Negan, on the other hand, was all charm and mischief, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“What do you say, sweetheart?” Negan asked, his voice low and teasing. “You up for a little adventure?”You hesitated, but something about the way they were looking at you—like you were the only person in the world—made you nod. “Okay. Just… don’t let me fall off a horse or anything.”

Negan laughed, a rich, hearty sound that made your cheeks heat up. “Don’t worry, darlin’. We’ll take real good care of you.”Joel’s hand brushed against yours as he took one of your bags, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. “C’mon,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Let’s get started.”As they led you toward the stables, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into something much bigger than yourself. The tension between the three of you was undeniable, and you had a feeling this weekend was going to be anything but ordinary.

—-

Joel and Negan had taken you riding across the fields, their easy banter and playful teasing making you feel both exhilarated and flustered. By the time you returned to your dad’s farmhouse, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. You were still buzzing from the adventure, your cheeks flushed and your heart light.

As you stepped inside, your dad looked up from his newspaper, raising an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been all day?” he asked, his tone casual but curious.“I, uh, met the neighbors,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Joel and Negan. They showed me around.”Your dad’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Those two, huh? They’re quite the characters. Good men, though. Hard workers.” He paused, then added, “Why don’t you invite them over for dinner tomorrow? Be neighborly.” Your stomach did a little flip at the thought of spending more time with them, but you nodded. “Sure, I’ll ask them.”

—--------------------------------------

The next day, you found yourself standing in front of your closet, agonizing over what to wear. You finally settled on a pair of denim shorts and a black tank top, the lace of your bra just barely peeking out at the edges. It was casual but flirty, and you couldn’t help but wonder what Joel and Negan would think.

The doorbell rang just as you were finishing up in the kitchen, and you called out to your dad, “I’ll get it!” You opened the door to find Joel standing there, looking every bit the rugged cowboy in his plaid shirt and jeans. His hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just showered, and he held a bottle of wine in one hand. His eyes softened as they landed on you, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm and smooth. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your cheek, his stubble brushing against your skin. You felt your face heat up instantly, and you hoped he didn’t notice how your breath hitched.“Hi, Joel,” you managed to say, stepping aside to let him in. “Negan’s not with you?”

“He’ll be here in a bit,” Joel replied, handing you the bottle of wine. “Had somethin’ to take care of first.”

You led him into the living room, where your dad greeted him with a firm handshake. The two of them fell into easy conversation, and you busied yourself in the kitchen, trying to calm your racing heart. Joel’s presence was overwhelming in the best way, and you couldn’t help but steal glances at him as he chatted with your dad.  Five minutes later, the doorbell rang again. This time, when you opened the door, Negan stood there, his signature smirk already in place. 

He was dressed in his usual leather jacket and jeans, a six-pack of beer in one hand. His dark eyes swept over you in a way that made your knees weak. “Well, well, darlin’,” he drawled, his voice dripping with charm. “You look… damn good.” His gaze lingered on the lace of your bra peeking out from your tank top, and you felt your cheeks burn. Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed your cheek, his lips lingering just a fraction longer than Joel’s had. The scent of leather and cologne filled your senses, and you had to grip the doorframe to steady yourself.

“Negan,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Come on in.”

He stepped inside, his eyes never leaving yours. “Thanks, sweetheart. Brought some beer for the occasion.”

You blushed furiously, unable to form a coherent response. Negan chuckled, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you, and followed you into the living room. He greeted your dad with a hearty handshake and a joke, and soon the three of them were laughing like old friends.

As you set the table, you couldn’t help but feel the tension in the air. Joel’s quiet intensity and Negan’s bold charm created a dynamic that was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. Every time Joel’s eyes met yours, you felt a jolt of electricity, and every time Negan flashed you that devilish grin, your stomach did somersaults.

Dinner was a lively affair, filled with stories and laughter. Joel was surprisingly sweet, offering to help you clear the table and refill your glass of wine. Negan, on the other hand, was relentless in his teasing, his comments always toeing the line between flirty and inappropriate—though he kept it toned down around your dad. At one point, you caught Joel’s eye as you licked your fork in a slow, deliberate motion, your lips curling into a subtle smirk. His gaze darkened, and he shifted in his seat, clearly affected. Negan, sitting across from you, noticed the exchange and raised an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across his face. Your dad, engrossed in a story about the farm, didn’t notice a thing.

After dinner, Negan leaned back in his chair and stretched. “Mind if I use your bathroom?” he asked your dad.“Upstairs, first door on the left,” your dad replied, gesturing toward the staircase. Negan nodded and headed upstairs, his boots thudding against the wooden steps. As he reached the landing, he noticed a slightly open drawer in your room. Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeked inside. His eyes landed on a pair of cute pink lace panties with a delicate ribbon on the front. He bit his lip, his mind racing with thoughts he knew he shouldn’t be having.

“Did you find it?” your dad shouted from downstairs, snapping Negan out of his reverie.

“Yeah, got it!” Negan called back, quickly closing the drawer—though not all the way—and making his way to the bathroom. He took a deep breath, trying to shake the image of those panties from his mind, but it was no use. When he returned downstairs, he avoided your gaze, though you noticed the faint flush on his cheeks. Joel, ever observant, raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

After Joel and Negan left, you went upstairs to your room and noticed the drawer slightly ajar, the pink panties peeking out. A slow smile spread across your face as you realized what had happened. You chuckled to yourself, feeling a mix of embarrassment and satisfaction.“Those cowboys,” you muttered under your breath, shaking your head. “What am I going to do with them?”

—----------------------------------------------

The next morning, the sun was already high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the farm. You woke up to the sound of your dad groaning in the living room. He was sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, looking every bit the picture of a man who’d had one too many beers the night before. 

“Dad?” you called out, trying not to laugh. “You okay?” He groaned again, waving a hand in your direction. “Joel called. Said he’d come over to help me with the fence on the south side of the property. But I… I don’t think I’m gonna make it, kiddo.”

You bit back a laugh, walking over to him. “You’re hungover, aren’t you?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, his face pale but amused. “Maybe. Just a little. That Negan and his damn beer… I swear, that man could drink a horse under the table.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll help Joel. You just rest.” He sighed in relief, giving you a grateful smile. “You’re a lifesaver, sweetheart. Tell Joel I’ll owe him one.”

You nodded, heading back to your room to get ready.

You decided to wear a white tank top that hugged your figure just right, the neckline dipping just enough to show a hint of cleavage. Your jean shorts were a little shorter than usual, riding high on your thighs, and you paired them with your red cowboy boots. You glanced in the mirror, running a hand through your hair, and smiled. You looked good, and you knew it.

—---------------------------

When you stepped outside, the heat of the day hit you like a wall. You spotted Joel in the distance, bent over the hood of his truck, his muscles straining as he worked on something under the hood. His plaid shirt was tied around his waist, leaving him in a plain white short sleeve top that clung to his broad shoulders and strong arms. You felt your stomach flutter as you approached him.

“Hey, Joel!” you called out, waving as you got closer.

He straightened up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His brown eyes landed on you, and a slow, easy smile spread across his face. “Well, hey there, sweetheart. What’re you doin’ out here?”You shrugged, trying to act casual despite the way your heart was racing. “Dad’s a little… under the weather. Said he owed you one for bailing on the fence.”

Joel chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. “That old man ain’t washed up against a little hangover, huh? But that’s alright. I’ll take good care of ya, darlin’.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at the way he said “darlin’” in that thick Texan drawl of his. You stood there for a moment, watching as he went back to working on his truck. His hands were rough and calloused, but they moved with a precision that was almost mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles flexed under his shirt, the fabric clinging to his chest and stomach.

—----------------------

The next two hours were a blur of chores. Joel had you helping him with everything from fixing the fence to hauling hay bales. He was patient with you, showing you how to do things the right way, but there was always that undercurrent of tension between you. Every time his hand brushed against yours, or his eyes lingered on you a little too long, you felt your breath catch.

Finally, Joel gestured to his truck. “Alright, darlin’. Last chore of the day. Gonna need you to help me wash this ol’ girl.” You nodded, grabbing a bucket and filling it with water from the hose. Joel did the same, and for a moment, the two of you worked in silence, scrubbing the truck down. But then, out of nowhere, Joel splashed a handful of water at you, hitting you square in the chest.

You gasped, the cold water soaking through your tank top. “Joel!” you squealed, glaring at him. He laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made your stomach flip. “What? Just tryin’ to cool you off, sweetheart.”You narrowed your eyes, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “Oh, you’re gonna regret that.”

Before he could react, you scooped up a handful of water and threw it at him, hitting him right in the chest. His shirt clung to his body, and you couldn’t help but stare at the way it revealed the outline of his muscles. He had that perfect dad bod—strong and solid, with just the right amount of softness. You bit your lip, crossing your legs as you felt a heat pool in your stomach.

Joel noticed the way you were looking at him, and his smile turned into something darker, more intense. He ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his face, and took a step closer to you. “Eyes up here darlin’,” he said, his voice low and rough.

You didn’t have time to respond before his arm was around your waist, pulling you against him. His other hand cupped your face, and then his lips were on yours, hot and demanding. Your hands flew to his neck, tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck as you deepened the kiss. It was unlike anything you’d ever experienced—raw, passionate, and completely overwhelming.

Joel’s hands moved down your body, one gripping your waist while the other slid under your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the hood of his truck. You gasped into his mouth as he kissed you again, his lips moving to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. Your head fell back, a moan escaping your lips as his hands roamed over your body.

His fingers found the button of your jeans, and before you could even think to stop him, he had them undone, sliding them down just enough to reveal the cute pink lace panties you were wearing—the same ones Negan had seen the day before. Joel let out a low groan, his eyes dark with desire. “Fuck, darlin’. You’re so damn cute.”You blushed, but before you could say anything, his hand was sliding your panties to the side, his thick fingers finding your wet folds. You moaned, your hips bucking against his hand as he slid a finger inside you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. The sensation was overwhelming, and you couldn’t help but cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders for support.

Joel kissed you again, his lips swallowing your moans as he worked you with his fingers. But then, just as quickly as it had started, he pulled away, cursing under his breath. He slid your shorts back up, his hands trembling slightly, and took a step back. “Joel?” you asked, your voice shaky and confused.He ran a hand over his face, his breathing heavy. “I… I gotta go,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I shouldn’t have…” He trailed off, shaking his head before turning and walking away, leaving you sitting on the hood of his truck, your heart racing and your body aching for more.

—------------------------------------------------

You continued washing Joel’s truck and were so deep in your thoughts that you didn’t hear Negan approach until his voice broke the silence.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” he said, that signature smirk playing on his lips. You turned to see him leaning against the fence, his dark eyes fixed on you. He looked as effortlessly handsome as ever, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder and his jeans hugging his legs just right.

“Hey, Negan,” you replied, trying to sound casual despite the way your heart skipped a beat.

He tilted his head, studying you. “Everything alright? You look a little… sad.”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile. “No, I’m fine. Just… thinking.” Negan raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, his gaze dropped slightly, and you realized your tank top had ridden up, revealing the white bow of your cute lace panties peeking out above your shorts. His eyes lingered for a moment, and you felt your cheeks flush as he raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Where’s Joel?” he asked, his voice casual but his eyes still fixed on you.

“Dunno,” you replied, tugging your tank top down self-consciously. “Somewhere inside, I think.”Negan nodded, his smirk never wavering. “Thanks, darlin’.” He stepped closer, and before you could react, he slapped your ass playfully, his hand lingering to give it a soft rub. You gasped, your eyes widening as he leaned in to kiss your ear, his breath warm against your skin.“I know you’re wearing those cute panties, babygirl,” he whispered, his voice low and teasing. “Don’t be naughty, or I’ll snitch to your dad.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was already walking away, laughing to himself as he headed toward the house. You stood there, your heart racing and your body tingling from his touch. He had a way of leaving you flustered and wanting more, and this time was no exception.

—--------------

Negan stepped inside the house, calling out for Joel. “Joel? You in here, old man?” Joel appeared at the top of the stairs, his expression unreadable. “What do you want, Negan?”

Negan grinned, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know that pretty little thing was visiting you. Her dad’s hungover or something?” Joel chuckled, though there was a tension in his shoulders. “Yeah, something like that.”

Negan’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Joel avoided his gaze. “Something happen?” he asked, his tone casual but probing. Joel sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Fuck, man… I screwed up.” Negan’s eyebrows shot up. “You fuck her?” Joel shook his head slightly, his voice low. “I, uh… kissed her. And… put one finger in her.” Negan’s eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle. “Fuck, Joel. How’d her pussy feel?”

Joel rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Man, she’s the daughter of our neighbor. And like, twenty years younger than us.” Negan laughed, a deep, hearty sound. “Hell yeah, so her pussy’s even tighter. Fuck, I’d do anything to hit that.”

Joel chuckled, though there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “Go ahead. I think she’s really craving some old man dick right now.”

Negan feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. “Who you callin’ old?” He paused, his smirk returning. “You think she’d wanna take two old dicks? Think she could handle that?”

Joel’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked like he was considering it. The thought of it made his blood run hot, and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Negan… I don’t know, man.” Negan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive tone. “Fuck, Joel, she’s dressed like a slut. She’s wearing those fucking panties for a reason. Didn’t she love it when your one finger got inside her? Imagine how she’d go crazy for your dick, huh?”

Joel’s hand rubbed the back of his neck, his mind racing. He knew it was wrong, but the thought of having you—of sharing you with Negan—was too tempting to ignore. Finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fine. Let’s take her upstairs.”

Negan’s grin widened, and he clapped Joel on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

—--------------------

Negan walked back outside, where you were still standing by the truck, trying to calm your racing heart. He approached you with that same confident swagger, his eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“Hi there, cutie,” he said, his voice smooth as honey. He lowered himself to whisper in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “You still wet? ‘Cause your daddies got a surprise for you.”Before you could register what was happening, he scooped you up in his arms, carrying you bridal-style toward the house. You gasped, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he laughed, the sound rich and deep.

“Negan, what are you—?” you started, but he cut you off with a wink.“Just relax, babygirl. You’re gonna love this.”He carried you inside, where Joel was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of hesitation—but it was quickly replaced by something darker, something that made your stomach flip. “Upstairs,” Joel said, his voice low and commanding.Negan didn’t need to be told twice. He carried you up the stairs, his grip firm but gentle, and you felt your heart pounding in your chest. 

—---------------------

Joel led the way, his broad shoulders filling the hallway as he guided Negan to his bedroom. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting shadows across the king-sized bed. Negan laid you down gently on the mattress, his eyes never leaving yours.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, your heart racing as you took in the sight of the two men standing at the foot of the bed. Joel’s arms were crossed over his chest, his piercing eyes dark with desire. Negan stood beside him, one hand rubbing his beard as he stared at you with a hunger that made your stomach flip.

“Fuck, darlin’,” Negan said, his voice low and rough. “You’re so damn sexy.”

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks, but you didn’t look away. The way they were looking at you—like you were the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen—made you feel powerful and vulnerable all at once.

“Take off your top,” Negan ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your tank top, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. You were left in nothing but your bra, the lace barely containing your breasts. Joel’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his gaze raking over your exposed skin.

He reached out, his calloused fingers gently tilting your chin up so you were looking into his eyes. Without a word, he leaned down and captured your lips in a searing kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, and you melted into him, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. As he deepened the kiss, his lips trailed down to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin and making you gasp and your bra strap fell down your shoulder.

Joel’s hands moved to the back of your bra, his fingers deftly unhooking the clasp and letting the fabric fall away. He lowered the cup, exposing your perked nipple to the cool air. “How cute,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. He moved slightly so Negan could see, and you locked eyes with the man, your heart pounding in your chest.Negan bit his lip, his eyes dark with desire. “Fuck, Joel, she’s perfect.”

Before you could respond, Joel’s mouth was on your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before he sucked it into his mouth. You moaned, your back arching off the bed as pleasure shot through you. Joel bit down gently, the sharp sting making you cry out.

Meanwhile, Negan was busy pulling off your shorts, his hands sliding down your thighs as he revealed your lace panties. “Fuck, I can see how wet you are, darlin’,” he said, his voice rough with need. “Joel, look at this.”

Joel hummed against your nipple, his hands moving to your other breast as he continued to tease you. Negan hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, agonizingly so. You whined, your hips lifting off the bed in an attempt to speed him up.“Oh, is someone impatient?” Negan teased, his smirk widening as he looked down at you. “Be patient, doll. I’ll fuck you soon enough.”

His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core, and you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Finally, your panties were off, and Negan’s fingers were on you, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand as he added two fingers inside you without warning. “Fuck!” you gasped, your nails digging into the sheets.

“Heard you already took one finger today,” Negan said, his voice dripping with amusement. “So I know you can handle more, babygirl.” You moaned, the realization that Joel and Negan had been talking about you—about this—making you even hotter. Joel’s mouth moved to your other nipple, sucking and biting as Negan’s fingers worked you open. The dual sensations were overwhelming, and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck, she’s so wet, Joel,” Negan said, his voice strained.“Fuck I know,” Joel replied, his lips leaving your breast to capture yours in another deep kiss. When he pulled away, he looked down at you with a wicked grin. “Negan, why don’t you let her suck your dick while I eat her sweet pussy?”

Negan’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Now THAT’S what I’m talking about.” You barely had time to process what was happening before Joel was spreading your legs, his mouth descending on your pussy with a hunger that made your toes curl. Negan, meanwhile, unbuckled his pants, freeing his cock and positioning himself at your lips.“Open up, babygirl,” he said, and almost melted at the sight of you.

You obeyed, your mouth widening as Negan slid the tip of his cock past your lips. You licked at the precum, moaning around him as Joel’s tongue delved into your pussy. It felt so good. Joel’s tongue flicking over your clit while Negan’s cock hit the back of your throat made you feel hazy.

Negan gripped your hair, his hips moving slowly as he fucked your mouth. “Fuck, you’re so good at this,” he groaned, his eyes locked on yours. Joel added a finger, then another, curling them inside you as he sucked on your clit. The combination of his fingers and tongue had you writhing on the bed, your moans muffled by Negan’s cock. You tried to focus on sucking Negan's dick but the pleasure of Joel's tongue inside you made it very difficult. 

“Focus on your own pleasure, babygirl I don’t wanna cum yet,” Negan said, pulling out of your mouth to give you a moment to breathe. “Let Joel take care of you.” You fell back against the mattress, your chest heaving as Joel continued to work you closer and closer to the edge. His eyes met yours between your thighs, and the intensity in his gaze made your stomach clench. You could feel the pressure building, your orgasm just out of reach.

And then it hit you—hard. You screamed as you squirted on Joel's face, your body convulsing as he rode out your orgasm with his fingers and tongue. Negan watched, his cock in his hand as he stroked himself, his eyes dark with desire.“Holy shit!” Negan yelled, his voice filled with awe. “That was fucking hot.” You collapsed back onto the bed, your body trembling as Joel finally pulled away, a satisfied smirk on his lips. 

“Fuck, Joel, I wanna feel that sweet pussy around my cock,” Negan said, switching places with Joel. Joel looked at you with soft, sweet eyes, his hand gently rubbing over your cheek before cupping your chin. “You alright, darlin’?” he asked. You nodded, biting your lip as you looked up at him with teary eyes.

“Fuck, you’re so cute, baby. Do you think your jaw can handle sucking my dick right now?” he asked. You nodded again, and he chuckled. “Words, please,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Yes, Daddy, I wanna suck your dick,” you replied, your voice trembling slightly. His hands moved to unbuckle his belt, and he smirked. “Alright, anything for you baby.”

Negan, now standing by your legs with his pants off, laughed. “Daddy, huh? That’s new.” He stripped off his shirt, revealing his toned body adorned with sexy tattoos. He grabbed your thighs, positioning himself at your entrance. You gulped nervously, noticing how big he was.

“Don’t worry, doll. It’ll fit,” Negan reassured you with a smirk. He looked into your eyes as he slowly entered you, drawing a moan from your lips. Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as he filled you.“Fuck, look at you, stretching for me so good. God, you feel amazing around my cock,” he groaned. You whimpered, still adjusting to his size, and hesitated to take Joel into your mouth.

As negan began moving faster, and the initial sting faded, it was replaced by a hot, pleasurable fullness. Finally, you turned your head toward Joel, who was already anticipating your next move. You propped yourself up on your elbows and took him into your mouth. His precum tasted sweeter than Negan’s, though they were roughly the same size.

You teased the tip of Joel’s cock with your tongue, and he groaned. “Fuck, darlin’, don’t tease me,” he said, his voice strained. You glanced up at him through your lashes, smiling around his length. 

When suddenly, Negan thrust HARD into you, and Joel gripped the back of your head, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. You gagged, drool escaping your lips as Joel held you in place.“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Joel moaned. Negan laughed, his voice rough. “Her pussy clenched so hard just then. Fuck.”The reality of the situation hit you—you were here, with two older, incredibly sexy men. It felt surreal, like a dream. Joel snapped you out of your thoughts when he spoke up.

“Negan, can I feel her pussy for a second?” Joel asked. Negan nodded, pulling out of you with a wet sound that made you gasp. Joel withdrew from your mouth and moved to your front, entering you without warning. You cried out, the sudden fullness overwhelming.

“Holyyy shit,” Joel said, looking over at Negan, who laughed. “I know, right? It’s like a virgin pussy, but we both know she ain’t. Am i right you fucking slut?” Negan said, his tone teasing. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a heated kiss that quickly turned into a full-on makeout session. Joel continued thrusting into you, his head falling back as he lost himself in the sensation.

Your orgasm was building, but Joel suddenly pulled out. “I wanna cum in her mouth,” he said to Negan, who nodded. “I get to breed her?” Negan asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Yeah, go ahead. I wanna see her swallow my seed like the good girl she is,” Joel replied. He positioned himself at your mouth again and entered it. You could taste yourself on him just as Negan reentered you. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, angling himself to hit your G-spot with every thrust. “Fuck Negan” you moaned.

“Call me Daddy,” Negan demanded, his voice rough. “Daddy,” you moaned, your voice breaking as he pinched your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through you.“Good girl,” he praised, his pace relentless and softly rubbing your clit now.

Your mind was spinning, overstimulated but craving more. You felt your orgasm approaching again, and Joel was close too. He gripped your head tighter, moving you faster on his cock until tears streamed down your cheeks.

With a groan, Joel came, his head falling back as he spilled into your mouth. You swallowed every drop, licking his tip clean as he pulled away. “Fuck, that’s so hot,” Joel said, tucking himself back into his pants. He sat down in a rocking chair, watching as Negan continued to fuck you. Negan’s thrusts grew harder, and you finally came, your body trembling as you squirted around his cock. He groaned, filling you with his release.

“Fuck, I hope you’re on birth control, babygirl, ‘cause that’s a big load,” he said, his voice ragged. You moaned at the feeling of his warmth inside you, but suddenly, your vision blurred. Your eyes rolled back, and everything went black as you collapsed.

—----

After a few minutes, you slowly stirred awake, your head resting comfortably on Joel's pillow. As your vision cleared, you noticed both men standing nearby, their eyes fixed on you with a mix of concern and amusement. Joel sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gently brushing through your hair in a soothing motion. Negan, leaning against the wall, smirked down at you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"W-What happened?" you asked, your voice soft and slightly disoriented as you tried to piece together the last moments before everything went dark.Negan chuckled, his deep voice filling the room. "You passed out, sweetheart. Couldn't handle my cock after all, huh? You squirted like crazy,damn, it was something else." His words were laced with pride, but there was a teasing glint in his eyes that made your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

You instinctively looked away, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Negan noticed your discomfort and quickly moved to sit beside you on the bed. His large hand rested on your thigh, his touch surprisingly gentle as he tried to reassure you. "Hey, shh, it's okay, baby. Don't be embarrassed. We loved every second of it. You were incredible," he said, his tone softer now, almost tender.

Joel, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. His voice was calm and steady, a stark contrast to Negan's playful demeanor. "I'll go tell your dad you're taking a nap. I'll say you did a good job with helping me and got tired." He gave you a small, reassuring smile and a wink before standing up and heading toward the door.

Taglist: @misguidedasgardian @highinmiamiii @aretha170

alltime: @emmaaas-posts

[mpregslover69]

carrying you

daryl gives you piggy back ride every time, doesn't matter. he enjoys having your face so close to his while he carries you around, the moment your head rests itself in the crook of his neck he is swooning all over again. if he needs to grab you quickly, he goes for an under arm carry, keeping you low to the ground afraid of dropping you.

negan throws you over like a sack of potatoes most times, he slaps your ass while doing so making some annoyingly vulgar joke about you,, it's how he parades you around. if he's feeling extra snarky, he does an under arm carry laughing the whole time as he rag dolls you around.

rick does the princess carry, he enjoys seeing your flustered face while he walks around with you like this. even better when your arms wrap around his neck while your face has to find its way to rest on his chest. if he's in a rush or wants to drag you away from something while you're being stubborn its back to the good old toss over his shoulder. he tries to not do it too often but he also cant help himself sometimes.

[jeanbie]

MA MEILLEURE ENNEMIE ★ masterlist ★ ♬

pairing: tsu'tey x reader

tags: fem!avatar driver reader, tsu'tey lives #jeanbiecanon, very light angst

words: 3.6k

note: arcane timebomb you will always be famous to me

⏤ On Jake and Neytiri's wedding, Tsu'tey has to put on his brave face and stomach the avatar drivers. Still, he's always actually tolerated you, and when he's had a few by the fire and watches your shape stagger into the figure of the flames, Tsu'tey doesn't know how to define that feeling sitting in his chest.

There’s a strange feeling billowing its way into Tsu’tey’s stomach, and he doesn’t know what to name it.

Could it be the alcohol? Tsu’tey drags his stinging eyes from the sight of the roaring fire and down to the zangke sloshing in his cup — it looks the same as it always does, dark and disinteresting, and he suppresses a frown. After one more sip, and not being able to taste any difference, he’s forced to resign the idea and sinks further into his glum misery. 

He should be celebrating. Everybody else is. The Skypeople are gone, the forests are free, and his closest friends are getting married. What was there to be miserable about?

Tsu’tey surveys the clearing that has been decorated flamboyantly for Neytiri and Jake’s wedding and feels his heart tug two ways. 

Everything looks enchanting; the trees are flushed with syuratan — the bioluminescence that sweeps across everything alive on Pandora — and the moss and fauna are alight with embers of fire and insects drawn in to the scorching glow of the flames. 

The fire in the middle of the clearing takes up a space the size of three pa’li, and around it, not a single space is unoccupied. The entire village has taken the opportunity to enjoy themselves in the couple’s honour, and for the first time since the bright blimp of Skypeople light vanished from their skies, things feel normal again.

Tsu’tey felt normal for a moment, too. As normal as he could, considering the circumstances. 

From where he sits with his back facing the trunk of a nearby tree, Tsu’tey feels the thrum of ceremonial music beneath his legs, sizzling through his body — it is the first thing he’s truly felt since the severing of his kuru.

He winces at the thought. It was better to try and forget about the time he’d almost died, back when he half wished he had. Dying on the battlefield would have been so simple, and Tsu’tey had to confess that dying would have been the swiftest mercy. 

Now that he had life again, Tsu’tey was trying to enjoy whatever was given to him, especially when so many of his people had been deprived the chance. But it’s hard. So hard. And it’s especially hard to move on and heal when there are still so many reminders of what happened, and that’s his first thought when he catches the sight of several Dreamwalkers drawing closer to the ceremony alongside a select handful of remaining Skypeople, and Tsu’tey finally finds several names for the feeling in his stomach.

Discomfort. Resentment. Regret. Disgust. 

And so on and so forth.

When the Omatikaya decided to grant asylum to the select humans who dedicated their lives to preserving Pandora and its people, Tsu’tey had been in recovery and unable to cast a vote. He knew that some of his people had been against their permanent residency here, just like he was and still is, but those few voices outnumbered the majority who no longer had the energy to keep fighting. 

Anyone willing to protect Pandora was a friend to the Omatikaya, and not even Tsu’tey could argue against their efforts in the war. If it hadn’t been for so many of the Skypeople turning the RDA upside down from the inside, then maybe none of them would be alive right now. 

It was a difficult thing, trying to come to terms with his gratitude and his grudges at the same time. But despite everything those Skypeople had done for them, Tsu’tey found himself unable to put it all behind him. He still hated them. He hated them all so much.

The way they walked, the way they looked and smelled… Tsu’tey could rarely stomach being around any one of them for too long. Jake was different — it had taken Jake months to earn Tsu’tey’s respect, to become his equal, but there were still times where Tsu’tey felt that churning, the discomfort of knowing other Skypeople would never truly be one of them. 

The sensation in his stomach curdled and tightened as the Dreamwalkers swarmed the ceremony, smiles on their uncanny faces as the Omatikaya people approached them with hospitality and grace.

This time, it felt different — it felt like shame. Tsu’tey could acknowledge that he was being exceptionally hard on the ones who had stayed. Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but it could never bring back what he’d lost. What the war had cost everybody — cost him.

From his sulking ground, Tsu’tey watches as Jake reluctantly unwinds himself from Neytiri’s arms and bounds towards the group of Skypeople. He bows to the humans standing in their shadows, their strange little masks on their faces, and then individually greets the Dreamwalkers like friends, like family. 

Tsu’tey assesses them all with cautionary detail. He even knows a few of them from the war. His eyes jump from body to body; he takes in every accessory hanging from their neck or woven around their arms, and the clothes draped over their frames. Some are decked in RDA gear, a sore reminder of who they really were, whereas some had arrived in Omatikaya garments — likely gifts from the villagers who were more keen than others to build bridges. 

Tsu’tey didn’t care about bridges. If they burned, then he’d watch the flames dance until they flickered into nothing.

The group moved further into the ceremony, slotting in amongst the Omatikaya until Tsu’tey lost sight of them. He tried not to let the idea of them wandering around the village unsettle him and he forced his gaze away and back to the fire. 

The bright orange flames burned into his eyes with a sharpness, but even as he felt the heat drying out his eyes, he didn’t look away. Tsu’tey watched the fire until he saw his own silhouette in the flames; he saw himself moving through the forest on a hunt, dancing on a birthday.

He watched with no expression as his fiery image shifted into one of pure rage; he saw the war again, his body throwing itself into the opened hull of a Skyperson ship. 

Tsu’tey watched unmovingly as he replayed that day, watching him hurl dozens of creatures off the ship to the ground, watching his kuru get caught in the pink clasp of a Skyperson’s hand, the blade slicing through his nerves, the world blurring into a bright white as he felt the wind rushing up around his body, falling, falling…

Tsu’tey suddenly blinks.

His eyes soften as they close, the feeling tightening in his chest like an iron fist. When he opens his eyes again and grimaces, he takes a long second before looking up to locate the reason why he’d looked away in the first place. 

Spinning in loose circles around the flames, right in his line of sight, Tsu’tey lets his eyes fall onto you and the feeling in his stomach vanishes entirely.

For a second, he feels nothing at all. The forest has thinned out to darkness, and it is as if he’s in a small room, watching the world from a window that only looks out onto you.

Then, the feeling returns, changed somehow. Now, in his stomach he feels the knot of hatred loosening into something lightweight and warm, and it takes a few seconds for Tsu’tey to decide that this feeling is actually worse, and he snatches his cup up off the floor and downs the contents with one aggressive gulp.

He knows you — how could he not? Back when Grace Augustine’s school had been running and Tsu’tey had attended a few classes there, he’d seen you around, shadowing Grace as she devoted herself to the children in attendance.

Unlike the other Dreamwalkers and Skypeople, Tsu’tey somewhat tolerated you and Grace. You’d never shown him anything but kindness and care; you came to the school with a rare kind of curiosity and patience that Tsu’tey had never seen in a Skyperson, and thought didn’t exist in anything but the Na’vi. 

Grace was straightforward and methodical, but you were open and carefree, always smiling. Always kind. Always thoughtful. 

Of course, in those early days, Tsu’tey hadn’t been too invested. He had other things to think about, other people to care for. Even now, Tsu’tey could list a hundred people who were more important to him than you were, but that still doesn’t explain the feeling inside of him. Still doesn’t explain why after all this time, he still can’t find it inside of him to hate you. Still doesn’t explain why in this moment, Tsu’tey can’t look anywhere but at you.

With the rusty coloured sheets of fire behind you, coruscating in the Pandora night, Tsu’tey watches as you twist and turn to the music. His gaze is unfocused to a degree — you appear as if you’re staggering, moving with seconds of paused time between each turn. Watching you is an automatic response, not a choice. 

Tsu’tey’s breathing hollows as he stares, the colours of your skin flashing white whenever the light of the fire hits the blue hue at an angle. Your tanhì glows with the same intensity as the forest, mapping out a trail against your skin that Tsu’tey devours from across the clearing. 

Out of all the Dreamwalkers in attendance, Tsu’tey should have guessed that you’d be one of the ones in Omatikaya garments. What you’re wearing is simple ceremonial attire, made especially for the bride’s chosen women.

The fact that Neytiri may have chosen you to join her party doesn’t surprise Tsu’tey in the slightest — even in the days of Grace’s school, she’d been soft on you, and your dedication to keeping the Omatikaya unable to fight safe in the fringes of the forest had only solidified your place within the clan, within Neytiri’s inner circle.

Tsu’tey hasn’t spoken to you since the days following the attack at the school. He’s seen you once or twice, but never spoken. Even now, as he gapes at the sight of you, he wouldn’t know what to say.

The breath leaves his chest in a giant sigh, a weight miraculously lifting from his body as it does. He wants to look away, but he just can’t. Tsu’tey can’t possibly understand why now, all of a sudden, he’s so fixated on you, but then realisation dawns and reaches him with a physical lurch in the gut — in this moment, you look beautiful. You are beautiful, always have been beautiful.

Tsu’tey feels a rising sensation of nausea and guilt when the acceptance of your beauty crosses his mind. He goes back to pretending it’s the alcohol and squints ahead, trying to grimace. Still, while he’s watching you, he can’t do anything but admire you; grimacing and looking displeased is out of the question. 

His body is incapable of producing a look of disgust. He can no longer feel any hatred or distrust swirling around in his heart — all he feels is warm acceptance and the rising buzz of fear. 

Tsu’tey thinks you’re beautiful. You. A Dreamwalker. Alien. 

“Brother.”

Tsu’tey considers it a small act of mercy when Jake appears out of virtually nowhere and drops to his haunches beside him. In his best effort to act natural, Tsu’tey looks over at him with a feigned expression of disinterest, his hairline raising questioningly.

“You should be enjoying your wedding,” Tsu’tey tells him. Valiantly, he doesn’t look back to where he sees you are from the corner of his eye; you’ve circled yourself into the arms of another Omatikaya and he pretends it doesn’t bother him.

“I am,” Jake says, watching the party with a soft smile. A beat of silence passes before Jake’s eyes slide sideways to ogle Tsu’tey, “How come you’re not enjoying it?”

He bristles. “It is fun.”

“Jeez, this is how you have fun?”

Tsu’tey levels Jake a scowl that Jake takes with indifference. 

“If you’re gonna sulk in a corner like this, why’re you even here?” Jake asks, his brows knitted together tightly. If Tsu’tey looks disrespected by Jake’s retort then he doesn’t voice it — it takes him a few seconds to even process that he’s talking to Jake in English, and his scowl deepens when it does. So much is changing around him that it’s hard to keep up.

“It is your wedding,” Tsu’tey states, still in English. It’s Jake’s wedding, and the very least he could do. “So I am here.”

“Uh-huh.” 

Jake’s eyes assess Tsu’tey with a beady look that Grace would’ve been proud of, and when Tsu’tey’s eyes drift back to the fire and the people dancing around it, Jake follows his gaze and finds you. His brows soften and he looks between you and Tsu’tey before smiling. 

“Why don’t you go dance?” Jake suggests.

Tsu’tey grunts his disagreement. 

“Looks like a lot of fun,” Jake continues, playing with his fingers between his legs. His haunches are beginning to ache in this position. “Great music. Great fire. Y/N’s there.”

Tsu’tey’s glower flickers as the light of the fire passes by them. “I see her.”

Jake hums obnoxiously, but when Tsu’tey says or does nothing else, he physically can’t hold back his sigh and lets it go.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asks suddenly, and Tsu’tey looks back at him with slight surprise. “The war’s over, brother. You can be at peace, you can start again.”

“I know,” Tsu’tey replies plainly.

“You don’t have to be so…” Jake pauses, looking for the words, “…so closed off all the time.” When Tsu’tey looks at him, confused, he frowns and puts it into a perspective that Tsu’tey can understand. “I know you are scared of the Skypeople. You should be, you have every right to hate them. But the people who stayed here on Pandora are our allies. They are as much our people as this clan.”

“I hate the Skypeople,” Tsu’tey replies harshly. “They are not my people.”

“You hate all of ‘em?” Jake asks. Tsu’tey stays silent, his eyes flickering to you with a sour expression. He tries to make it look like he isn’t looking at you, trying to find something of interest around the fire that isn’t you or the man who spins you into the arms of Ninat. 

“Y/N’s human too,” Jake says quietly.

Tsu’tey’s heart thuds. “Yes.”

For a moment, Jake waits and watches Tsu’tey’s face as it falls into an expression of extreme study. He is watching you with close interest, his breathing somewhat ragged. Then, Jake speaks again.

“But…you like her, right?”

The steady thud of Tsu’tey’s heart quickens into an erratic hammering.

“…Yes,” he hisses. The words are a release. Tsu’tey feels his body relax like he’s just submerged his body into the morning baths — he blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the weightless feeling washing over his bones, and he frowns.

There’s no possible way for you to have heard them discussing you, but a few seconds later, Tsu’tey stills in place when you look over in his direction, your eyes finding him despite the cloud of darkness encompassing his position.

His breathing becomes more heavy when you smile — Tsu’tey has missed seeing that look of adoration on your face. It’s been years, and it still feels like it did back then, back when he was burying his curiosity beneath his duties. 

How could he even begin to move towards talking to you again, not to mention entertaining the thought of acting on his own feelings for you? The feelings have been buried, stagnant, for so long that he’s actually not even sure if they’re real. Now that his kuru has been severed, Tsu’tey has been acting weird — maybe this is a result of that.

“You could try and dance with her.” Tsu’tey is reminded of Jake’s presence when he speaks again.

Tsu’tey hesitates. “That is not the way.”

“Says who?”

“I say.”

Jake laughs. “Come on, brother. It’s my wedding.”

“I don’t care,” Tsu’tey remarks. 

“If Toruk Makto asked you to dance, you would.”

The glare that Tsu’tey gives Jake is so intense that Jake almost blanches backward. Then the absurdity of the situation settles and Jake grins, resting his hand on Tsu’tey’s shoulder.

“I know why you’re scared,” Jake says, his tone light but nonetheless serious, “and so goddamn stubborn. But…you know, it’s never too late to try. If you try and you can’t, then whatever. But the Tsu’tey I know and respect never backed down out of fear. You never know until you know. Why don’t you just try?”

Tsu’tey breathes slowly, not sure of what to do or say.

“Everything is different, Jakesully. I do not know what to do,” he confesses. “I gave my life for my people, for my Olo’eyktan. I met with Eywa, but now I am here again. I do not know what to do with my life. I do not know who I am without…” He trails off. Jake knows what he means, what he was referring to. After so much loss, Jake knows now how Tsu’tey is feeling.

Jake’s hand tightens around Tsu’tey’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’m with you, brother. Together, we can try.” Then, he turns his head to look back to where you are; your eyes are still wandering over to where Tsu’tey is sitting with an uncharacteristic impatience. If Jake were to guess, then you probably wanted to talk to Tsu’tey as much as he wanted to talk to you.

“Now, get up and dance with her,” Jake says as a final order, heaving himself up off his haunches. Tsu’tey looks up as his Olo’eyktan rises and automatically joins him. “As your Olo’eyktan and brother, I order you to dance with her. If you don’t, there’ll be consequences.”

Tsu’tey finds the energy to laugh from his chest, half affronted and half impressed by Jake’s sudden display of authority.

“You are still a skxawng,” he declares as Jake starts to wander off into the party.

Jake looks over his shoulder and shrugs, “Skxawng who can now boss you around. Your fault.”

With that, Tsu’tey watches Jake drift into the celebrations and fade into a blue blur. He is consumed almost entirely by the amount of people now dancing around the fire, including Neytiri and several other senior members of the Omatikaya. 

Now that he’s standing up, Tsu’tey has started garnering attention from others; they look at him cautiously, as if he were a loose cannon about to explode. He understands why — there was nobody else here with as much right to hate the Skypeople as Tsu’tey, and with their eyes on him, the phantom feeling of his kuru feels ten times stronger. What the hell is he doing? He shouldn’t be here.

Before he can even entertain the idea of leaving, Tsu’tey’s eyes find yours again. Stumbling on both feet after being released in a swirl from Ninat’s hands, you stare at him for a moment as your vision focuses and you take the sight of him in.

You haven’t seen him in so long, and yet he looks almost the same as he did before, only more taut and muscular, more defined from the rage of war. And yet, despite all of that — despite the passage of time and the weight of war and loss, you still find the man you once admired, the man you have missed each day that passed without him.

Tsu’tey has to remind himself to breathe when you smile at him widely, eyes widening with recognition and arms reaching out as if calling him closer. If your hands were magnets, then he was the iron being pulled in to you; his feet shift off the soft moss beneath him and towards the fire, crunching over leaves and flowers and dry grass until he is a few inches away from you.

Around you both, the dancing crowd is reduced to stuttering blurred lines of colour. The only constant, clear thing that Tsu’tey can see is you, and now he is up close, there’s no reason to deny the aching feeling in his chest for just how much he has longed to speak to you, or for just how insanely beautiful you look in his eyes.

No words are said as you reach for his forearms, the warmth of your touch the only thing Tsu’tey can feel, despite the pressing heat of the bonfire. 

Being near Skypeople was one of Tsu’tey’s greatest displeasures in life, but with you, everything feels right. He finds the soft outline of his face in your eyes and he blinks, standing still as you move with the music, trying to coax him into moving with you.

Good lord, how is it possible that he likes you so much? It’s been years. How is he able to still see that girl inside of you? How is it that despite everything he stands for, he’s unable to see anything unnatural about you?

When your hands slide down to his, his heart beats so hard in his chest that he’s afraid he might be dying again. Your fingers tighten around his, and with very little restraint, Tsu’tey feels his feet follow you into a dance around the flames, the drums intensifying, his body feeling as if it has been caught by the flames and burned to a crisp. 

His eyes are glued to yours, to the expression of delight and adoration on your face, and for the first time in a long, long time, Tsu’tey feels what he’s been searching relentlessly for.

He smiles, resigning to his heart.

Yes. He’s found what he wanted all along.

Finally, Tsu’tey has found peace.

[writella]

Fuckin’ Favorite

Synopsis: Whose the fairest of them all? It’s you. It’s always been you. Negan’s prepared to let each one of his wives know just that tonight.

— or: Oh Lord, does Negan love his fuckin’ favorite wife!

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, smut— fingering, thigh riding, and penetration without protection; reader at the Sanctuary, “wife”!reader, guilty!reader because when am I not feeling guilty for wanting Negan, Negan being rude in one small part, I’m pretty sure I changed the layout of the wives quarters from the show, and a fuck load of ‘fucks’ from Negan. Mostly proofread. wc: 2.2k.

A/N: I mostly get right to it, so buckle up! And if you like this one, check out this daydream I wrote because I think it’s really cute.

—with love from writella ♡

He comes in without a knock.

The door, though brittle as it is, slams shut. The metal and leather of his jacket clink and slap as his back pounds against it. He has no care that he could break the door, or for the noise and late hour of his arrival.

This was his house. His rules.

“Good evenin’, sweetheart.”

If it wasn’t for that slight twang in his accent, or that wiley look that punctuates the end of his sentences, making everything he says just as comical as unsettling, it would have sounded more like a, Hello, Clarice— nonetheless, you still hold your breath.

“It’s half past ten,” you decide to say, looking down, making sure you don’t sound too sarcastic or displeased with his appearance. It’s just that you hated it when he came to your room, especially when all the other girls were right outside in the common room or in their bedrooms that neighbored yours. You much rather go to his room if you have to. It’s quiet and separate from the rest of the habitants of the Sanctuary. He could be as loud as he wanted— even though he always was anyway— but that would mostly be for you— so you didn’t have to feel so ashamed.

“Well would you prefer a Hey, sexy. Strip down. Ass up. then? Just get right to it?” You say nothing. “Cause I could.” Negan tilts his head sideways with a slight grin, his forehead protruding forward as he tries to find your eyes. All he sees is cheeks starting to flush, an embarrassed shake of your head, and eyes that stay stuck on your black ballerina flats.

You were sitting on the rear of your bed, only looking up sometimes. Recently, you were trying to get better with eye contact. You wanted to show that you’re not afraid of him anymore. It was supposed to be a silent statement that he wasn’t fooling you and that you weren’t softening up to him. That you know what this is, who he is; you’re cognizant of what he does to you, to the others girls, to people outside these walls. But, this didn’t work. No matter if you were looking down or up, you could never seem to get rid of that deer in the headlights look— The Roadkill Stare or The Corpse’s Bride as Negan called it— wide and bewildered, like he was going to run you over. Sometimes it made him feel sad. That there were moments where he could see you trying to resist your natural instinct to flinch when he comes near. But other times, it made him feel powerful. Not the fact that he scared you, but that he could see what was underneath it— that you were scared of yourself. He knows you like him. He knows from the way your face slightly twists as you suppress your snickers and smiles at his jokes when you two are alone, or when he makes fun of Simon for yet another one of his bad attempts at acting like him; when you think you’re doing well at maintaining that timid Tim Burton eyed version of a poker face. He knows you’re not completely scared of him, at least not anymore. Little by little, he’s learning to clock the nuances of your expressions: he sees how your eyes trail his body when he undresses in front of you, or the way you follow him as he walks to talk to this person or that, how you’re acutely aware of when and how he moves, your eyes flickering towards his hands before he gestures with them. It’s like you know too. As if you see his underneath the way he can for you. You’re becoming as familiar as he is.

He’s aware.

You can’t fool him any longer.

“Get up for me.” It’s a soft command said in his darkened voice. On instinct, you oblige. This is how it is. He walks closer, his fingertips lightly brushing slowly down your shoulder until he reaches your waist. He grabs you quick and close on both sides, pulling you straight against him. You gasp, arms swinging back slightly, back arching against him as he presses you on his lower abdomen and groin. You can feel his breath, and the heat of his intense gaze. “Kiss me.”

Your mouth is agape. Your breath shudders. You’re frozen.

You do nothing.

There you go again, his little fawn bride. If eyes could be any more rounder, symmetrical spheres, they’re yours. He could laugh but he doesn’t. He only repeats himself. Quietly, sternly, “You kiss me first this time.”

You had never done that before.

“Do I gotta say it a third?”

You shake your head. No.

Hesitantly, you reach up, touching his face with ghostlike fingertips, feeling the bristles of his beard as you bring yourself closer. Your lips are light and tentative as you finally press yours on his. For him, it was like being kissed by an angel. It makes him soften up for a moment, tilt your head up higher for you to give you more leverage. He kisses you just as sweetly. His thumb strokes your jaw.

After a few more kisses, you pull back to look at him. You hold his shoulders and he holds you by your waist. Your faces are so close, his eyes could almost be as wide as yours, and for a moment, it all feels so soft and dream-like. But quickly, the iridescence fades: before you realize it, he puts his tongue in your mouth forcefully, making your head roll back. The unexpected shift makes you gasp into his mouth.

He turns you around, slams you again your door. Your tall bureau near it bangs against the wall with you. Some of your folded clothes you had yet to put away and jewelry falls off the top as your head bounces.

Negan’s left hand runs down your body, sliding two fingers down under your dress and over your panties, pressing in at your slit. He finds wetness forming. His fingers make it more pronounced as he creates a wet spot.

“Tell me you want me,” he says as he starts to rub your clit.

You take a shaky breath inwards, covering a small moan.

Negan’s fingers slide inside your underwear and down right into your hole. He pumps slowly three times, never losing eye contact with you and then he takes them out. “Cause I want you,” and he proves it by putting the two fingers in his mouth and licking them clean, wiping his lips afterwards with his tongue. “Tell me you do too.”

Your breath remains heavy. Finally, you whisper, “I want you.”

He spins you around again. His back against the door once more, producing another slam you know all the girls will hear. He raises one of his legs and slots his thigh in between yours. His hands rest on your hips, rocking you against him. It feels good. Your thin cotton panties and bare thighs brushing and rocking against his that are rough and denim clad. You try to resist the urge to make any sounds because of how much you like it. “Tell me you need me.”

This makes you whine. “Can we—” you start to ask— and you can’t believe you’re even going to say it— “Can we just go to your room? Please?” Oh God, what would everyone at Alexandria think? They’d be so disappointed. They’d hate you. The wives have never been mean, they accepted you, understood your condition more than anyone else, but where you only had very educated guesses of what everyone at home would think of you, you had a stone hard fact of how the other girls were starting to see you. Their eyes could not lie as much as yours: you felt women’s growing glares of silent resentment whenever you were seen with Negan. He was more forgiving with you; never got too nasty about your habit of not speaking when you’re spoke to; he was gentle with his touch when others were watching; never made you hang out with any of the other men if you didn’t want to; and he talked to you, communicated more. They saw it. They knew it. They figured you were more in the know about things outside the Sancutary than they were. You tried to use it to keep them informed as well, as a way to preserve what little favor you had left, but now look at you, ruining it all as they’re forced to listen. Not only submitting to whatever he may do to you, but asking to change the location before it begins.

“No. You get me here or not at all.” You knew he wasn’t lying. His voice was stern. He looked you in the eye even if you weren’t looking back, you felt it. It told you that he wouldn’t budge, not even a little. “And you can sleep in those panties if that’s the case.”

You stay silent for a moment. Eyes peering into his wishing just your look could say it all. “Negan…” you whisper.

“Yes, baby?”

“I- I need you.”

In an instant, Negan pushes you off of him. His hands go to the ends of your dress and pull it off of you with your arms and hair flying.

“Take it off,” he demands after he throws you down on your bed.

You feet kick off your flats and you raise your hips to discard your panties, never losing sight of him as he rips off his jacket, unbuckles his belt, and crosses his arms to get rid of his shirt. You loved the look of his years-faded tattoos against his tan skin and the curves of his light muscles when he raises his arms.

You’re in a trance, not seeing that he sees that you’re doing it again. Bambi eyes trailing him down. It’s every time you guys do this. And fuck, you must think he’s sexy. He loves it. Because he knows he’s fucking sexy. He knows that pretty girls like you will always come around. You just can’t help it. His grin is as wide as your eyes because of it.

Negan is hard and he wastes no time. He’s been thinking about claiming you all day. He hooks his hands under your knees as you lay with your back flat on the bed.

Negan lines himself against you and immediately starts to piston himself inside of you, never completely pulling out. Your breast shake as his thrusts keep pushing you back. You felt like you were vibrating.

He is obsessed with this angle. Getting to see your face scrunch and twist and contort. Getting to hear your heavy pants and sighs. Getting to feel the squeeze of your pussy and he continues to push inside you fast, fast, fast.

And he’s mesmerized by your breast. The continuous bounce of your perky tits that were now his. He wants his mouth on them, he wants his dick between them, but for now he’ll just watch them jump and spring— it’s just as sexy to him. He might even have to cancel all of tomorrow's plans just to watch them fly all day like this.

Your head turns to your left side and you catch yourself in your full length mirror— the view is from head to the top of your waist. You see your left tit bouncing along with your head and stomach as Negan keeps pushing into it with no relent. Instantly you moan at the sight. Your hand swings to your face right after, your eyes closing shut.

Negan rips your fingers from off your mouth. “No,” he warns. “I know you like it—” you whine when he says that— “Stop hiding it. Look at yourself or I’ll stop.”

You don’t open them.

He stops.

“You gonna fuckin’ listen?”

Slowly, you ynclose your scrunched eyes, seeing yourself and your parted lips again.

“Good girl.” And then, Negan starts splitting you open again, making you shake. The sudden movement makes you moan, “oh- uh.”

“Tell me you want it.”

You don’t resist anymore. You continue to look at yourself in the mirror as you say, “I want it.”

“Tell me you need it.”

Your head turns to watch where your body connects with his. “Ohmygod, I need it.”

He growls as he follows your gaze, voice strained and rough like he’s going to punch something as he repeats, thrusting faster, “Tell me you fucking need it.”

“I need it.” Then you moan, “Negan, please!” You chant, “Please. Please, Negan, I need it!”

“You need it, baby?” He jeers. “You want me to give it to ya?”

You nod as you whine, tears almost coming out. Your breasts still bounce for him and you love it as much as you hate it. “Yes, Negan.”

“You know what I came in here to do, baby?”

You’re still whining, you're practically incoherent. His little fuck doll. All you can say is his name.

“Look at me when I tell you.”

Your eyes go up to his. Watching him as he continues to pump into you. You see how his body vigorously shakes in unison with yours. His skin and his pushing up and down, in and out, as he makes your body jump.

“I came in here,” he starts, losing his breath and trying not to falter from his thrusts as his face places itself above yours, “To show every single bitch in the goddamn house that you’re mine. And that you’re the only fuckin’ one.” You respond with only sex-filled sounds. You’re close to exploding. Your body still jumps along with his. Your bouncing breasts rubbing against his pex as he commands, “Tell me you want me to do it. You want me to make you come.”

As always, though this time it was because you were on the verge of losing all control, you give no answer.

His words bite at your parted lips as he repeats, “Tell me!” And he slaps the side of your ass.

The pang forces you to speak: “I want you to do it Negan please!”

Negan rises. His mouth circles as he moans. He holds your hips now, raising them off the bed as he pumps into your harder. “Say it again.”

“Do it, Negan, please. Please make me come.” With each word ending in moaning pants as you repeats, “Please- Please- Please- Please- Please-”

“Oh fuck,” his gutteral voice rasps and roars for all to hear. Your absolute submission brings him closer to the edge. He smiles widely knowing he’s about to come so hard in that tiny pussy of yours. “OH FUCKIN LORD,” he laughs, knowing he has the whole floor’s attention, not caring a single bit how any of it sounds. “GOD DAMN. THAT’S FUCKIN RIGHT. IM GONNA MAKE MY PRETTY LITTLE FUCKIN WIFE FUCKIN COME BECAUSE SHE’S- MY FUCKIN’- FAVORITE.”

[dollfacefantasy]

CRY IF I WANT TO ♡

pairing: negan x fem!reader

summary: life has been different since you've been taken to the sanctuary. you're not sure how you fit in here. some may call you one of the wives, but you don't think that's accurate. maybe his pet? his doll? as the days pass, you're not sure it really matters. the distinction doesn't get you any closer to escape.

cw: nsfw (18+), dark fic, smut, dubcon, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), kidnapping/captivity, stockholm syndrome, coercion, forced ddlg/daddy kink, humiliation kink, dacryphilia, violence (from negan, simon, and reader), hurt/comfort sorta

wc: 10.9k (oops lol)

a/n: ermmm... hehe yeah. i've been wanting to write this so i hope someone likes it. reblogs, comments, and asks are appreciated <3

kinktober slot: day 13 - mindbreak (i think)

"Rise and shine, little lady. We got a lot of things to do today."

Your eyes flutter open, the bright light from the window in front of you broken up by the silhouette of the man at your bedside. The sight of him, even just the outline of his body, sends a nauseating crackle of dread through your bones. It's a feeling you can't verbalize of course - not if you want this day to resemble any sort of pleasant.

"There she is," Negan says, speaking with his signature cadence that made you want to rip out your hair, "How'd you sleep, babydoll?"

"Fine," you rasp as you slowly sit up. The mornings were the only time you could get away with dull answers like that. Any small bit of attitude could be blamed on you being 'cranky' rather than feelings of hatred that hadn't been broken down by this point.

He smiles at you, his rough hand cupping your jaw.

"You're so pretty in the mornings," he mumbles, sweeping a thumb over your pouty bottom lip.

You pause for a second, but so does he. Like he expects a reply. Unfortunately, you know the words he wants to hear. Swallowing the last sliver of dignity you have, you force out the response you'd been trained to say over the last however-long.

"Thank you, daddy."

He grins even wider if that's possible and pats your head. "You're welcome. Now let's get you dressed. Like I said, daddy's got a lot to do today."

You get out of bed and follow him over to the dresser that held your outfit for the day. The chill of cold air bites at your legs as the lack of blankets leaves them exposed. The generator had been out for the past day or so, leaving the Sanctuary victim to the harsh Winter raging outside. You were hoping he'd take that into account when picking your clothes, but you didn't hold out too much hope.

The two of you shuffle around the gray furniture of Negan's room. Even though you'd been in here more times than you could count now, you still marveled at the quality of the chairs and sofa. Items like these seemed luxurious with how the world was outside these walls.

When you reach the dresser, you follow the routine you'd become used to. You peel the small shirt you're permitted to sleep in off and drop it in the basket nearby. Your panties are next to go. You pull the dainty garment down and toss it to the same place as your top.

You can feel his eyes on you with every move you make. They watch how your breasts bounce when freed from their confines. They admire the curve of your ass when you bend over. They glimmer with smug satisfaction as you stand there nude before him.

"I'll tell you what. I never get sick of seeing this," he teases.

You offer a weak smile in return. The lack of energy almost seems to please him more.

He walks around to stand behind you, giving you a light pat on the ass as he does. His hands land on your hips first and then slide up to cup your breasts. He pulls you back, positioning you flush against his chest.

"You know I'd keep you like this all the time if I could," he murmurs in your ear, "Sweet and ready for me. Ripe for the pickin' whenever I felt the need."

The deep, gravelly rumble of it seems to trigger a flicker of heat in your lower belly on instinct, and you despise yourself for it. Shame burns so hot in your heart, it threatens to take the nausea you felt earlier into a full on dry heave. You're glad there's not a mirror in front of you. It's easier to keep a docile look plastered on your face when you don't have to stare yourself in the eyes.

The rough pads of his fingertips pinch and tweak your nipples, causing you to squirm a bit where you're standing, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of a noise. You can feel the warmth of his breath fanning across your neck.

You choose not to say anything to his last statement. There's no guarantee that he hasn't actually considered that, and you don't want to find out. Displaying you in that way in front of everyone doesn't seem like his style, but back when he had you lined up on your knees with the rest of your group, you wouldn't have imagined yourself ever calling him daddy either.

As you'd quickly learned in regards to most things around here, the risk just isn't worth it.

"I'd never do that to you though. Don't think anyone could keep their hands off if they saw all of you, and I just can't have that," he whispers, calming your fears for you. He pulls his hands away from your breasts and steps back to grab the pieces he'd be putting you in today.

He starts with panties. This pair is pink and ruffly just like the last. You step into it with rehearsed timing. One foot then the next. He slides them up to your hips and lets the elastic snap into place against your skin.

You had no clue where he got this shit. You didn't want to believe that his hold on his men was so strong that they'd waste an entire supply run raiding a Victoria's Secret, especially for women they never even got to touch.

It wasn't worth thinking about though. It's not like discovering the origins would spare you from wearing the damn things every day.

Next, Negan shakes the wrinkles out of your dress. You step into that too, just like you did with the underwear. Looking down, you catch a glimpse of the garment.

It's just as humiliating as all the rest he makes you wear. The fabric is bright white and baby pink. Like everything else, you have no idea how it was kept so pristine. The waist is accentuated with a pretty pink ribbon wrapped around it, tied into a large bow at the front. It's extra tight up top and melts into a puffy skirt down below.

He shimmies it over your body and yanks the zipper up in back. The dress conforms to the shape of your figure, leaving little to the imagination in terms of how much the neckline shows and how high the hem of the skirt sits.

Spinning you around, he whistles when he gets the full picture.

"Good God Almighty. Pretty as a picture," he praises, reaching out to pinch your cheek.

Again, you force yourself to smile.

He'd already dressed himself for the day before getting you up, so the rest of the time before you leave the room is spent working through the remnants of your morning routine. He takes you into the bathroom connected to his room to brush your teeth and do your hair.

"Say ah, sweetheart," he smirks before jamming the brush into your mouth.

He's not careful or attentive. He only does it long enough to let the weight of humiliation settle in your stomach. It's always obvious when it kicks in. You get this look on your face like that of an abandoned puppy. Only then does he let you spit and move on to the next task.

He styles your hair into something cute, though you hate it anyway. Like the dress, it's only intended to make you stick out. To draw attention to your status as his possession.

The last thing he does is put your socks and shoes on. Your feet get covered in a pair of frilly ankle socks before he slips a pair of chunky sneakers on you. At least if this place got overrun and you had to bolt, you wouldn't be totally fucked.

"You ready to go, honey?" he asks you when the first part of your torture has finally come to a conclusion.

Again, you nod while looking up at him.

He grins at you. "You're quiet today," he says.

"Sorry, daddy," you respond. The way he said it sounded like teasing, but you could never be too careful.

"Don't be. I like it," he says.

You don't know how he does it, how he deflates you so easily without even trying.

He turns and grabs that stupid bat he carries everywhere, swinging it to his side before facing you again and sticking out his hand.

"Got my two favorite girls, now we're really ready to go," he says. He gestures with his fingers. A small impatient reminder. "You know the rules."

Of course you know what he's referring to. Always hold daddy's hand when you leave the bedroom. One of the rules he'd prattled off to you when he first brought you here.

You reach out and take his outstretched hand, earning a kiss to your head.

The way he'd been holding his arm caused the leather sleeve of his jacket to ride up a bit. Beneath the stiff fabric, you could see the fading scar you'd given him around the same time you'd been informed of the rules. Two crescent shaped marks in the pattern of your teeth.

You can barely stand to look at it now. All it does is bring back memories of when you still held hope for escape or rescue. Back then, you'd thought it'd only be a matter of days until Rick or Michonne burst into the small bedroom they were keeping you in.

The day you'd sunk your teeth into him, he'd just finished giving you one of his speeches about your new life at the Sanctuary. According to him, you'd be so much happier here. Sure you couldn't see your family, but now you had someone better than them. You had him. And he would spoil and take care of a pretty thing like you in the way you deserved. Show off to the rest of your old group how generous he could be.

He'd reached forward to pinch your cheek just like he'd done earlier today. You wanted to smack him away, but he had your hands bound. So you did the next thing you could think of and bit him. Hard.

His eyes burned with fury you hadn't seen since. You can still hear in your mind the way he yelled, shouting "Goddamn it" so loud that the walkers out at the fence probably heard.

After that was a bit hazy. He'd snatched that limb away from you before bringing it back and striking you hard across the cheek. You'd nearly fallen off the bed from the force.

"You little bitch, you try some shit like that again, and I'll knock your fucking jaw loose," he growled before yanking you up right and forcing you to look at him.

Involuntary tears leaked from your eyes as you glared up at his face. Blood oozed from the stinging wound you could feel inside your mouth.

That cut had healed by now though.

You squeeze his hand harder while walking down the hall out of his room. Even though it was the hand that struck you, it was the only thing you had to hold onto now. 

Your brain tries to compartmentalize him nowadays. There's Negan, and there's daddy. Negan is the one who gets mean. Negan is the one who yells. Negan is the one who killed your friends. Daddy is the one who cares for you. He keeps you safe and healthy. He'd never hurt you like that. You didn't think you'd survive with a shred of sanity without that distinction.

He feels your little grip and squeezes your hand in return. That's what daddy does.

You stay close to his side as he guides you on the walkway that looks down on the commotion of the main room. Even after what you guessed had been a couple months, if not more, you still didn't like this place. Everything was so transactional. No one cared about each other. It was all about what everyone had to offer. That was by design of course, but it didn't make you any less critical of it.

Your eyes scan the clusters of people below. Although you weren't allowed to socialize on your own, you were starting to get a grasp on the cliques here. Negan's closest advisors all seemed to amalgamate in one area, spare the guy with the burnt face. The table closest to the window was where most of the soldiers ate while the one by the door seated the workers.

You weren't completely sure what class you fit into here.

The most obvious guess would be the group you're about to encounter, Negan's wives. But there are stark differences between you and them that prevent you from feeling camaraderie.

The two of you approach the room where he keeps this group of women. He maintains a tight grip on your hand as you slip through the doors. The disparities between you and the others become obvious as soon as you're within a few feet of them.

All of these women get to dress in black. They stand tall in heels, have earrings dangling next to their faces, and for some, a red tint painting their lips. All of them get to openly glare at him. They don't have to hide their hatred behind a feigned smile or soft laugh.

You know it isn't right to be jealous of them. They're suffering too. This isn't a happy situation for them either. But god, you can't help it. Envy nearly sears a hole through your heart every time you come into this room. What you wouldn't give to be one of them. To be allowed to drink and talk with other people. To not be under the constant threat of punishment.

Despite all these thoughts swirling through your head, you manage to keep your mask on. A simple, thoughtless look on your features as you stand next to him like an oversized accessory.

He looks down at you before dropping your hand.

"Stay right here for me, sweet thing. Daddy's only gonna take a minute," he says.

He stalks off to the back corner of the room with a woman you'd come to learn is named Sherry. They speak in hushed tones, so you can't make out what they're saying. You figure it's about one of the girls sneaking around with some other guy. That's what it's usually about when he makes a stop here with you in tow. Even with their status elevated above yours, they don't get to escape the wrath of his possessiveness.

You stand there awkwardly, arms crossed over your midsection while your weight shifts between your feet. No one tries to talk to you. You can feel their eyes on your pastel form, but their gazes don't hold curiosity or interest. It's pity.

In the beginning, you thought they were looking at you with jealousy. After all, you got your own cell and then graduated to Negan's bedroom while they had to share amenities.

But they weren't naive like you had been. None of them wanted Negan's attention. They didn't want to be his pet or his dolly or whatever the fuck he would classify you as. They had each other, and they got to share the load between all of them.

You sigh quietly and look down at the sparkly trim of your white sneakers.

He finishes his conversation with Sherry and then migrates across the room towards a blonde, crying girl. They speak at the same volume as him and Sherry. It's not worth trying to eavesdrop on.

Instead, you patiently wait the couple minutes it takes for them to finish up and for him to return to you. When he walks back over, you can tell the discussion hadn't been a positive one. His shoulders seem weighed down by whatever information he'd gathered from them.

But the dark cloud above him fades away as his hand slips back into yours. He leads you out of the room just as you'd come in and continues walking with you.

You hesitate but decide to try. "Are you ok?" you ask softly.

His head turns slightly to cast you a look. For a moment, it seems the daddy act has fallen away. He looks at you like he would any other woman who asked him that. Cold. Analytical. But the persona makes its reappearance seconds later as he pulls on a smirk for you.

"Just fine, honey. You don't gotta worry about me," he answers.

You know you should just nod and shut up, but it drives you crazy being led around like a child expected to be seen and not heard. So you decide to try again.

"Did they do something bad?" you ask. You hate how weak your voice comes out. There's no spark to it, no bite or sharp edge. All of that, he'd extinguished in you.

He drops your hand and drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

"What are you so curious for, huh? You know something about it?" he responds.

You shake your head. Your arm rises and wraps around his torso.

"No. I just don't like when you're upset," you say. You lean your head into his chest to really sell it.

"Oh-ho, look at you. Turning on the charm," he chuckles, "I am just fine, sugar. I swear it. Sometimes those girls give me trouble, but it's nothing I can't handle."

You decide to just take it and nod this time. 

He looks at you with satisfaction. "They can't all be like you, y'know? So well-behaved," he praises.

The compliment makes your blood curdle. You couldn't stand that he would act like obedience was your defining trait.

When you were with your group - your family more like -  you would never have been described as obedient. Whether at the prison or Alexandria, it felt like every other day you were sneaking off to try something. You were always quick to spring into action, never the type to let someone belittle you. Rick got on your ass about deviating from plans in spurs of emotion more than anyone else. Maybe that's how you wound up here.

You had tried to stop them from taking Daryl. On that dark night in the woods, surrounded by the ring of headlights, you had tried. You didn't rush at Negan like your friend. Not wanting someone else to get their head bashed in, you were more subtle than that. But you attempted to get in the way of the guys carting him off. That's what landed you here. Tucked under his arm, the very weapon that took away two people you love swinging a foot away from you.

But you swallow down all of this rage and nod again. You nuzzle into his chest, a way to conceal the tightening sensation in your throat and the sting of tears at your waterline.

This is the worst part about Negan, you decide. The way he makes you act like you want it.

From your first day here, he made sure to tell you over and over how he's staunchly against rape. He's not a monster. He's not that kind of guy. No, no. You are a prisoner, so yes, technically here against your will, but never in a million years would he violate you in that way.

And he'd stuck true to that. Whenever you screamed or cried or yelled "no" on a loop until he shook you around like a bobble head, he always backed off of his advances. He never copped a feel or slid a wandering hand in your panties while you slept, never held you down or physically forced himself on you.

Instead, he broke you down until saying yes seemed like the only sane option.

You didn't want his affection? That meant you must not want to talk to anyone at all. For days. You didn't want to sit in his lap? Maybe you'd prefer kneeling by his feet for a week, in private and around everyone else. You didn't want to sleep in his bed? Fine. You could sleep on the concrete floor without a pillow or blanket while the heat was out.

You reflect on all of this as the two of you trot through the boxy halls. He takes you around on all his errands for the day. You stop by the doctor's office, inventory, and Dwight's room. All over the place. You stay quiet the whole time. busying yourself with your thoughts as you stay attached to him.

Everyday the line between survival and free will becomes blurrier. You tell yourself that you have to be like this with him. You'll be worse off if you don't act the part of the sweet, adoring girl he wants. But then sometimes you wonder if you truly are becoming obedient. Like a wildcat tamed into a lazy house pet. You almost never resist his touch anymore. You even go to him for comfort sometimes.

The idea kills you, so you deem it best not to think about for now.

Rather, you focus on guessing what the rest of the day would hold. It's already the afternoon by now. The sun hangs low by the tree line, shimmering into the Sanctuary through the rectangular windows across the walls. He wouldn't have a meeting with the lieutenants today. Those were almost always around lunch time. You didn't think he'd spend it with one of his wives either. If that was the case, he usually gave you a heads up in the morning.

The most likely possibility you come up with is the dilemma from earlier. You had never been invited to see the culmination of those though. Normally, he kept you safe and sound in his room while he tended to matters like that, ready to provide him some stress relief when he finished.

But things can always change, and now it seems like that's the case.

He guides you back into the main room. A crowd has gathered down below. You can't see the center point of their conglomeration. All you can sense are the nerves vibrating between everyone.

Their feet shuffle around on the hard concrete flooring. They look between each other with anxious eyes. Hushed chatter clouds the area until you and Negan begin to descend the stairs. That's when they all go quiet. Mouths close and pupils snap to the position of their leader.

You look down to lessen the ache of humiliation that came with accompanying the center of attention. The few times you had scanned the crowd for others' reactions, seeing if you could find a sympathetic gaze or outraged expression, all you found was animosity. The male workers and soldiers leered at you. They smiled and smirked, visibly amused by your girly outfits and docile disposition. On the other side of the aisle, the women glared, taking in the details of your appearance with disgust, like somehow it was your fault you got toted around like this.

His voice booms out to his audience as he takes step after step towards them.

"You all know what we're here for today," he starts, "We got simple rules 'round here, but some people still seem to have trouble following 'em."

Your hand stays linked with his as the two of you reach the landing.

"Watch your step, babydoll," he murmurs to you before continuing his speech. Your cheeks burn with shame.

"It feels like I'm doing this every other month. It's getting ridiculous," he lectures, "I don't like having to be so harsh. Truly, I don't. But rules are rules, and I don't know how I can make myself any clearer. They are not optional."

He walks further into the room with you. Being level with everyone else, you can see more of what's happening. They're gathered around a furnace. Dwight stands near the opening to the flames, clearly preparing something. Another man sits a few feet away. Over in the corner, the woman from earlier is looking at him and crying.

Looks like your guess was correct.

"So we're gonna do this again. Hopefully it's the last time," he concludes.

The crowd parts as you and him head towards the center of the room. He leads you over to an empty spot near the wall. Dropping your hand, he cups your jaw and makes you look him in the eyes.

"Stay right here for me. Daddy'll be right back," he says.

You nod and then watch as he turns away, waltzing over to where Dwight stands.

While your eyes are up, they can't help but catch on somebody familiar standing at the front of the crowd.

Daryl.

Your heart stutters, and you can see on his face that his does too. He looks worn down. Eyes dimmed and face hollowed. His clothes, dirty and ill-fitting. You start to feel tears pricking at your waterline from the sight. You weren't the only one they'd broken down.

In him, you find the compassion you'd been searching for. The look that told you at least one person here didn't take enjoyment from your suffering. But it comes from someone who truly can't help you. Who's in a situation as bad as your own.

You sniffle and try to wipe away any beginning tears before Negan or someone who would tell him notices.

The loud creak of a metal door opening drags your attention to the furnace though. You watch as Dwight pulls out the item he'd been preparing. A burning, metal iron becomes the new focus of everyone in the room.

Upon seeing the small object, so many things connect in your head. You know what's going to happen. You realize why Dwight's face is scarred. You understand why that woman is crying. And you know no one is going to stop any of this now or in the future.

Your heart pounds harder, and your breaths become shaky. Tears blur your vision further. You dig your nails into your palm to try and ground yourself, but it doesn't help. The scene in front of you has whipped your mind into a frenzy. You haven't felt this bad since the early weeks of being in this place.

This stupid fucking place. You hate it. You hate how cruel it is here. How disconnected and lifeless everything feels. You hate him for being the only one allowed to really live. You hate everyone else here for letting him get this powerful.

It's a complete spiral whirlpooling in your mind, only made worse by the fact that you have to keep it contained. You try to tell yourself you just have to wait it out. This couldn't take more than five minutes and then you could go back to the bedroom. You'd be ok. You could take off this itchy dress and put your hair back to how you like it. You could kick off these shoes and hide yourself beneath the warm blankets. None of these people would be around, all you'd have is the quiet between those walls where daddy could make it all better.

As you're in the process of mentally talking yourself down, Negan takes hold of the iron. To free up his hands, he offers Lucille off to someone nearby. Your eyes follow his leather-clad limb to the neck of the bat and then up to its new handler. You see Simon.

You have to look down now. If you don't, everyone here will see the look of pure terror on your face. You close your eyes and rein in whimpers that threaten to spill from your lips. Everything feels fuzzy around you, intangible and like your hands would drift right through them. Your head heats up, the sensation making you dizzy. You try to steady yourself by leaning back against the wall, but the cool, flat surface does little to ease your nerves.

It does even less when you hear his voice closing in on you.

"Hey there, princess," he starts, voice laced with mockery, "You feeling alright?"

You're not looking at him, but the image of his stupid face projects with HD clarity in your mind. You swallow hard and nod.

Laughing lowly, he comes to stand beside you. "You sure about that? You're looking kind of lightheaded," he taunts.

"I'm fine," you choke out.

His hand darts up and grabs your jaw. He doesn't gently guide your eyes where he wants them to look. He yanks your face in his direction like an unruly child with a doll.

"I don't know about that. You're looking kind of rough," he says while glaring down at you with those ruthless eyes, "Maybe I should take you over to the doctor's. We both know Negan wants his favorite toy kept in good condition."

Your entire body vibrates with hatred for this creature. Every breath you take acts as an effort of restraint, a way to lull yourself into not ripping out what hair he has left.

You didn't just despise Simon because he's an asshole or because he was the person harassing your group leading up to that horrible night you were taken. Your aversion for him stems from experiences entirely your own.

A few days after the biting incident, you had tried getting physical with Negan one more time. You'd managed to worm one of your wrists out of your restraints, and instead of aiming for escape, you decided revenge held a higher priority. You waited for him to come check on you, keeping your arm tucked to your body as if it was still bound.

When he finally came in, you sat there and took the speech, took the condescension, and took the promises that you would conform. And then he leaned a bit closer. That's when you backhanded him as hard as he had you the few days prior.

After the hit landed, you lunged forward and tried to wrap the rope connected to you around his neck. You pulled as hard as you could, and for a moment, you thought you had won.

But wrangling you off was easier than you anticipated. They hadn't been allowing you much food or sleep, so the strike took most of your energy. It only took him a handful of seconds to snake his hand under the rope and then pry your arms away.

He stood up and slammed you into the wall with his hand around your throat. In that moment, he didn't look at you with the same fury he had before. This time around, frustration dominated his gaze.

"Was that fun for you?" he asked.

You didn't answer. Your chest puffed with exertion while your eyes stared daggers into him.

"What did I tell you last time? What did I fucking tell you?" he asked. Despite the look in his eye being less volatile, his tone of voice was dangerous as ever. "I told you I would knock that jaw of yours loose. That's what I said, and I meant it. I don't want you thinking I didn't. But I'm not gonna do that right now because I don't think it would work, and I'm not one to waste my own time."

Internally, pride swelled in your chest, thinking you had called his bluff. But then he kept speaking.

"I have a bad feeling that if I struck some sense into you that you'd just try to strike it into me right back, and I can't have that. That's just not gonna fly around here," he said, "So I'll tell you what: I have a better idea. You don't wanna play with daddy? Then you can spend a weekend with your Uncle Simon. See how much fun he can be."

Back then, you didn't know Simon as the right hand man. You didn't have his name and face connected yet. Now, you wished you could go back to that state of mind.

You were with him for three days while Negan did a tour of the outposts and subjugated communities. Only 72 hours. But an hour of him would have been enough to scare you for a lifetime.

When he first came into the room, you didn't get the feeling that him and Negan would handle you so differently. You could tell from the way he looked at you that, like his boss, he looked at you as something to toy with. A source of amusement. The difference, you soon found out, was how they played with their toys.

Unlike daddy, Simon didn't talk just to talk. He didn't warn you of future spankings or timeouts. He hit. And he kicked. And he shoved you down and tossed you around. He didn't offer the same condolences daddy did, there was no "this hurts me more than it hurts you." Nothing he did even bothered Simon. He watched you hurt, and he enjoyed it.

You didn't even get a reward once you'd settled down. Your attitude had disappeared almost instantly. Having the wind knocked out of you once was enough for you to become more amicable, but your change in demeanor didn't phase him. It wasn't his goal.

The only rules Negan left him with were the basic ones for the Sanctuary along with no killing you or causing permanent damage. But that didn't mean he couldn't threaten you with breaking them. He went on and on during the down periods where you cowered in the corner or huddled against the wall of your bedroom cell, telling you stories of how he went rogue before. Any horrible thing he could think of, he dangled in front of you as a potential fate.

When Negan finally came back, you eagerly awaited him. Despite your sleep deprived and bruised condition, your eyes stayed locked on the door like a puppy expecting their master. For the next week, you latched onto him. Didn't want to leave his side. He had made his point. You could hate him as much as you wanted but leave you alone with Simon for a little while, and you'd beg for him back.

That's how you feel right now, staring up into Simon's eyes while he holds your jaw. The pressure his fingers put on your cheeks serve as a reminder of the pain he can inflict while his other hand holding the bat twirls the weapon near your calf. As much as you had been internally preaching your hatred for everything to do with Negan minutes ago, all you want to do now is run into his arms.

You feel more tears wanting to slip down your cheeks, but you try your best to hold them in. The more you cry, the more I like it. That's what he'd told you more than once over those three days.

"Just leave me alone," you tell him. You try to sound as firm as possible, but even your own ears catch the way your voice quivers. "Negan wouldn't like you talking over him."

Your attempt at taking a stand falls flat. He doesn't back off any, rather, he leans in closer.

"Negan, huh? Are you even allowed to call him that?" he mocks and feigns a pout. 

"Just shut up!" you say. You mean it as a threat; though, it hits his ears like a plea. More hot panic rushes down your spine from the stress of having to remain quiet while also trying to be assertive.

His lips flatten into a line before he continues speaking. "Your head's getting too big for those shoulders, little girl. You better watch your attitude, or I might have to suggest you're due for some more correction," he mutters.

A loud scream rips the two of you from your conversation. He drops his hand from your face, and you both straighten up against the wall. Negan stands in the center of the room, pressing the blazing iron to the side of the man's face.

He wails until he passes out, and that's when his leader peels away the device of torture. Sticky skin goes with it before snapping back against his face like a rubber band. You grimace, your stomach twisting at the sight. You'd seen so much blood and guts over the years of living out on the road and fighting with other groups, but melted skin was a new one.

Negan turns to Dwight and gives him the iron back. You breathe an involuntary sigh of relief, subconsciously soothed by the thought of him returning to your side.

The reprieve ends suddenly though when a small, sharp pain slices along the meat of your calf. You whimper and lift your leg away on instinct. Looking for the source, you see the bat twirling from the motion of Simon's wrist. One of the barbs had caught your skin. Your eyes flit up to him.

"Watch out!" you say. The old you would have been seething. She would have pulled out her pocket knife and given him a little receipt for the cut. But now, you watch him with fearful eyes, trying to gauge whether or not you would get in trouble for calling him an asshole.

"Remember what I said," he tells you quietly as a trickle of red runs down to the lacy frills of your sock.

Before you can respond, a warm hand lands on the small of your back. Your head turns to find Negan smiling down at you.

"What's with the long face, sugar? Simon bothering you?" he asks, clearly not meaning it seriously even though to you it is exactly that.

You part your lips to answer, but Simon beats you to it.

"Bothering her? C'mon. I'm just checking up on her. She looked a little dizzy, so I offered to take her to the doctor's," he says, light as ever, "I'm just watching out for her, y'know? Sweet thing like her will get eaten alive here if she's not careful."

Negan raises his eyebrows, and for a second, you think he's about to take your side. But then he just chuckles and shakes his head. 

"She's doing just fine. That was her first time seeing one of those, so she's probably a little shaken up," he says, rubbing your arm.

"Hm... Sounds about right," Simon replies, "I know that's not how her little group did things."

"Yeah. So I'll get her back to the room. Think you can handle shit down here?" he says, gesturing around to the dispersing crowd.

"Always," Simon says with a mock salute. He then hands Lucille back.

Finally, you find some relief, some true sanctuary as Simon walks away. Your body physically relaxes. Negan feels it underneath his arm and spares you a glance as the two of you walk back up the stairs.

"Is something wrong?" he asks.

You want to just take the easy route and say no, to play along with this sadistic charade and not cause any trouble. But you can't get the single syllable out. It feels impossible to even shake your head. Even though Simon's gone, the weight of everything that happened still remains along with the stinging in your leg.

Your throat feels tight, and your eyes feel like they're two seconds from overflowing. The lights suddenly seem too bright, and everyone here is too loud. You can't show him that though. You don't want more correction. You don't want someone to like it when you cry. But you can't ignore him either. That would be the worst thing to do.

All you manage in response is a shaky shrug. You let out a broken sigh with it and lean into his chest. The tension in your shoulders returns as you fight to keep the tears from leaking out against the worn leather.

At first, he doesn't say anything, and the two of you keep walking. Your steps remain in time with his as you traverse the walkway and around the corner. Then the two of you come to a stop when you're out of sight. He turns you by your shoulders, holding you in front of him so that you can't shy away.

"I got one more thing to attend to out by the fence. Think you can handle that?" he asks.

Your heart pulses to an uneven rhythm, trying to decide what to do without devolving into pure panic. You bite your lip as you mull your options over. Say yes and go with him. Then inevitably fail to contain yourself and get in trouble. Or, say no now and risk punishment for being defiant. You're not sure which one will end up worse.

"Can... can we just go back to the room?" you ask. Your voice comes out weak as if every word siphons a drop of energy from you.

He eyes you with uncertainty of his own; though, there's no fear in his look. His gaze is careful, an attempt to decipher if this is some kind of deception. You'd been pretty well-behaved as of late, but one bad day could take even the most obedient pet to a rabid dog, jaws primed to gnash.

But you didn't really have a reason to lie. The bedroom with him would provide the least likely chance at escape, and in the condition you were in now, you didn't seem to be planning an attack.

Slowly, he nods. "Sure, honey. I'll have Arat handle the other shit," he tells you before leading you in the direction of his bedroom.

The words he mumbles through his radio sound distant to you. You watch your legs switch between one and the other as you walk. On your right, you see the small red splotch staining the pristine cloth of your sock.

Before you know it, he's pushing open the bedroom door and bringing you inside. It then closes behind you, creating a barrier between you and everything else out there. It gets a little easier to breathe.

He guides you the few steps over to the edge of the bed and sits down, pulling you onto his lap. You feel his eyes scanning over you in an attempt to figure out the problem without asking. His hand rubs up and down your back over the crinkly fabric of your dress. His other palm focuses on your legs, coasting over your knees and the area of your thighs the skirt doesn't cover.

The code is harder for him to crack than usual. Normally when you got upset, it resulted from something he said. And he knows that because, usually, that's his intention. It was always either that or you'd just generally be feeling down, missing your home. But that doesn't seem to be the case right now. You seem more antsy than your normal bouts of sadness. He doesn't think it was from watching the spectacle downstairs. He knows you hate the saviors indiscriminately. Watching some random guy's face melt off wouldn't have you this upset. Finally, he relents.

"What's wrong?" he asks. He actually makes an effort not to sound like he'll make fun of whatever your answer may be.

"I just don't feel good," you choke out and bite your lip.

He feels you shudder on his lap, and he knows it's not the full truth. Pulling you a little closer on his thighs, he continues to look down at you.

"C'mon, baby. Tell daddy what hurts," he coaxes.

Your face tenses, but you know he won't drop this. "Just... just... I don't know. A lotta stuff," you say. You couldn't decide on a lie to commit to.

He sighs and bounces his leg with you on it a few times. "Did someone say something to you? Was someone bothering you?" he asks as his scope of potential causes narrow.

You're in the middle of trying to think of a cover story when his hand glides down to remove your shoes. He knocks one off. Then the other. The foamy white sneakers clatter to the ground next to his foot.

He goes to bring his hand back up, dragging it over the fine threading of your socks, but his eyes catch on the bloody splotches near the edge. Grabbing your ankle, he tugs your limb upward. It puts you at an awkward angle and nearly knocks you from your perch on his thigh. He stares the small wound down, assessing every detail of the tiny scrape.

"How'd you get this?" he asks. He looks over to you.

In reality, it may have been the most standard question in the world. But it hits your ears like an accusation and brings a fresh wave of tears that you can't control. Your lip quivers as your lids blink a few droplets over your water line.

"Simon did it," you weep.

You're scared he won't believe you, but after a few seconds, he drops your foot and pulls you close. His arms wrap around you tight and keep you flush against his chest. The warmth of the embrace encompasses you. You let the dam burst and cry into him, pouring all your sadness out against his body.

His hand sweeps up and down your back in comforting strokes. "Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart. Daddy's got you," he murmurs.

You feel him shrug off his jacket and push it aside, leaving the plain material of his t-shirt to soak up your anguish. He keeps you as close as possible. One of his hands cradles the back of your head to ensure you don't pull away.

"Does Simon bother you a lot?" he asks.

You nod. "Whenever I'm not with you," you choke out.

He hums in acknowledgement. "I'll talk to him. He's not supposed to hurt you when you're being such a good girl for daddy."

"I was trying really hard," you sob, your voice cracking, "I've been trying to be good. But he just hates me anyway. He's so mean to me."

Your arms snake around him as tight as a pair of snakes aiming to kill. You cling to him with everything you have, as if he's your one true savior from this living hell and not the cause of it.

In your head, you feel like you're annoying him. He's probably waiting for you to calm down, so he can nip this blossom of resentment in the bud. Good girls don't have tantrums or meltdowns, right? And all he cares about is that you act the part of a good girl.

But you only think all of that because you can't see the smile on his face right now.

He's grinning more than any of the times he got you to say something humiliating or cooperate with a punishment. The look he displays now reaches a new level of smugness, higher than the night he killed two of your people and traumatized the rest of them. His satisfaction runs deeper this time because right now, you're truly broken.

This isn't something you agreed to because the other option was worse. It's not something he had to coach you into or manipulate a situation into becoming. You did this all on your own. You came to him. Sure, he had to coax it out of you a little bit, but once he got his foot in the door, you let him right in. You're clinging to him for comfort, looking to him for a solution. He couldn't be more pleased. This is exactly what he wanted - to break you down. Now he just had to reel you back in the slightest bit, get you in that perfect middle ground between too independent and non-functioning.

"You have been doing really good for me, y'know? I'm proud of you, baby," he tells you in the most earnest tone he can manage, "Don't worry about Simon for right now, ok? Daddy's gonna set him straight. He won't bother you again."

You nod, but the reassurance doesn't stop the flow of tears from your eyes. Your fingers stay clenched around the fabric of his shirt.

"No more tears, honey, c'mon," he coos. He pries your limbs from around him and boosts you to your feet, standing you between his thighs. "I'll take care of it just like I take care of you. Let's just worry about what my little baby needs to feel better right now."

You take a few seconds to think about it, but the answer comes with relative ease. The most agitating thing about this situation right now is wrapped all around you, scratching at your sides and digging in under your arms.

"Can you take my dress off?" you sniffle.

His eyes fall from your face over your body. "What? You don't like this pretty little number?" he teases.

For once, you don't feel like you're two seconds away from punishment. You feel like it's a joke, and you don't have to awkwardly straddle the line between playing along with the humor and submitting to the literal interpretation.

"It's ok... it's just kinda scratchy," you say and wipe away your tears with the back of your hand.

"Spin around for me then. We'll get it off you. Can't have it irritatin' that soft skin while you're tryin' to relax."

You take the few steps to turn around. His fingers grasp the zipper and undo the baby pink prison you'd been trapped in for the day. Feeling the chafing fabric pulled away from you lets you take a real breath for the first time in hours. Already a small bit of relief. It only compounds when the garment hits the floor and pools at your feet.

He tugs you back by the waist and lays you across the bed, body on full display for him. Right now, you don't mind his gaze tracking your curves. He leans over you, his hands coasting from the sides of your breasts down to your hips.

"You're prettier like this anyways, princess," he praises.

"Thank you, daddy." It spills out as naturally as water from a faucet.

He rewards you with his lips on your stomach instead of words. Kissing the smooth, warm skin, his lips travel from just above your navel to the divot between your breasts. Your nipples rise to attention automatically.

His hands slide up to cup your mounds of flesh. He fondles and gropes them as his lips migrate up the curves to the hardening little peaks. They don't latch on just yet. He teases them with kisses instead, letting the anticipation of blissful suction build.

You take your lip between your teeth as you watch him. Chills break out across the rest of your body. You know you should be fighting. You know you should kick and scream and cry. You should try to take advantage of his closeness and get towards your revenge. But in your hellish life, are you not allowed one moment of pleasure? You haven't let those plans of escape and vengeance go, but you want this right now. You want to feel good, and he gives you that. 

This isn't Negan. This is daddy. And you don't wanna hurt daddy.

His tongue peeks out from between his lips to trace wet circles around your nipple. The sensation draws a whine from you. Your body squirms beneath him with an eagerness to feel more.

"I think I know how to make you feel better. Take your mind off all that stuff from before," he whispers.

He takes one of your nipples between his lips, flicking the bud with the tip of his tongue and scraping his teeth against the sensitive area. You reward the choice with a mewl and squirm your legs. He chuckles and then switches to the other one.

"That feel good?" he asks.

You nod, your head tilting back and your eyes fluttering.

Grinning, he continues his work on your chest. You whine and squirm for him, giving him all the reactions he craves. Soon, his hand ghosts up your inner thigh. His fingertips drag over the flesh and land on your clothed center. Through the thin pink cloth, he rubs at your clit. That garners a breathy moan and a full body shudder.

"Goddamn, you are so cute," he chuckles, "Just a few little touches and you squirm around like a virgin for me."

Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't bother disputing the claim. It was the truth. You weren't sure what it was about him that got you so amped up and needy.

The pad of his middle finger swirls around the little nub in your panties. He can already feel the fabric getting sticky from the wetness between your thighs.

"Poor baby. You're so easy to play with," he says.

His mouth leaves your breasts now and begins to retrace its path down your stomach. It glides over your skin with open-mouthed kisses all the way down to the hem of your underwear. His fingers fall away from your center to your dismay.

Your disappointment is short lived though. You feel him position your thighs on his shoulders. When you look down, his eyes are staring right back up at you, gleaming like that of a panther ready to pounce.

"You want daddy's mouth on you? Will that help you feel better?" he rasps.

You nod quickly. "Please, daddy," you whimper.

"So polite. You didn't even need me to remind you of your manners," he smirks.

You don't even care about that remark. It washes right over you. All your mind is concerned with right now is getting more of his touch.

He brings his index finger back between your legs. He hooks it beneath the soaked seat of your panties, pulling it to the side and revealing your slick folds to him. The thumb on his opposite hand comes up to rub over the length of your slit up to your clit. Back and forth, nice and slow, just to tease you.

Your hips writhe the slightest bit, and he nips the skin of your inner thigh.

"Tsk. You know good girls are patient. They don't wriggle around. I've taught you better than that," he chides.

"Sorry," you say, backing down quickly.

"It's alright. I know you're having a rough day, so I'll let it slide this time," he says. He then leans in to lay some kisses on your clit.

Your eyes roll back and your toes curl. He never let things slide. This must have been a miracle. The same man who always toted that the rules weren't optional, letting you bypass one? Maybe you were his favorite. That's what you took it as anyways.

He makes out with your cunt like it's the prettiest thing he's ever seen. His lips engulf it, spreading his affection from your little bundle of nerves all the way down, nearly reaching your puckered entrance below. You whine and clutch at the bedsheets. You were still too scared to grab his hair. You weren't sure if he'd like it and groan or glare at you in a way that said you'd pay for it later.

It doesn't matter to you right now though. What you hold isn't important when you feel this good. It feels like a firework show is erupting in your belly, bright bursts of all different colors. Your heels dig into his back, subconsciously keeping him buried between your thighs.

He's tempted to tear your panties off and fling them aside. He would if not for the limited number in his possession. If this was normal life, he'd rip a pair to shreds on a weekly basis. These things were so cute when he put them on, but when he wanted at you, he despised them. If this was normal life, he'd just buy you new ones whenever a tattered one had to be tossed. But then again, if this was normal life, he wouldn't have you at all, so it isn't really worth thinking about.

Refocusing his mind on your pleasure, he dives further into your cunt. His nose bumps your clit as his tongue fucks into you. He pushes it in a few times before pulling back and just lapping at your pussy in broad strokes, getting every drop of you he can. Two of his fingers prod at your entrance before slipping in. They fuck deeper than his tongue, but don't stretch you out like his cock. A happy medium to walk the steps of preparation.

He maneuvers his digits with expert precision, scissoring and curling them at the perfect intervals. You can't help the way your hips buck in response. He doesn't get on you about it though. He just wraps your arms around his hips and holds you in place.

Your thighs squeeze around his head too. Luckily, that wasn't against the rules. He loved feeling the heat of your plush legs wrapped around his skull, keeping him close.

He pumps his fingers faster, curling them right against that spot that got you to squeal and cry out his name.

"Cum for me, babydoll. All over my face. I wanna feel it," he rasps.

It's a fortunate coincidence he gives you that command because you were about two swipes of his tongue away from doing it on your own. You melt against the bed, eyes fluttering and body jerking and quivering as rushes of pleasure sweep through you.

Your fingers grip the blankets so tight they threaten to tear into them, but then they loosen completely and go lax next to your hips. He licks your cunt through the entire thing, not letting you come down until the euphoria has thoroughly washed through you.

While you're lying there, dazed and blissed out, he untangles himself from your legs and stands at the edge of the bed. He wipes your nectar from his facial hair before pulling his shirt over his head and unzipping his pants.

"I think daddy deserves a little reward for making you feel so good, pretty girl. What do you say?" he asks.

Of course, you nod. There was no way you would reject him while still so close to the high of your last release. He grins at your hazy movement and shoves down his pants, jerking his cock a few times and crawling on the bed to hover over you.

"You're such a good girl for me. Better than I ever thought you'd be," he says while looking down at your face.

"Wanna be good for you, daddy," you say softly, blinking at him with your misty doe eyes.

His grin spreads even wider. In your sane mind, you probably would have thought it looked like some creature out of hell. But right now, the look just makes you giggle and squirm.

Down below, he lines up at your entrance. He slides his tip through your arousal a few times, getting it nice and wet before he sinks in. A smile of your own rises on your face, and he groans at the deep satisfaction of having your cunt embrace him so readily.

"Perfect little pussy, fuck," he grunts, "Think it's the best I've ever had."

You preen at that compliment. He balances his forearms on each side of your head as he begins to thrust. Your legs rise up and lazily wrap around his waist, which he loves. He can't get enough of the fact that you want him, that you're pushing him deeper and not letting him pull out too much.

His head falls beside yours, letting you hear every pant and grunt that falls from his lips. Your walls squeeze around him every so often. The noises make your tummy flutter for him. It drives you wild to know you brought him to such a state of lust.

"Christ, you're so fucking tight," he mumbles.

You giggle again and drape your arms around his shoulders. Your eyes flutter shut. You just get lost in the feeling of him inside you, his cock battering all your sweet spots just right. He leans in and kisses at your neck. His hips pump deeper, ramming his shaft further into the warm depth of you.

In this moment, everything feels so good and pure. You can't even imagine any of the pain he inflicted on you before. It all feels like a distant dream. Memories that belonged to someone else, not you. At this second, it feels as though this bliss will last forever. Just you and him tangled in the throes of passion without a concern for anything else happening beyond the privacy of his room.

When you open your eyes, they're a little watery from all the stimulation and how good it feels mixed with your saccharine thoughts. You arch off the bed a few inches, pushing your pert breasts against the warmth of his chest. He pushes you back down with ease, keeping you angled exactly where he wants you.

Pulling back a little to look at your face, he smiles when he sees the water gathering in your eyes.

"Oh, those are the tears I like to see," he croons.

You moan, a little shiver coursing through you. It only encourages him to pound his hips harder against you, in and out, in and out, until you're both approaching the edge.

"You gonna cum again for me, sweetheart? Show daddy how good he's making you feel?" he murmurs.

"Yeah, mhm, ah-" you whimper, "I wanna cum daddy, wanna cum for you."

"I know you do," he chuckles, "I can feel it."

Your cunt contracts and releases around him with increased frequency now. He knows you're moments away from reaching the peak. Swiveling his hips, he tries to strike that chord and bring you crashing down.

You whimper, the pitch getting higher as the glass gets closer to shattering. Finally, with one good jerk of his pelvis, you tense up and cry out. A couple tears trickle from your eyes. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades.

Your body trembles and rolls with the feeling. He fucks you through it, savoring every delicious squeeze of your cunt around him. A few breathless groans rumble out of him. He gets every last second in your hole he can before he has to pull out.

He snaps his hips back, replacing the tightness of your pussy with his hand. It's not the same, but it will do. He gives it a few quick strokes before he explodes and spills on your belly. You lift your head and watch as the ropes of hot, sticky cum land on your skin.

His hips jerk with each surge of release firing from him. When he finishes, his head hangs, and he takes a moment to catch his breath. He scoots off of you and cools down beside your body on the bed. It's quiet for a few moments; though, he's never one to be vulnerable, so he doesn't let the silence linger for too long.

"You feeling better?" he asks and rotates his head to look at you.

You nod, visibly more relaxed than before.

"Thank you, daddy," you say, sweet as can be, before leaning in and pecking his lips.

He stares at you for a few moments in fond satisfaction. Then he gets up, and pulls you to your feet with him.

"C'mon. Let's get you cleaned up," he says.

You follow obediently to the bathroom where he wipes you off with a damp rag and makes sure you're all set to get some rest after. Both of you make your way to the dresser next. He pulls another set of those panties out and slips you into them. They don't feel so horrible this time around, but in the back of your mind, you're sure that won't be the case tomorrow morning. A soft, thin shirt covers your upper body next. It's the same baby pink color as the dress, but you don't mind since it's much more comfortable.

On your own, you tuck yourself to his side for the short walk back to the bed. He climbs in first and then tugs you into your spot next to him.

"I want you to try and get some rest," he tells you, stroking down the side of your face, "When you wake up, I'll get you something to eat, but for now, I want you to take a nap, ok?"

You aren't particularly tired, but while living here, sleep has become your greatest method of escape. You never reject a chance at it. The only thing is, right now, you don't really want to escape. You don't feel a horrible gnawing sensation from being so close to him.

However, you agree anyways because daddy knows best for you, and you don't want to make him upset.

You lie your head on his chest and snuggle up to him. He holds you close, rewarding the compliance by rubbing your back.

"Sweet dreams, babydoll," he murmurs.

You shut your eyes, allowing your mind to recede into visions of the life and people you had before this. The life you still hoped one day you would get back, even as it became more and more like a fantasy rather than a realistic future.

[pandoraslxna]

I love your blog so as soon as i saw requests open i had to write this! Reader just gave birth to her first born with So’lek but he wants to put a baby in her again (we could say he kinda haves a breeding kink and wants to have lots of children with reader since all his clan died)

So’lek x female reader, minors dni 🔞

Warnings: heat/rut, knotting, breeding kink, dirty talk

"Let me fill you again, yawne [beloved]. I will make you swell with my child."

From anyone else, this would have just been heat talk. It would be the moment making them go feral and driven by instinct to breed, where in the end they would still bring up enough responsibility and self control to not force their knot into you. But in the heats you'd shared with So‘lek, thing were entirely different.

You whined, despite yourself, the thought of another baby appealing to your instincts that you constantly denied, that you refused to appeal to, couldn't appeal. But he was making this sound so good, so easy. And fuck, you wanted that too.

The fire in your core burned brighter, tilting your head back to bare your throat to him. 

So‘lek growled, baring his teeth and adjusting his grip on your legs, pulling you closer and leaving you moaning as his cock reached deeper, deeper, your nails scrabbling against his shoulders.

"You're mine, tiyawn [love]. And I want to keep you mine. I will knot you, will fill you with my seed," So’lek groaned again, punctuating it with a harsh thrust that knocked the breath from your lungs, "my sweet syulang [flower], mother of my children. I will knot you tonight, over and over," he punctuated each 'over', raising himself up until he was kneeling, a welcome stretch low in your back as he tried to go as deep in you as he could, "I want you to give me another." his voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating against yours.

"S-So‘lek," you whined, though you weren't sure what you even wanted to say. 'This is a bad idea' maybe. That’s what you should say. That you already had a baby not long ago, that you were still figuring things out. Or maybe 'don't stop' because fuck, So‘lek was such a wonderful and loving father... So much more possessive and protective of you, so proud to be your mate, so proud of you. And so incredibly determined to satisfy you, to thank you in all the right ways after carrying his child for nine month. So… one more wouldn’t hurt, right?

You allowed him to manhandle you onto your hands and knees then, only whining pitifully, starting to plead, "No, don't stop!" when he pulled out of you, slick making an embarrassing wet sound as he slid inside you again, fucking as deep into you as possible. Though you burned with your own heat's fever, his hands were like firebrands where they clutched at your hips, and you knew there'd be hand-shaped bruises to join his marks of love and affection on your skin. 

"My yawntu [loved one], you feel so good. So perfect for me," So’lek growled, releasing your hip with one of his hands to press down on your spine, forcing you to arch your back more, more, more, "I cannot… stop. I will knot you as many times as it takes to make you round with my child." 

So‘lek hips stuttered not long after this, and he gave a low groan as he shoved into you as hard as he could, his cock throbbing as he began to come, knot swelling to lock himself to you.

He’s white-hot inside you, knot a welcome stretch, throbbing wonderfully, as he toppled onto his side to keep from crushing you, pulling you with him so as to keep from tugging on his knot. You’re boneless, barely aware of your small whimpers, and he nuzzled at your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin, before bringing one hand up to rest it on your stomach, growling low into your ear, "As many knots as it takes, muntxate [wife.]."