cw: dubcon, heavy themes of religion/blasphemy, corruption, p in v, creampie, virgin!reader
summary: man’s first sin was giving into temptation, and my god, don’t you just look ripe for the taking.
His maw snapped around your throat before you had even spoken to him. Canines, dangerously sharp, goring into your soft, unblemished flesh, tongue suckling the sweet nectar that he bled from your neck. His mouth watered, saliva pooling in his throat, frothing at his lips, at the thought of tasting something so forbidden, sinking his teeth into you, swallowing you whole.
His sense had gone. Blinded by faith, he would later muse, despite never having had a truly religious bone in his body. It was a passive belief, one that seemed more fleeting with every day spent on the road evading the dead. It would have been snuffed out entirely if it hadn’t been for you.
You, a local farmer’s daughter, taken under Herschel’s wing after your family had been torn apart by walkers. You, whose granddaddy was the town’s old priest, he learned, more devoted to your faith than the Greene patriarch himself. You, who would barely look at the men of the group when they came poking around on the farm, too shy and skittish to give them a proper greeting like the rest of your people had.
He recognized the starved look in his men’s eyes. He knew it was only mirrored in his own. That unsatiated look of hunger glowing deep within the dark abyss of their pupils, the internal seething that came from not being able to gorge themselves full. You were tantalean, kept just out of reach, leaving them aching for just another glimpse to sate their appetites.
But you were off-limits—Herschel made that clear from the get-go. It was one among the many; Herschel had laid down a lot of rules when they first showed up, ultimatums wrapped in the guise of hospitality, dictating their stay on his farm.
Now, Rick was a respectful man, thought himself honorable through and through—but to ask him of that? To resist such temptation? He might have been a good man, maybe, but even the best succumb to sin eventually.
That’s what he told himself, anyway. That he was only a man. That the lecherous feel of that forked tongue brushing at his ear was only natural, the whispers of depravity as earthly as the winds that carried in the sky. That there was something reverent, something unequivocally holy, about the slide between your thighs, the warm spasm of your walls as he sullied your untouched cunt.
He grit his teeth at the feeling of his tip pushing past the leaking seam of your pussy, notching against the snug catch of your fluttering hole.
“That’s it… biiiig stretch,” he’d said, tongue prodding against his molars at the ‘pop’ he felt feeding his cock into you, little virgin cunt finally giving way. You cried, choked gasps punched out of you like he was splitting you apart. Weak hands shot out to claw at his arms, teary-eyed sobs of ‘s’too much, too much’ falling pretty from your lips.
Hn hindsight, it probably would have been nicer of him to break you in on his fingers first. Pry you open gently, get you soft and pliant before giving you the real thing—but it had been hard enough coaxing you into the barn in the first place, his placating, lulling words falling on deaf ears as blasphemous guilt tore you to shreds.
“Rick, I— I don’t.. I’ve never done this before—“
But goddamn, did he try.
“That’s alright, sweetheart, I’ll show you how.”
“Don’t be scared, baby. It’s natural… you feel that? See it? That just means you want it. And this..? S’means I want it too.”
“Look, you won’t even have to do anything, yeah? Perfect just like this.. so perfect for me, huh…”
“M’right here, honey. You’re alright… doin’ so good for me…”
Working you onto his cock seemed like the only thing to do. Righteous, in a way. Batting away any hesitant, wavering murmur of ‘chastity’ or ‘marriage,’ of ‘purity’ and ‘propriety’ that lingered like syrup on your tongue with every slow rock of his hips. And it worked. All trepidations melted away from you, trickling from your ears with the slog of your brain, coagulating in the hollow of your throat.
Your dress was rucked up under the swell of your breasts, his hand splayed wide over your tummy, pressing you flat to the hay bale to hold you still as he rutted into you. He felt bad, looking down at the sorry pinch between your brows, the tears wetting your lashes as you winced at the sting, but he just couldn’t bring himself to stop.
It was overwhelming, the feel of you wrapped around him. Squeezed so impossibly tight, convulsing as you tried to contend with the brute force battering its way inside you. Were you dragging him in? Or were you pushing him out? Did you even know?
You sobbed when he fully sheathed himself in you, cock twitching in tandem with the wet pulse of your cunt.
“Fuuuck, there we go,” he breathed, grinding into you once you’d taken him to the root. It ripped a keen from your throat when he nudged the gummy flesh of your cervix, your nails digging into his wrist at the foreign feeling.
“Shh, you’re alright, you’re fine,” he soothed half-heartedly, leaning up to look at where you were connected. God, you were just so full, weren’t you? Little pussy stretched wide around him, skin pulled taut around the thick of his base.
He gave a mean thrust. Watched the way your slick glistened on his cock as he left the warm clutch of your walls, felt the way you clenched around him at the feel of him sliding out, heard the filthy wet squelch when he snapped his hips back in.
Your mewls fell on deaf ears, completely blind to your tears, to the jutting pout on your lips as you tried to make sense of the heat flushing through your body, the jittery, confusing pleasure you felt from something so forbidden.
No, he was focused on the thing curling around his head, constricting around his skull, squeezing until his ears popped. the open hinge of its jaw pressing into the tender flesh, fangs exposed, spitting venom into the deepest recesses of his brain. Vile, unforgiving, sinful thoughts, spewing forth like vitriol.
He was ruining you.
He could see your whole world view shattering behind your eyes with every thrust of his cock. Watched as you realized that everything you knew, everything you had based your life upon, was suddenly wrong. Tipped upside-down. Because of him.
His hands circled your waist to fuck you down on him, dragging you across the scratch of the hay to meet the fervent pace of his hips. And you let him. Soft, buttery thighs curling into his sides, little fists knotting in the fabric of his sleeves. Your head tipped back to let out a small moan.
“Yeah, that’s right, honey,” he crooned, grinning as you clamped your eyes shut at the slick sound of his balls slapping against your ass. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Me fuckin’ this tight little pussy?”
You whined, pulling a hand back to smother your lips. You were overwhelmed, the heat of arousal singeing every neuron, burning every synapse, until your brain ran runny, pooling molten in your skull.
“Yeah it does,” he hummed, answering for you when you didn’t reply. “Best fuckin’ thing in the world.”
He knew he was fucked. He knew it the moment he stepped foot on the farm, the moment he laid eyes on you, tantalizingly ripe, all but dripping your saccharine nectar from where you stood.
Herschel’s words meant nothing to him. The temptation was too great, too transcendental to pass up. He would glut himself on you, slake his thirst with the arousal that drooled from your cunt. It was some base instinct, some primal, human compulsion. He needed to sink his teeth into you. He needed to gorge himself full, to swallow you down, to lodge you in his throat.
His fingers dragged over the smooth slope of your stomach, brushed over your mons. he spread your lips, saliva pooling on his tongue at the mess he found there. You were wet, fucking gushing, around his cock.
He slipped his thumb over your clit and you yelped, thrashing in his hold as your twitching pussy clamped down on him. He could feel you tensing up, feel your knees pressing harder at his sides, your walls spasming every time he bullied his length back into you.
You peeled your eyes open, a confused whine settling in the back of your throat as your orgasm crept up on you. God, weren’t you sweet, looking up at him like that.
“S’alright, I got you.”
Your lip trembled, a soft whimper drifted its way into the air, and you nodded. Fuck, you trusted him. To lead the way, to guide you through this and keep you safe.
His hips stuttered, sent reeling from the gluttonous sludge of greed that surged through his veins, black tar oozing in place of blood, all pumping down to his cock. He twitched inside you, felt the pull of his own orgasm snaking down his spine.
He almost lost it when you mewled out his name, grabby little hands reaching down to tangle with his own. You didn’t know what you were doing, did you? Fucked dumb for the very first time, eyes glassy, mind gone. His teeth buzzed at the sight.
God, he fucking ruined you, didn’t he? Spread out underneath him, hay tangled in your hair, hands clasped with his on either side of your head. Your thighs squeezed tight around his hips as he split you apart, stuffed you full, plugged you up. You were spoiled the second he plucked you away from them.
This was repugnant. This was disgusting and defiling and depraved. He took you into his dirty hands, unsullied and pristine, and mangled you onto his cock. Pure and untouched, twisted about as he bullied into you. This was desecration—
“Rick— Rick, please?”
He shuddered, bowing his head to rest against yours. You gripped his hands tighter, moans spilling unabashedly from your lips as he fucked you through your peak. You clenched down around him, twitching and writhing at the slide of his cock as he battered into your poor cunt. He watched the tears trickling down the sides of your face, settling wet in your damp hairline, and he came.
Slammed into you, buried himself as deep as he could go. And you welcomed him. Choked out a wet sob and wrapped your arms around his neck, hugged him close as he spilled inside of you.
He didn’t have it in him to push you away, to pull out and come on your belly, hope he moved fast enough for it to not take. He stayed, cock pulsing, spitting up more and more spend with every spasm of your sensitive pussy clamping down around him.
No— no, this was veneration. This was worship. Pious and devout, drinking in the soft hymns that fell from your lips, laving in the golden ichor that gushed around his cock. Only something divine could have created you, shaped you with their godly hands, the very image of perfection.
You were his object of ruination. Put in his path to test his resolve, and fuck, if he didn’t fail. His pride, his greed, voracious and destructive in the face of something so sweet, so delectable.
It was his sin to bear, but he dragged you down with him. Left you marked with his crimes, all but scrawled your name on the Gates of Hell, right beside his.
He cooed when you mewled at him shifting inside of you, twitching as he slid himself out of the warm clutch of your pussy. Would’ve died right there, on the spot, watching your poor, abused hole clench down around nothing, his cum dribbling out with every pulse, spilling down the cleft of your ass.
Purgatory could wait, he figured. He wasn’t going to let you die any time soon, and he wasn’t going anywhere either.
cw: dubcon, wife!reader, thigh riding, orgasm denial, he's so so mean :(
summary: you got caught trying to help daryl escape. while he appreciates the effort, he just can't let that kind of behavior slide.
“Yeah, come in.”
Negan leaned back as the door swung open, his chair creaking in tandem with the deep groan of the metal hinges. He watched with a curious grin as Simon hauled you into the meeting room, hand clamped just a touch too tight around your arm—he would have to get onto him for that later, can’t have him roughing you up too badly. Simon shoved you forward, sending you tripping over your heels and stumbling to the ground.
“Oh, boy. What’s this about?” Negan mused, tilting his head down at you on the floor. You kept your eyes down, but he could see the tear tracks on your cheeks, the angry pinch in your brow.
Simon huffed and plucked a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tossing it down onto the table. “Caught your girl lurking around the new guy’s cell. The one from Alexandria?”
Daryl. Right. You two must have known each other; you were both at the lineup, anyway. God, the way you sobbed when he ordered his men to take him away. Made him chub up just thinking about it.
He glanced away from your seething form at his feet to give Simon a patronizing, unimpressed look, his grin splitting mean across his face. “So, you brought her here, roughed her up, over… what— a pack of Camels?”
He didn’t miss the way Simon’s fists clenched in restraint, the glimpse of absolute contempt that passed over his eyes at the condescending lilt in his voice. Simon reached over to pick up the pack again, this time tossing it into Negan’s lap.
“Open it.”
You tensed below him. Must have fucked up something big for Simon to be this mad, for you to be this quiet.
The cardboard lid was flimsy, a bit crushed in from Simon’s outburst, but he peeled it away, spotting five cigarettes and a conspicuous little rolled piece of white paper. His brows twitched together as he pinched it between his fingers, drawing it out of the carton.
He didn’t even have time to unfurl it before Simon started spitting, stomping a heavy boot right by your thigh to scare you. You barely flinched. Tough girl.
“She wasn’t offerin’ him a smoke. She was trying to fuckin’ help him escape. Read it, s’all right there. ‘Third shift change, least number of guards. Up the stairs, right, left, right, right, left—’ goddamn all of it,” Simon sneered, bending down to speak into your ear. You wouldn’t look away from the floor.
“She’s a liability, Negan. I told you from the start you shouldn’t have taken her. I told you—and now she’s trying to screw things up from the inside. She’s got no use to us, she’s gotta go—”
“Hey. Watch it.”
Simon fell quiet. He clenched his jaw, chewed the inside of his cheek, flared his nostrils. Negan didn’t give a shit. He could be as pissed off as he wanted—at the end of the day, he still answered to him.
“I’ll deal with it,” Negan uttered finally, tucking the scrap of paper back into the box and tossing it onto the table with a sigh. He looked down at you between his feet, still angry and hiding, still glowering at his boots. Sweet as you were, he knew Simon was right. He would have to set you straight, get it through your head that some shit just would not slide now that you were at the Sanctuary.
Simon didn’t seem to be satisfied with the response he got. Kept on scowling between you and him, twitchy fingers furling up into balled fists at his sides. “Negan, she’s just gonna do it again if you don’t—”
“I said I’ll deal with it.”
He held his eye for a long moment, just daring him to keep going. Watched him glance down at Lucille where she was propped up against the chair, the way his fingers were loosely circling around the bat’s neck. It was clear what it was—an unspoken promise, irrefutably resolute. Blood was imbedded in the grain of the wood, there were bits of brain and gore tucked too tight in the crevices of the barbed wire to ever be cleaned away. Countless men had died at the hands of Lucille—men who didn’t know their place.
The fight bled out of him, evaporated enough for him to back off. It still simmered beneath his skin, that much was clear, but it wouldn’t boil over yet. Simon jerked his head down in resignation, throat bobbing as he swallowed his irritation.
“Sir,” he gritted. He turned and stomped out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.
Negan gave a low whistle, filling the awkward silence that was left in Simon’s wake. “Fuck’s wrong with him, huh?”
You didn’t laugh like he had wanted—not that he was really expecting you to, frigid thing you were. You just stayed there on the floor. Still and quiet, chest heaving, shoulders tensed, silently fuming against the cold press of the concrete.
It was hard to not acknowledge that this was probably exactly how you would look sitting at his feet in other circumstances, fucking trembling and teary-eyed, hair all mussed up. He’d have to break in that mouth of yours soon, he noted for later.
You looked guilty as hell, though. That was undeniable. Clearly, you didn’t quite understand your place either. He hadn’t gotten it through your head yet that you were his wife now, that this kind of shady, deceptive, covert-operative-ass shit was not okay. He couldn’t have you going around behind his back doing whatever you wanted. You needed to learn that there were consequences.
“So… you wanna tell me what happened?” he hummed, sliding a boot forward to nudge your thigh. You only twitched. “No?”
He sucked his teeth and sighed. Negan considered himself to be a patient man, reasonable at the least, but his rope only stretched so far.
“Come here,” he said, patting his thigh. He watched you fight the urge to look up, caught the way your eyes drifted up to his knees before you stopped yourself, let them fall down to your lap in defiance.
Cute. Almost made him smile, but he only sat back, the chair groaning as he cleared his throat. “Do I need to remind you what happened the last time you didn’t listen?”
And just like that—
“No! No. No, I’m sorry—” you blurted, whipping your head up to finally meet his eye. He tipped his chin to the side, a wordless taunt that had you scrambling closer, crawling across the floor to kneel between his thighs. “I’m sorry, please don’t— don’t hurt him. Please. I’m sorry.”
There we go.
Your shaky fingers tentatively brushed over his knees, a faint, barely-there sensation that only had him swelling in his jeans, cock starting to press uncomfortably hard against the rough denim. Didn’t help that you were looking at him like that—desperate, whiny, clinging onto him between his thighs. It was a fuckin’ wonder he didn’t blow a load right there.
He could have, he thought.
Could’ve dealt with you like that—made you tug down that ridiculously low neckline of the dress you wore, the one he had picked out for you for that exact reason. He could’ve made you cup your tits for him, squish them together and just sit there while he jerked off. Cum all over you, watch it pool between your breasts, drip down and stain the black satin fabric. Delight in the humiliation that would burn in your face, the shame that would leak out into those pretty fucking panties he picked for you too.
Maybe. Didn’t seem fitting, though. Not enough to really get it through your head. He reached for your cheek, ignoring the way you flinched against his palm. God, you were sweet. You would be one of his favorites, he just knew it—if only he could set you straight.
“You’re in trouble, y’know that?” he murmured, sliding his fingers back to cup the back of your neck.
His thumb notched at the hinge of your jaw and maneuvered your head into a nod, miming your reluctant agreement. A low, satisfied laugh rumbled quietly in his chest. “Yeah, you do. You wanna go ahead and tell me why? Make sure I know that you understand what the hell you did wrong—”
“You were supposed to let him go, Negan,” you snapped, jerking away from his hand with an indignant glare. “You said you would. You said that if I—”
“I said I’d think about it,” he interrupted sharply. You fell quiet, lashes fluttering when his hand slid back into your hair, reeling you in close again. “And I did. I just don’t want to.”
Frustration tore across your face. You looked lost, helpless—unsure of what to do with yourself as the futility of your efforts finally became clear to you. Your confidence was starting to crumble, right before his eyes. The tiny, inconsequential, hairline fractures that had begun splintering your resolve that night at the lineup suddenly caving into deep, splitting cracks.
“Negan, I—”
“He’s mine now. And so are you—and I’m not givin’ either of you back any time soon, okay?” He tilted your head up to look at him, bit back a grin when you wouldn’t meet his eye. “But… you’re makin’ this really fuckin’ hard for me, baby. You cannot go screwing with shit behind my back—”
He gave you a little shake. “—not fucking okay.”
You sat back on your heels the moment his hand let up. Slinked away as far as you knew he would let you. A twinge of pride shot through him at that; you were learning. Slowly, sure, but little by little. He would just need to keep pushing, keep prodding at that fragmented little piece of you that was oh so close to shattering.
He leaned back with a sigh, eyes glinting as they passed over you. “C’mere, sweetheart.”
You were quick to listen this time—no groveling on your end, no tacit threats on his—just sullen and resigned, quiet as you rose to your feet, swaying slightly on your heels as you tugged down the end of your dress. He reached for your hips and steered you closer, watching you stagger between his legs as he pulled you onto his thigh. So much for fixing your dress.
His thumbs rubbed little circles into your bare skin, a poor attempt at playing sorry, remorseful for having to be mean, the touch soft as if to say, ‘I don’t want to do this, but you pushed my hand.’
“You know I gotta punish you for this, don’t you?” he hummed. You didn’t answer. You wouldn’t even look at him. Kept your fists balled in the rucked up folds of your satin skirt, shoved them down between your parted thighs to preserve some semblance of modesty—not that it helped much.
Sure, he couldn’t see you, but he could feel the heat of your pussy pressing against his leg, and that was just so much better.
Your head tipped in a slight, begrudging nod. Shame had licked over your face at the word. Punish. It was demeaning, he knew. Belittling, like a child being told to stand quietly in the corner. And you were so clearly bothered by it. Embarrassed and squirming on his lap despite trying with everything in you to stay still.
That wasn’t going to work, though. Not much of a punishment just sitting there looking pretty, is it?
“Go ahead, then, baby. Move.”
You hesitated. “What?”
“Move. Fuck yourself on my thigh. Go.”
Jesus, he was hard. Fucking lightheaded from how much blood surged to his cock at the sight of your eyes darting up to his, wide and wavering.
“I’m not—”
Your words died on your tongue, lost their shape halfway out of your lips. It only took a stern look from him to render you silent. A subtle lour and a pinch pulling taut in his brow, forcing you to swallow the rising sludge of doubt back down your throat.
He always got a kick out of this—the submission. The gradual crumbling of your will, the give after so long. His teeth ached watching the way your head bowed, the way your eyes fell back to your lap, that shaky, heaving breath you sucked in before bracing your hands on his thigh and moving.
Your hips twitched forward, just barely dragging against him. It was awkward and slow, your humiliation burning hotter with every tiny shift, and he felt it. Molten and runny, collecting in the thin lace of your panties. He would be willing to bet you weren’t even really embarrassed—just upset that you fucking liked it.
Your arms were starting to shake with the effort it took to hold yourself up, to not fully seat yourself on his thigh. You were trying so hard to not give in.
That wasn’t how it was going to work, though. Simon was right. He had been too easy on you. Too tolerant of all your little outbursts, too lenient with you whenever you would lash out. He should have corrected that behavior the moment he took you away from Rick.
His hands seized your hips and drove you down, grinding your clit on his thigh. A mean grin broke out on his face when you yelped, twisted even deeper when your fingers clawed at his chest. “Mh, there we go. That’s better, huh?”
He tutted when you whined and shook your head no. Shushed you when you writhed as he pulled you back and forth, dragging your pussy along the firm stretch of his thigh. He was mean about it too. Planted his foot flat on the ground and started bouncing his leg, held you down on his lap so that you would have no choice but to feel the jolts of pleasure that came with every jump of his knee.
“Jesus, sweetheart, you’re fuckin’ soaked,” he taunted, relishing in the stifled mewls spilling from your lips. “Can feel you dripping through my jeans.”
You shuddered and let your head fall forward, pressed against his shoulder to hide your face. You wanted so badly to not feel good—to not let him know how good you felt with him fucking you on his thigh.
“Aw, come on, baby. Don’t do that,” he murmured, bringing up a hand to curl around the back of your neck. He tugged you back to meet your eye, held you there by your scruff so that you couldn’t shy away. “Y’knew what you did was wrong. What did you think was gonna happen, huh?”
He chuffed at the glare you gave him, grinned when he jerked his knee up and ground into your sore clit, making you jump.
And just when you started to tremble, when your lashes started to flutter shut, the moans coming louder, snaking free from your chest…
“No!”
It had tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop it, a thoughtless outburst pulled from you the moment he lifted you off his leg. And you looked fucking mortified.
“No?” negan asked, just rubbing it in your face. “What, did you wanna cum? Want me to keep grindin’ that little pussy down on my thigh?”
You stayed quiet.
“That is not what this is, sweetheart,” he reminded you, his voice stern and low. He dragged you forward, ignoring how you jolted at the rough denim passing over your wet cunt. Tucked your head right next to his, let his lips linger beside your ear.
"You need me to make you feel good, I will be there any other goddamn time—shit, I'm hard as a fucking rock, feeling you drooling all over me—but I can't deal with that right now 'cause I'm too busy tryin' to get it through that pretty head of yours that you cannot be pulling that shit. Do you hear me?"
He didn't give you a chance to answer before sliding you back, canting your hips just so to make your clit drag hard along his thigh. Your hands curled around his arms, gripping, clawing, anything to find purchase as he forced you back up your peak.
He got drunk on it, watching you squirm and shake. Pride coiled tight in his stomach, burning like liquor in his throat. You weren't even fighting it anymore. Your strength was dripping away from you, pooling in the sticky mess between your legs, drooling all over his lap. He felt dizzy watching you fall apart.
Again, he brought you just to the brink, only to pull you off of him at the last second. And just the same as before, you choked out a sorry, wet, blubbering cry, a heart-wrenching little sob that had his cock kicking in his jeans.
You quit shaking, and he brought you back down.
Over and over and fucking over again.
And you just melted. Went limp in his arms, slouched against his chest as he moved your hips back and forth, babbling little apologies through your tears and sniffling cries. You were gone. Fucked dumb on his thigh, the fight bullied out of you with every jolt of his leg against your cunt.
This was exactly where he wanted you. Soft, pliant, broken. In such a delicate state that you would swallow down anything he said without a second thought, lodge it in your psyche without resistance.
He snickered when your hands drifted up over his shoulders, hugging him closer. Pet your hair gently, soothingly, as if his other palm wasn't bruising your hip, grinding you down on him.
"Aw, poor baby," he crooned. "Y'know, you're lucky I didn't pass you off to Simon. He gets mean— and I mean fuckin' mean. Don't even wanna think about what he'd have done to you, 'specially with what you did."
You sobbed and hid your face in his neck. It only brought a grin to his face. "Got off real easy, didn't you? Shit, you probably should've gone with Simon. He'd make damn sure you don't fuck up again. Scare you straight."
Another pass over his thigh. Another mewl pulled from your throat.
"Maybe I'm too nice with you. Hm? What d'you think?" You gave a sluggish shake of your head, whimpering softly as your sore, throbbing clit dragged against him. He hummed dismissively. "S'not enough to fix that head of yours, is it? Need some roughing up, a nice, firm hand to keep you in line–”
"No!" you moaned, sniveling against his throat.
"No? Is this gonna work, then?" he mused, his mocking tone entirely lost on you. "Am I gonna have to deal with shit like this again?"
"No... no, I'm— I'm sorry, I..."
"Sorry for what?"
Tears lined your lashes when he pulled you back to look at him.
"I— I'm sorry I tried to— to help him escape," you sputtered. Your lip trembled when he cupped your jaw, a silent prompt to keep going. "M'sorry, I won't do it again. I promise. I didn't— I'm sorry, m'sorry, m'sorry..."
You blubbered on, leaning into his hand as the tears finally welled over, dripping down your cheeks. He still had a hold of your hip, still had you moving against him, still had you right at the brink.
He cooed softly, rubbing a thumb over your cheekbone. "You won't do it again?"
"No. No, I— I won't. I promise. Please, just... please, Negan—"
"Atta girl," he murmured. "That's all I needed."
He kept pulling at your hips, rocking you back and forth, only he didn't pull you away this time. Right as you started to tremble, right as you started to shake and sob, he bounced his knee and held you down, letting you grind your yourself stupid on his thigh.
He watched it wash over you, watched the way you jerked into his chest and humped his leg—without his help, too. No, this was all you. Sloppy and fervent and desperate, fucking yourself silly on the man who stole you away.
"There we go," he grumbled, using a light hand to guide you through your orgasm, just barely helping you drag your cunt through the last of it tearing through you. He chuckled when you slumped against him, fallen still aside from the tremors that had you shivering on his lap.
"Got you all sorted out now, huh?"
⤷ god i want him to do terrible things to me. sorry this is late btw
cw: shane being a perv, implied cheating, p in v, masturbation, shane also being a jealous whore
summary: you had turned to shane when you thought your husband was dead. then he came back. only, shane couldn't seem to let go. not when he had been the one fucking you in that same clearing just days ago — the one rick had you in now.
Shane never was one to believe in any of that superstitious shit like ‘deja vu.’
You had asked him about it once—some late, sluggish night at your house, minds buzzing from one too many beers. You were drunk and giggling, entertaining the idea of ‘reliving past experiences’ and ‘strange illusions of familiarity’. He’d only laughed and brushed it off, reaching an arm out behind you to rest casually along the back of the couch. He would have let you go on talking for longer, but then Rick came walking back in with an easy, warm grin on his face and three more bottles clinking in his hands.
Shane maintained this belief throughout it all—that it was just a bunch of nonsense. He chose to put his faith in what he could see materialized right in front of him, rather than doing mental gymnastics to cope with the things he didn’t understand.
He thought it had served him well enough, at least with everything that had gone down in the world in recent months.
People turning into crazed animals with rotting flesh and an appetite for other humans? Sure, fine. Must be some sort of disease. Oh, if they bite you, you turn into one of them too? That makes sense, must be something in their saliva.
He took what he saw and ran with it. He never questioned it, never tried to dig deeper, because that’s just who he was. He’d always been more brawn than brain, and he was fine with that. He trusted that there were people out there—people who knew things, who had the brains to understand what the hell had happened to the world—who would figure it all out. And in the meantime, he had his own people to protect. Like you.
His ‘no-nonsense’ attitude kept you safe. It kept his head on his shoulders and his feet on the ground. He didn’t have time to think about spooky shit like ‘ghost stories’ or ‘deja vu’ or whatever the fuck. He had real problems to deal with.
But then Rick came back.
Shane didn’t think he had survived, not with how the hospital had been when he left him there. Everything had been so confusing and chaotic in those first weeks, but he knew that the one thing he needed to do was to find you. He would keep you safe, even when Rick couldn’t.
And you had trusted him wholeheartedly—of course you did. When he told you that Rick had died, that you had lost your husband, you let him grieve with you. You sat beside him and let him hold you, let him comfort you, let him whisper in your ear and tell you everything was going to be alright. And after a while, it didn’t feel so unnatural to be in his arms, to lie beside him in his tent or to feel his lips against yours. It felt safe.
But then Rick came back.
Rose from the dead like one of those goddamn walkers. And didn’t you just go running right back into his arms? Smiling and teary-eyed like he had been the one busting his ass to keep you alive. A split second and you forgot all about him.
He supposed he’d felt it then, that strange familiarity of a situation that’s already happened. Bits and pieces of memories came back to him, flashes of the three of you in high school together all those years ago, glimpses of all the times you had chosen Rick over him, but he brushed it off. Ignored it. Refused to acknowledge the glowering, envious twinge that pulled in the deepest recesses of his mind.
It was harder to ignore the second time around.
A few days had gone by since Rick’s miraculous return, and Shane spent every waking moment of it gritting his teeth and biting back all the hostility and bitterness that fought to spill out of his mouth.
He went out looking for you, hoping to find you and get you alone so that you two could talk about everything. He checked your tent, his tent, the RV, the campfire, the clotheslines, the shore of the quarry, every fucking place in the goddamn camp he could think of. And you weren’t there.
He was heading back to the center, ready to sound the alarm and send out search parties to make sure you weren’t being eaten or torn to pieces, when he passed by the clearing. He paused for a moment, ears perked at the slight sound of scuffling down below.
And there you were. Hiding away behind the foliage, you were there laying on the grass. Flat on your back, pants shucked off and dangling around one ankle, thighs open and beckoning, spread wide—and between them, Rick.
He ducked behind a tree. From where he stood, he had the perfect view of you. He could see the little pinch between your brows clear as day, the small ‘o’ shape of your lips as Rick slid himself into you.
Your soft whines drifted into the air unabashedly. He knew you weren’t afraid to be loud, not here. He knew because he was the one to tell you that it was okay.
It was Shane who had shown you the clearing, who had fucked you in it first. He was the one to scout for the goddamn place, to make sure it was far enough away from the camp that nobody would hear you, to string up tin cans around the perimeter to alert the two of you to any lingering walkers.
And here you fucking were.
Your knees came up to hug Rick’s waist. He could hear your breathy moans as Rick ground into you, the keen that left your lips when he must have nudged that deepest part of you. He watched your eyes screw shut, your hand come clawing at the back of your husband’s neck to hold him close.
Shane sneered when Rick’s lips came to your ear. He was probably whispering some shit about how he fought like hell to get you back, how much he loves you, how much he missed you.
And you would believe it. Swallow his words whole without any thought, because Rick was able to do that. Twist your head, make everything seem like sunshine and fucking daisies. He sang the songs you liked to hear and you drank them in like nectar.
What you didn’t want to hear was the truth, and that was that if Rick had fought like hell to keep you, he wouldn’t have lost you in the first place.
Shane fought for you. He protected you. He kept you safe when your dear, darling husband couldn’t. You would have died if he hadn’t been there—if he wasn’t still there for you every single day. Rick failed you, and yet, you still spread your legs for him. Still nuzzled into his neck. Still wrapped your soft thighs around his hips and locked your feet behind his back.
A sharp cry cut through the air. He knew that cry. He’d wrenched it from your chest a thousand times. He looked to find Rick’s hand right where he expected—grinding slowly over your clit. He watched your back curl up off the ground, your fist lift to press against your mouth.
He felt himself twitch against his leg, the weight of his cock pressing thick and heavy against the sheer material of his boxers. He would have left it alone, but you sounded so pretty, gasping and mewling as your husband fucked you. Who knew when he’d get the chance to see you like this again. He let his hand fall to his groin, palming the growing length hidden beneath his jeans.
If he shifted just right, he could block out the view of Rick and just watch you. You were always so beautiful to him, ever since he met you in the tenth grade—even now, as his best friend had you on your back, whining and begging for his dick. But this new perspective offered him something new, something he’d never even considered before. He got to watch you getting fucked.
This was how you looked when you were with him. You had been blubbering over his cock, just like this. You would cry out for him and cord your fingers through his hair, just like this.
Shane imagined all the dozens of times he had you in the filthiest positions here—your legs thrown over his shoulders, on your knees with your back arched so deep your chest hit the ground, your mouth stuffed full of him, your thighs clamped tight around his head. He imagined he was looking through someone else’s eyes, seeing himself with you, himself in Rick’s place. His belt clinked faintly as he tugged himself free, a hiss escaping him as the hot weight of his cock hit his palm.
The grip of his fingers paled in comparison to yours. You were so soft, so gentle with him; he was mean, fisting at his length with a rough palm that almost hurt. Pearly precum pebbled at his tip, smearing over the velvety skin of his dick as he fucked into his hand.
He could imagine it was you he was sliding into, only if he focused hard enough. His forehead hit the hard bark of the tree and he bit back a heavy sigh, his fist still rubbing languidly at the ruddy head of his cock.
The squeeze wasn’t right—you always squeezed around him so nicely—and it wasn’t nearly wet enough. Shane wondered if you were as wet for Rick as you always got for him. There was hope; he couldn’t hear the squelch of him pounding into you. He could always hear how sloppy you got when he was fucking you.
Shane peeked back around the trunk of the tree. Rick had picked you up in the time it took for him to fish himself out of his pants. He had you sitting upright in his lap now, wide hands gripping the fat of your hips as you bounced down on him.
He hated the way his dick jerked at the sight of your fucked out face, the tug he felt in his loins when you hooked your chin over Rick’s shoulder and sobbed. He watched your puffy, spit-slick lips part in a breathy gasp, your voice going high-pitched and airy.
You were close. He knew that look on your face like the back of his hand. He moved his palm faster over his length, fervidly tugging at his cock like if he came with you, he’d win you back. Your head knocked against your husband’s, brows drawn tight and swollen lips falling slack.
There it is, he thought, there it is…
“Rick.. oh fuck, please, Rick.”
It hit him before he could stop it. He bit down on his tongue and slammed his hand into tree as he came, ropes of cum spurting over his fingers with each pump of his fist. It took everything in him to keep quiet with the way you were moaning in front of him.
He desperately peeled his eyes open to watch you as he rode out the last of his orgasm. His cock still twitched in his hand, kicking against his palm and spitting up spunk all over the forest floor.
You were coming with him, Shane realized with a dizzy smile.
Rick had you limp in his arms, grinding you down on him as he chased after his own release. Your head jostled against his shoulder as he tugged you around. You two had left him in the dust. Came together and left him chasing after you.
He rubbed a thumb over his tip with a lazy grin, shuddering as he smeared the mess that drooled over the length of him. a familiar warmth spread through him as he finally caught hold of that memory that had been taunting him all this time, ghosting right in front of him, just barely out of reach.
It was from when you were all in high school, right around yours and Rick’s one-year anniversary. Shane was benched at one of his baseball practices—got in a fight with one of the catchers—and what do you know, there you were making out with your boyfriend under the bleachers.
He remembered watching you nervously glance away when Rick started slobbering over your neck and sucking hickies onto your throat. He remembered how big your eyes had gotten when you met his gaze through the metal slats of the seats.
And what are the fucking odds, you found his eye again. This time, soft, sweaty, and slumped over his shoulder, fingers brushing through your husband’s hair. Your sluggish eyes drifted away, delving through the gaps between branches and leaves to find Shane. There, behind the tree, face flushed pink and cock twitching softly in his palm, was Shane.
He knew that this had happened before. Fucking deja vu.
i don’t really write much and i’ve never posted any of what i have written, but the thoughts were swarming so i figured why not. happy october to all the perverts out there!
cw: pervy!daryl, masturbation, implied age gap, kinda angsty, probs rly out of character (made him a gooner, i'm sorry), shitty writing, idk what else
summary: he's secretly obsessed with you, but he doesn’t think you’d care for a mean old dog like him. so he copes the only way he knows how. by fisting himself and making a mess of the shower floors every night.
Daryl Dixon never claimed to be a good man.
That’s what he told himself. Hoped it would relieve him of the blame, bear the brunt of the guilt that came every time he left the quiet of the showers. Sometimes it worked. It made him feel better to know that he could at least be honest with himself. To not have to pretend to be better than he was. It made it easier to think about you in all the ways he knew he shouldn’t.
A better man would never think to look at you the way he did, but he’s not a better man, is he?
The communal bathroom was the place that best allowed him to weave his fantasies in peace, funnily enough. Ever since the group had taken in the folks from Woodbury, the prison had been loud and constantly crowded. Up in the cellblocks and out in the yard, all anyone ever did was pester him, fawning and calling him a hero no matter how many times he’d snarl at them.
They all liked him when there were others around, when there was a leash nearby, just in case he snapped his jaws too tight. But the truth of it was, he’s a mean old dog who’s trained to bite. And when no one else was around, they were all scared of him.
So, naturally, there came an unspoken understanding:
If Daryl’s alone in a room, stay the fuck out unless you want to be missing fingers.
The first time it happened, it had only been a matter of convenience.
You were one of the people coming in from Woodsbury, fleeing the terror that had been the governor. Among the mass, you were one of the few who actually worked to earn their place. The others were useless. He’d be the one to admit it. Bunch of dickless wimps who didn’t know how to get their hands dirty. Spent too much time playing house in that sad mind-fuck of a town.
Not you, though. No, you were different. That was the first thing he noticed about you. Never afraid to step up to the task. To deal with the things they did on the regular without bitching about it like everyone else.
It was Rick’s idea to give all the newcomers the harder jobs, just to see where the weak spots were. Pick out the less-capable ones and give them the other mindless tasks like laundry or cooking.
You were one of the ones to prove yourself capable, taking down nearly the whole crowd of walkers that had amassed outside the fence all on your own. He watched you work that day. Stripped down to your thin little tank top that clung just too tight to your body, your skin gleaming in the hot Georgia sun, sweat and blood making you shine if he looked at you just right.
You walked up to him when you were done, disgusting and glistening and covered in guts. You had the gall to ask in that sweet, soft voice of yours if you ‘did alright,’ like there weren’t twenty walker corpses lying thirty feet away.
He scoffed then, but later that night he was fucking his hand raw, spilling all over his fingers and watching it drip onto the tile floor.
He had wanted so badly to lay you down right there and fuck you into the grass. Didn’t matter you were lathered in gore—he would’ve licked that up too, dragging his tongue over your slick skin if it meant even the smallest chance of getting at your cunt.
He was glad to have been alone in the showers. He knew it must have been a pathetic sight—Daryl Dixon, grouchiest bastard you’ll ever meet, rutting into his fist and whining over a young thing like you who’d never give him the time of day.
The second time it happened, he called it a coincidence. Just a spur of the moment thing that just so happened to end with him panting up against the wall with cum splattered up his chest.
He knew he was filthy for thinking of you like this. Nothing you did was even remotely sexual. But that day, having you slide up behind him on his bike to join him on a supply run, your tits pressed against his back and your thighs spread wide on either side of him, your arms stretching around his torso, clasped hands inching further and further down with every bump in the road—it was all too much.
He gave up trying to excuse it the third time. It had become an addiction—no, a necessity. A new form of sustenance that kept him breathing. Kept his brain working and the blood flowing through his veins.
The group didn’t think they’d ever seen him so clean. And when he wasn’t able to get to the showers at night? Boy, was everyone sorry.
The day before, you had been on kitchen duty, making some sort of soupy concoction out of some canned goop and chopped bits of rabbit daryl had caught earlier that morning. It was around noon when he went to find you, hoping to grab a quick bite and then go back to ignoring you. But no, things weren’t so simple with you.
If the soft smile you gave him wasn’t enough to make him chub up in his jeans right where he stood, then your asking if he ‘wanted a taste’ was. His face went embarrassingly hot and his cock kicked against his thigh. And you had no idea.
He didn’t want to be mean to you, not when you’d been working so hard for the community. There was also this small part of him, some kind of cancerous tumor, buried deep in the sickest part of him, that hoped you shared in his perversion. That you were thinking the same thing—that you actually wanted this gross old man to hook your knee over his shoulder and shove his tongue up your cunt until you were squirming against his face.
Instead, you spun your wooden spoon around and lifted it in front of him. And fuck, if that wasn’t just as good. He watched your eyes linger on his lips as they parted, on the way his tongue dipped out into the tangy soup before slipping back into the wet of his mouth.
He liked to imagine you got just as wet as he did doing that. That the precum that leaked and stained in his boxers wasn’t all for nothing.
He knew right then and there, with your eyes turned down and your hand tentatively lowering the spoon back to the pot, what his plans for the night were going to be.
That was, until Rick made him tag along for some thing that stretched on far too late. It became apparent how much of a problem you had turned into for him when he spent the entire next day unreasonably pissed off, snapping at the smallest of things.
Even you weren’t safe from his frustration. In fact, you seemed to be the target of it. Everything you did only served to further ruin his mood. You were unavoidable, seeming to linger everywhere he went—serving him breakfast when he woke up, smiling at him from across the yard, bouncing Judith behind Rick when he called for him. No matter where he went, you always managed to find your way there.
He made the stupid decision to go out hunting while hotheaded. He figured it was someplace you wouldn’t follow him to. One of the few places he could go to get away from the itching greed that crawled over his skin whenever his eyes found yours.
He’d almost made it too, fixing himself on the seat of his bike and knocking back the kickstand, settling in front of the rattling gate as it peeled open. His fingers were just about to wrap around the handles when he heard your clattering footsteps rush up behind him.
“Wait! You forgot this,” you panted, holding out his waterskin for him.
He stared wordlessly before snatching it out of your hand. He ignored the way your brows twitched together, hurt lacing your face. He was anxious to just get away from you before you saw the thick print pressing at his thigh (or how it jumped when your fingers brushed his).
He revved his engine finally and started off down the road. He heard your voice cut through the air again.
“Stay safe!”
Goddamn it. You fucked with his head. He was leaving to get away from you so you wouldn’t fuck with his head, and you did it anyway.
It was because of you all he could think about was the throbbing in his cock. It was because of you he could only focus on the rumble of his bike sending vibrations ghosting at his leaking tip with every dip in the road. It was because of you he nearly drove into a lone walker in the middle of the street.
He swerved at the last second and immediately went tumbling across the asphalt, bike skidding past him by an inch. He laid there dazed until that same walker came snarling up to him.
His arms were shredded and there was a gash dripping blood on his chin, but otherwise, he felt fine. He was inspecting his bike for damage when he realized in horror that today was your day in the infirmary. The blood had been shaken up to his head when he crashed, but now, he could feel it all flooding back down at the prospect of you getting your hands on him.
It was embarrassing how wide your eyes got when you saw him roll his bike back through the gate. He must of looked worse than he thought.
He grumbled and pushed past you. The sting of his arms didn’t bother him, and he hardly paid any attention to the wound still trickling blood down his neck. He just needed to get himself sorted out. Clear his head. Get down to the showers and fuck whatever had pent up inside him in the last day and a half out into his fist.
It was empty when he stormed in, his footsteps echoing through the air as he passed along the grimy tile. He tore at his clothes, letting them fall to the floor and trail behind him. His belt, his vest, his shirt.
His skin was broiling, his cheeks flushed as he tugged down his pants just enough to tug his cock out. He hissed when he took it in his palm, heavy and angry red, weeping an embarrassing amount of precum that smeared on his knuckles.
A small voice in the back of his head berated him for how disgusting he was, how much of a old, perverted creep he had to be to be this desperate jerking off to a sweet girl like you.
You, who had no idea what kind of sick degenerate he was. The things he made you do in the haze of his lust-filled fantasies when he was all alone. He knew he was wrong for it, but he couldn’t help himself. something possessed him whenever you crossed his mind, making his cock throb so painfully, he had no choice but to give in.
His hand curled around the thick base of him, his grip tight and unforgiving. He didn’t even need to spit with how much slick drooled over his fingers. He shuddered when he squeezed, pleasure shooting up his spine.
You weren’t spoiled like him. Rotten and filthy. Mangey and ridden with fleas. He could imagine all he wanted, but you would never be there in front of him, naked and kneeling with your tongue out, your face painted in cum. You would never look up at him with those wet, teary eyes as you pressed your nose to his pubes, your throat convulsing around his length, sucking him in as he pulsed into the wet heat of your mouth.
No, you were soft. Nice and perfect. You probably liked the gentler things—lazy mornings waking up to a head between your thighs and a tongue suckling at your clit, warm embraces and forehead kisses, making love—and he could be gentle. He could be soft for you, but it wouldn’t matter. It would never matter, because his hands were rough and dirty and stained with all the things he had done in his life, and there was no washing it away.
A fist rose to his mouth to stifle the whine that slipped past his lips. He could feel it writhing in the pit of his stomach, the jittery release he’d been missing for far too long. It ached in his chest and shuddered over his skin.
His hand pulled fervently, faster now that he could see it over the horizon, feel it creeping up on him like someone’s breath on the back of his neck. His thumb rubbed over his slit, slipping over the drippy mess that was starting to spatter over the floor.
He wished it were you there with him, wished it was your hand gliding along his cock—it would probably feel nicer; your hands were soft, just like the rest of you—instead of his. He grunted out your name, imagining how smooth your fingers would feel wrapped around him. His brain was buzzing, his ears hot and ringing, and his breath had started coming in heavy pants as he worked his fist harder and harder.
You supposed that’s how he missed you shuffling down the stairs, padding into the room. Your lips parted in surprise at the whiny sound of your name dripping from his tongue, at the broad expanse of his back to you, and the unmistakable schlick of his hand tugging at his cock.
You stood there silently behind him, your hands with the gauze and hydrogen peroxide you’d brought down falling limp at your sides. Heat rushed up to your cheeks, dousing over your head and making gooseflesh prickle at your skin.
The right thing to do was to turn around and leave, give him his privacy, but you felt frozen in place watching him fall apart, chanting your name.
His whines were growing louder, high-pitched and breathy, his hips stuttering and chasing after the warm clutch of his palm as he threw himself into his release. It slithered down his spine, his shoulders curling in as it tore through him.
You watched him shudder against the wall, his face pressed into his forearm while his other hand moved gently along his length. He shivered, moaning softly as he came, his cock twitching and drooling out ropes of cum that splattered on the grimy tile. You watched it drip down, streaking its way to pool on the floor.
He panted, ribs splaying wide like wings, as he came down from his high. There was a sweaty sheen on his back that made your eyes linger—probably a bit too long, because he was shifting and turning around before you could think to dart away.
His head still felt clouded, his eyes hazy, but he knew there was no mistaking the image of you standing there watching him. He froze, shame already blooming in the depths of his gut and curling around his throat.
Your eyes were wide, wet and gleaming, just like he fantasized about every night. His stomach flipped at the realization that he was right, that the only way you would ever look at him was in shock and disgust—but then, he watched your gaze drop.
A twitchy, shy, little glance was all it was, but he’d caught it. That curious sheen glazing over your pupils, fixating on his cock that you could only now properly see. He watched your fist crush around the roll of gauze in your hand when it twitched under your attention.
The vitriol that usually simmered and pooled on his tongue dripped down the back of his throat. His lips that had long since grown accustomed to curling away to bear his teeth now, suddenly, stayed smooth against his face.
He only swallowed and blinked at you, standing still and quiet in the stuffy air of the showers as a strange, forbidden twinge of something twisted through him—something he’d never let himself feel before. Hope.
⤷ dumbass ending. it’s my literal first ever time writing something and actually posting it… happy kinktober tho :p
cw: dubcon, brief violence, choking, restraints, coercion??/prostitution??, fingering, mean rick
summary: you’re not who you say you are. your cover’s blown and rick’s left to deal with you. can’t have you running that pretty mouth and spreading their secrets. awful shame to have to kill you, though.
he could feel eyes on him when he walked through the gates. prying and prodding stares, lingering on the dripping gash on his eyebrow and the blood matted above his swollen lip. he felt their eyes shift behind him, noting the absence of the person he’d left with. realizing that you didn’t make it back with him.
he stalked past them all, his sneer growing with every nervous, tittering question thrown his way.
“where is she?”
“what happened?”
“is she alright?”
“the hell happened to you?”
rick glanced up from the sink and met daryl’s eye. he stood behind him, scrutinizing his reflection in the bathroom mirror. it was silent between them, only disturbed by the thin trickle of water pattering down from the faucet. the porcelain was tinged pink, blood curling through the water and swirling down the drain.
his jaw ticked. anger simmered, the heat of it wavering on the surface of his skin. he threw down the rag he’d used to clean up and turned to face him. “she’s been spying on us. you know that?”
daryl’s expression hardened. he shifted on his feet. his voice was low and rumbling. “for the saviors?”
rick stared silently, tongue prodding his cheek.
you had been in alexandria before they even got there. sweet, bubbly thing, always helping out wherever you could. they were off-put by how cheerful you seemed, brushed it off as you having no idea what the world was like outside the walls. but you did. you did know because you would go out alone. every week. and every time, you would come back completely unscathed and bearing the most random assortment of supplies.
he had known something was off about you from the start. he just never put his finger on it. it didn’t click until one day when he was watching carol chirp about with the other women in the community. with you. you both had the same look in your eye. some dark, steely glint hidden beneath a rosy film. like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
you slipped up, eventually. mentioned something you shouldn’t have known about, action you hadn’t been a part of. you forced his hand.
“n’you took care of it?” daryl asked after a moment, staring back at him. he didn’t seem surprised — the benefit of forever being wary of everyone and everything in the world. rick envied him of that.
“yeah. she’s not gonna be a problem anymore.”
you should have known things weren’t right when rick insisted on coming with you on your run. no one had ever pushed as hard as he did, or carried enough weight in the community to force you to let them come.
a thousand possibilities ran through your head as you drove with him in the passenger. you could fake where you were headed, find some wayward pharmacy instead of returning to the sanctuary. you could swerve off into a tree, pull your gun on him, take him to negan — just cover it up and say a swarm got to you and you were the only one to make it out. but he beat you to it.
his voice was steady when he spoke. casual and unassuming. “hey, stop up here. think i saw something.”
you thought playing along was the right move. that maybe if you just continued your charade, you’d be able to keep your cover and go on with what you’d been sent out to do. that’s why you listened.
but then you stepped out of the car, and he scruffed your neck with a massive palm and shoved you face-down onto the trunk without a second thought.
you sputtered, kicking and clawing at him while he pressed you flat to stop your writhing. you managed to land a few blows as you tried to push him off before he wrestled a hand into your hair and slammed your head back down on the metal.
the air ringed and distorted around your ears. you only vaguely made sense of the arm snaking around your neck, the crook of his elbow crushing in on your throat, making your every breath draw tighter and tighter.
“thought you were fuckin’ slick, huh?” he gritted, knocking his head against yours, mouth ghosting at your ear.
he felt you convulsing beneath him, choking gags spilling from your lips and nails weakly tearing at his skin. raised red welts gave way to raw, bubbling scratches. the blood smeared on your fingers.
your vision swam, black creeping in on the edges and blanketing over your eyes. and then there was nothing.
the first thing you registered was the pounding in your head. it reverberated through your skull, throbbing down your spine and thrumming in the hollows of your bones. every breath you drew was raspy and shallow, the cool, musty air battering its way against your trachea as it reached for your lungs.
the second was the cold bite of metal cutting into your wrists. your arms were stretched wide and your hands hung limp, fingertips buzzing where the blood pooled. you blinked, bleary eyed, and moaned in confusion.
you were in a bed. in a room you did not know. there was a haze of dust that floated stagnant in the air, visible in the dim beams of light streaming through boarded-up windows. a once-cheery yellow quilt dimpled underneath your bare thighs.
it slowly dawned on you that your clothes were gone, that you’d been stripped down to your thin, flimsy tank top and not much else.
a low grumble sounded from beside you.
he was there on your right, settled back into the cushions of an old armchair with his thighs spread wide, the weight of his stare heavy as he watched you sluggishly drift into consciousness. you caught sight of your pistol glinting softly in his hand, his pointer finger tapping rhythmically on the steel barrel. ice ran cold in your veins.
“there she is,” he murmured, tilting his head when your gaze found him. his voice was even and lullingly slow. he might have seemed at ease, but his eyes betrayed him — seething, molten ire all but dripping down his cheeks.
“the fuck is this?” you croaked, the sound grating in your throat. the cuffs jangled against the metal rods of the headboard when you tried to sit up. “rick? what—?”
he cut you off with a wry laugh. scoffed and looked away, shaking his head like you’d said something amusing. it was unsettling, the way his face contorted — jaw tensing, eyes twitching. he scratched his temple with the muzzle of your gun.
“you’re good… had us for a while, there.” his eyes dropped to the weapon in his hand. “y’know, i remember you havin’ a different gun when we met. cute little .38 with a sleek handle. remember you losin’ it too.
“i take stock of the armory everyday — i know what comes in, what goes out, who carries what — but this…” he said, holding it up for you, shaking it in consideration, “i can’t say i’ve seen this one before.”
you frowned the same time he did. dread curled thick in your stomach once you realized what he was getting at. your lips parted in protest, scrambling to plead or persuade. this is a mistake. you’ve got the wrong idea. anything you could to grasp at whatever shreds of your lie remained—
“no— no i have, actually,” he continued. “yeah… ‘bout a week ago, we got in a fight with a bunch of stragglers down by the train tracks. said their names were ‘negan’ — every one of ‘em. and, what’s funny is, they all had this exact same gun.”
his eyes slid back to yours, tongue tracing the grooves of his teeth. “d’you know anything about that?”
your lashes fluttered as you tried to think, but you couldn’t. you couldn’t think. everything moved like molasses under his gaze. the words rose like cotton in your throat, sticking and stretching as they tumbled from your lips.
“i don’t— no. i don’t know what— no.”
“so how’d you get this then?” he asked, waving the pistol at you.
shit. you blinked stupidly, every possible excuse running through your head and dying on your tongue. “i— aaron. aaron brought it back for me.”
his eyes narrowed. he was getting some sick sort of kick out of this — the way you kept squirming and tugging at the cuffs around your wrists, that wide, shifty look in your eyes, darting around like you were a cornered animal. his lips quirked up and he leaned forward.
“liar.”
“what— i’m not lying,” you sputtered. your chest seized. “if you don’t believe me, let’s go ask him. both of us. you and me, let’s go ask him right now.”
“right now?”
“right now,” you nodded. “yeah, just— just take these off, and we can—“
“nah, i think those can stay on,” he hummed, leaning back with a satisfied grunt when you froze. your face twisted in confusion. or fear. he didn’t care for the difference. your lips parted, jaw falling open and stuttering shut.
“rick, i’m not…” you tapered off, staring at him wide-eyed.
“not what?”
your patience was growing thin. he knew it. maybe that was his goal, but you were getting more panicked by the second and you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. you tugged your fists forward, feeling the metal press into your skin.
“i don’t know,” you panted. “i don’t know what ‘cause you won’t explain anything to me. like, why you fucking choked me out and— and chained me to a bed. or where where the hell we are or why my fucking clothes are gone...”
his eyes fluttered at the last part, shifting down from your face as if you’d reminded him. you watched his jaw clench when your thighs squeezed together, your knees tilting away from him. he met your gaze again.
“y’know, i’ll tell you what. i think you’re a fuckin’ rat,” he spit, the word landing cold and sudden like a glob of saliva on your cheek. “chewed your way in though our walls, duckin’ out whenever you can to go report to this ‘negan’ guy. that’s why you’re here. so you can’t keep running that pretty mouth of yours.”
there it was. your secret, unraveled and stripped raw, out in the open, sitting between you two. his chin ticked up when you didn’t say anything, when that soft look in your face dripped away, shed like a second skin. his tongue dipped out to wet his lips.
“and as for your clothes, that was, uh…” his mouth lifted at the corner. “a safety precaution.”
he watched your nose flare, your lips twitching into a snarl. seems the ‘nice girl’ act was done with. your eyes burned straight through his.
“oh, quit cryin’. y’still got some clothes on, don’t you?” he taunted. he seemed delighted in the way your chest had started to heave, the way your arms pulled and pulled at the restraints, doing nothing but rubbing deep, sore grooves into your skin. “be grateful you’re not lyin’ there naked.”
your struggling slowed when you watched his gaze drop. a dewy sheen had broken out on your skin, your chest and shoulders gleaming in the soft light. his eyes were dark. pale blue gone, absorbed by the black hole of his pupils.
“they’ll come for me,” you breathed. “they’ll come looking for me.”
his eyes tore away from the curve of your neck, sliding back to yours with a glare like you’d interrupted him doing something important. he sighed. “will they?”
your head tipped in a nod — a twitchy, vehement thing that made his teeth ache, his tongue suck at his canines. he leered at you and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. your pistol dangled from his hands, hanging between his legs.
“yeah, well, they don’t know where you are,” he murmured, his voice low. “no one does.”
he stood from the chair with a grunt, looming over the bed and looking down at you. he could see that spark of fear starting to creep its way through your body, like a smoldering ember settling in a field of dry grass.
something passed behind his eyes, some silent, internal dispute and its quiet resolution both burrowing deep inside his head. he nodded to himself, still lingering above you. then, he backed away. stepped toward the door.
“be good.”
your lungs seized. your fists pulled at the handcuffs. “rick? hold on, rick, i— so what, you’re just gonna leave me here?”
he slowed, rounding the foot of the bed. you had your feet planted on the mattress, your legs folded up as you tried to tug yourself upright. you looked at him with crazed, wide eyes, your chest heaving and your knees falling apart.
something sick twisted inside him at the sight — you, all nice and splayed out for him, your thighs soft and open and your skin glowing, your eyes, wide and wet and pleading. all for him.
he cleared his throat. gave a gruff nod. “‘til i figure out what to do with you.”
he forced himself to turn around, to reach for the door knob. a panicked huff escaped your lips, stuttering as you fervently tore at your restraints. anxiety crawled over your skin.
what if he wasn’t coming back? was rick that cruel? would he let you starve to death on this bed? lay there waiting for some walker to wander inside and ravage you?
“you’re not gonna kill me?”
he stopped again, just underneath the doorway. his hand — the one wrapped around your pistol — rose to grip the wood. you watched him tilt his head sideways, his profile sharp and nauseating as he barely took a look at you.
“i don’t know yet.”
you fought with your handcuffs until your wrists were rubbed raw. the rest of the day and all through the night, you writhed around on the bed, contorting your body, stretching your legs, pulling your arms until your shoulders popped in their sockets.
hours and hours of that resulted in several fits of tears, which only exhausted you further. you passed out at some point. cried yourself to sleep imagining all the horrific ways you were bound to die.
dehydration, starvation, being eaten alive, torture…
you still weren’t sure if rick was coming back or not. but you knew that if he was, it wouldn’t end well for you anyway.
you’d seen what he did to jessie’s husband pete. heard all the stories of the things he’d done to others. the more you thought about it — your mind conjuring up gruesome images of him tearing a man’s throat out with his teeth and spitting out the blood, or him covered in gore after slaughtering ten men with a single machete — the more you were starting to believe that dehydration would be a mercy.
the room was stuffy and hot when you finally woke up, the sound of the door creaking open startling you awake.
“afternoon.”
rick shuffled into the room, his steady, confident gait all but mocking you as you laid there on the bed waiting for him. you knew what a mess you’d made of the place — blankets kicked off onto the floor, armchair pushed up against the wall, both nightstands tipped over on their sides.
you knew you looked a mess too, with your eyes swollen and puffy from crying, and your hair tangled from fighting against the mattress all night. though, the way he looked at you, you wouldn’t have known it.
”you here to let me go?” you mumbled, your voice still thick with sleep.
“hah, no,” he scoffed softly, stepping beside you and righting the chair you’d kicked away. he set down a heavy bag and dug through it with his back to you. “no, i’m here to make sure you’re alright, check in on ya’.”
you blinked. you might have laughed if your wrists weren’t throbbing were the metal cut into them. “are you fucking serious?”
he ignored you, still sifting through whatever he’d brought with him. you gave up glaring and chose to stare glumly at the rotting boards of the ceiling. better fucking sight than him.
“here.”
when you looked back, you found a plate waiting in his hands, torn chunks of meat and bread piled on top. he’d turned around, holding it in front of you for you to see. you eyed it warily, turning your nose up at it.
“what, d’you put rat poison in it or something?”
‘aloof’ was what you were going for. ‘cool’ and ‘unbothered’, even in the face of being kidnapped — and possibly tortured and killed, it was still early — but he shut that down real quick.
“yeah, that’d be fitting, wouldn’t it?” he laughed lightly.
fucking idiot. heat washed over you as you remembered the conversation from the day before. ‘i think you’re a fuckin’ rat…’ he paid little mind to your embarrassment, much to your relief.
“no, it’s just food. regular food,” he sighed, stepping closer. he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, the mattress caving under his weight. you pushed yourself away, as far as you could, to avoid touching him.
he pinched some of the food between his fingers and held it to your lips. your head jerked back and you grimaced. “don’t—“
“what?” he asked flatly, drawing his hand back an inch. he tipped his chin to nod at the cuffs around your wrists. “don’t have hands, do you? would y’rather me set it down, let you lick it off the plate like a dog, ‘cause i can do that—“
“okay. fine. just— fine,” you huffed.
you missed the grin that tugged at his lips when he took in the furrow in your brow, the embarrassed pout playing on your own lips making his chest heave.
he pressed his fingers further into your mouth than you’d expected, face twitching at the salty taste of his skin on your tongue. with every bite, he would linger just a second longer, dip in a little deeper, waiting for you to lick the grease from his digits before bringing them back to the plate.
the weight of his eyes on you was oppressive. you could feel them prodding at the side of your face, drifting along your lashes, your cheekbones, your lips closing around the pads of his fingers. you felt them drop lower, emboldened by your refusal to call him out on it, or to even look him in the eye.
his hands kept steady, bringing the food to your mouth without pause, but his focus was on your body, sprawled out limp beside him. the slope of your neck, the shift of your throat every time you swallowed, the sweaty sheen glowing on the curves of your chest, the tense way you had your knees knocked together.
the repetitiveness of it lulled you into a sort of daze after a while. you’d settled so deeply into it that the sudden sound of his voice made you jolt, your restraints clinking against the metal rods of the headboard.
“been thinkin’,” he drawled, breaking the silence. his fingers were still in your mouth, unconsciously petting your bottom lip. he nodded at the room, “about this, ‘bout you.”
your eyes narrowed.
“you’re more useful to us alive than dead, so what i’m gonna do is keep you tucked away here for a bit,” he lilted, his attention refocusing on you. “i promise to keep you all safe an’ sound, but — i’m gonna need somethin’ else in exchange.”
it felt like the air had been lit on fire, like flames were licking down your throat and burning the oxygen right out of your lungs, your breath trapped smoldering in your chest. it scalded when you swallowed, the shift of it under your skin drawing his scorching gaze.
you weren’t stupid. it was the end of the world, and you were half-naked and chained up to a bed, and he wouldn’t stop looking at you with those eyes, and the pads of his fingers were still wet and shining with your spit.
your thighs squeezed together before you could stop them, and shame dripped down your spine when his eyes followed. you felt it curl though your loins and drool from your core and you hated yourself for it. you should have been repulsed. you should have reared back your foot and kicked him off the bed. you should have leaned forward and snapped your teeth around his hand. anything.
instead, you pressed yourself into the mattress and did everything you could to ignore the slick slipping between your thighs. and he fucking smiled.
“information, sweetheart,” he said in a patronizing tone, watching the way your chest stuttered. his grin only grew when your expression remained the same, totally unconvinced. you flinched when he groaned and patted your knee. “what i want is for you to tell me everything you got in that pretty little head of yours about these ‘saviors’ you’ve been snitchin’ on us to.”
your head felt hot. too hot to think. you couldn’t. not with his thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles into your skin. not with how you could feel your panties — the last bit of fabric hiding you from his eyes — growing damp, sticking to you as you twitched. you cleared your throat.
“and then?”
“‘and then’ what?”
“i tell you what i know, and then what?” you asked. your voice was quiet — any louder and he would have heard what was broiling inside of you, frothing up your throat. “you kill me? you keep me chained up here? that’s the deal?”
he squinted, tilting his head to the side. “deal? wasn’t aware we were bargaining.”
“isn’t that what this is?”
his thumb stilled, grin faltered. you felt his palm settle around your knee, tendons wavering under the force it took for him to keep his touch light. you felt it threaten to snap when you instinctively twitched further into his hand. a sharp sigh escaped his nose and he looked away. anywhere but at you.
“listen kid, what i want is what you know,” his voice was low, grumbling. he shook his head. “now, i don’t wanna have to kill you, believe me, but it’s gonna take a hell of a lot of convincing for me to take these cuffs off of you — and seein’ as you’re stuck here ‘til i get what i want outta you, it doesn’t look like you’ve got much else to offer me.”
“… don’t i?”
he went rigid. his eyes dragged back to yours, dark and guarded. you could see his resolve slipping. you could see it fracture where his fingers pressed into your skin, the cracks webbing over his knuckles and shattering up his arm. he clenched his jaw and looked down.
“you’re— hah… got no fuckin’ shame, do you?” he scoffed. but he didn’t move his hand away — just shifted, only slightly. his palm passed over the slope of your knee, fingertips now dimpling on the inside of your thigh. you tensed. “s’this what you do with them? with negan?”
he looked up at you through his lashes and you shook your head. the corner of his lips lifted. “oh, no? just for me, then?”
your eyes fell to your lap in embarrassment. his mocking had started to burrow under your skin, each new cruel jab leaving you mortified and throbbing between your legs. your brows knit together and you huffed.
“so?” you mumbled softly. “i tell you what i know, and you don’t kill me, right? i— we do this… and you let me go. deal?”
heat crept up the back of your neck when you glanced up at him. rick’s grip on your knee tightened the moment you laid eyes on the mean twist of his lips as he tried to smother his grin.
“yeah, and what’s ‘this’?” he taunted, relishing in the sheepish look on your face. “huh? wanna be a businesswoman so bad, gotta make it clear what it is you’re sellin’.”
you scowled. “don’t be a dick.”
“y’want those cuffs off, don’t you?”
the glare you gave him pulled a soft, rumbling laugh from his chest. “okay, fine. why don’t we make a game out of it, then. no more bartering.”
you eyed him curiously as he rose from the bed and turned his back to you. it was unnerving, how quietly he stood there, rubbing a hand over his chin as he mulled over whatever it was he was going to do to you. it made your pulse flutter, your breaths come slower and slick gather between your legs. the metal around your wrists clattered against the headboard when you shifted, drawing his attention back to you.
rick appraised you as you laid before him, pale eyes trailing over where your knees pressed together, the plush line of your thighs where they bent at your hip, the stuttery rise and fall of your chest.
he sniffed, swallowing hard. “rules are simple — just keep talking. if y’stop talking, you lose. easy.”
“… and if i win, you’ll let me go?” you asked, warily watching as he took a slow step forward.
“if you win,” he drawled, sucking his teeth, “i’m thinkin’, i’ll bring you back with me to alexandria — see if you’ve got any use to us there.”
he set a knee on the bed. pushed himself up to loom over you. your brows furrowed and you gave him a look. “that’s not letting me go.”
“maybe not. y’won’t be chained up, though,” he said, reaching over to tug at the links hooking you to the bed. you drew your legs in as he kneeled in front of you, tucking them into your chest, but he wasn’t going to have that.
his hands circled your ankles and tugged your feet back to sit on either side of him. he held them there too, palms sliding up to take a firm hold of your calves, keeping you still and spread for him.
“so, tell me,” he started, “who’s negan?”
your voice abandoned you when his hands shifted, smoothing over your knees and pressing into your inner thighs. your lips parted when he started to pet over your skin.
“he, uh… he’s the leader,” you murmured, breathing shallowly. you could feel yourself pulsing as his fingers brushed lower, tracing down over your skin, inching closer and closer to your cunt. heat rushed up to your head, making your thoughts swim. “s’the leader of the saviors.”
he hummed thoughtfully, prying your legs apart another inch. you could have kicked him away, knocked him square in the chest and battered him off the bed. but you stayed still. stayed pliant.
extra points for you.
“right, and these ‘saviors’ — where’s their community? where are they based?”
your lashes fluttered. “uh, i don’t— i would need to look at a map, i don’t know—”
“landmarks? street names? anything?” his hands slipped lower, ghosting over your soft skin. your brain short-circuited. “hey. don’t go quittin’ already. talk to me.”
you blinked at him, eyes pulling away from where his fingers dimpled in the fat of your thighs. “sorry.”
your words died on your tongue when he pushed your knees flat against the mattress, your thighs twitching where his legs pressed into yours. you could feel his stare lingering where he held you open, and you prayed he couldn’t see how much he was affecting you, how much slick had drooled into the flimsy clutch of your underwear from him doing nothing at all.
“it’s a factory— the sanctuary, it’s this, uh, old, run-down factory. somewhere near here, i don’t know,” you mumbled. “there’s others too. there’s this— this place with like, a massive satellite on it, and a, uh, a chemical plant, or something...”
you hated how anxious you felt waiting for his approval. though, not more than how quickly that anxiety dissipated at his proud, gentle smile.
“that’s a girl,” he murmured. you should have been repulsed by yourself with how easily you were turning to mush in his hold. but his hand had drifted lower again, thumb now petting softly at your clit over the wet, clinging fabric of your panties, and you lost all ability to think. “see? not so hard.”
you jolted at his touch, thighs jerking up, only for him to push them down to the mattress again. your hands tugged uselessly at the restraints, and he bit back a laugh. “stay focused, sweetheart. you wanna win, don’t you?”
the frown you gave him was short-lived, as he trailed his thumb lower, over your seam, pressing cruelly into the sticky cloth covering you. it pulled an embarrassed mewl from you, one that had you biting your tongue and twisting your lips together in efforts to stifle any more that threatened to slip from your throat.
“next question, y’ready?” he asked, ignoring the way your hips twitched into his hand. sensitive thing. “how many people do they have? what’s their fightin’ force like?”
you huffed, glowering at him. how could he expect you to think with his finger tugging at the gusset of your underwear? with your blood runny and pounding in your ears? your throat bobbed when you swallowed.
“i don’t know. i was never there for very long. i know they’ve got— oh fuck, rick—” you broke off. he had pulled the fabric back while you were speaking, and was now dragging his fingers through the sticky mess between your folds. he caught on your clit, grinning when you jumped.
“yeah? go on.”
“i— okay… uh,” you sniffed, trying to swallow down the feeling of him stroking your cunt. your fists balled together at the headboard. “he’s got a bunch of, uh, people, hah… um, it’s like, two— two hundred, or s-something, at, uh—“
the tip of his finger teased past your puffy lips and crooked into your entrance. your breath shuddered. he was slow, deliberate and taunting with how he pet over your velvety walls. slick spilled over his knuckles, all but streaming down his wrist with how wet you were for him.
blood ran thin, circling through your brain pointlessly. it sat viscid in your veins, sluggishly pulsing to the steady pump of his hand. he bullied in another thick digit, making you wince at the squelch that sounded through the air.
you sucked in a sharp breath. nodded. “um, two hundred at the sanctuary. but— but there’s a lot more at the other places. s’lot more…”
breathy whines were slipping through your lips, no matter how hard you tried to bite them back. he could see the filmy glaze that was covering your eyes, the tight pinch of your brows drawn together. you yelped when his thumb came to knead at your swollen bud.
he had to bring his other hand to your hip to stop your squirming. writhing around, bucking into his touch like a novice whore with her first customer. you were getting close, as much as you tried to fight it — your belly clenching, thighs twitching. you could feel it slithering down the back of your throat, curling around your spine, making you shiver.
he grunted when you squeezed around his fingers, walls clamping down on him like you didn’t want him to leave. you were gushing around him, your slick dripping down the cleft of you and smearing between your thighs. it pooled in the clammy grooves of his palm, pulling a wet slap with every crook of his hand.
“there we go, baby,” he cooed when your eyes slipped shut, your face scrunching up as you tried to twist away from him. “doin’ so good, telling me all the right things.”
he pulled you further down the bed, laying you flat with your legs spread wide on either side of him. you couldn’t move — couldn’t move your arms, couldn’t press your thighs together, could barely wriggle your hips enough to get away from his touch. he held you down, held you still, so that he could wring your release out of you.
“rick, wait—” you gasped, feeling it spike through your nerves. his thumb moved quicker, slipping faster over the throbbing swell of your clit, and you sobbed. you tugged at the handcuffs around your wrists, ignoring the bite of metal cutting into your skin.
your head fell back into the pillows in frustration, tears prickling at your eyes. you just had to take it — the curl of his fingers, coaxing you closer and closer to your breaking point, the pass of his thumb swirling around your swollen bundle of nerves — he wasn’t going to let you do anything else.
your core tightened up, and you keened, feeling it surge in like the tide, the wave of pleasure tumbling over itself, barreling straight towards you. your back arched off the bed, and rick’s hand was there the whole time to steady you.
“s’alright,” he murmured, rubbing small, gentle circles into the smooth skin of your hip, “just let it happen.”
the vehement way you shook your head meant nothing to either of you when you came. your orgasm crashed into you, cresting over your head — syrupy and saccharine, heat cascaded through your body, flowing fast as flood waters like a rush of molten molasses.
you felt the way you convulsed around him as he bullied his fingers into your cunt, fucking you through your release. he curled them inside of you, cruelly dragging along that soft, spongy spot that made you cry out and dig your knees into his sides. he kept up the twist of his wrist, steadily pumping into you until you were whining and thrashing against the mattress.
there was a ringing in your ears when he finally pulled away, left trembling and dazed, a hazy fog clouding your vision. you were barely aware of him wiping his hand off on you, smearing your mess over the inside of your thigh, or of him reaching up over you to fiddle with the clasps binding you to the headboard.
relief instantly flooded the sore muscles of your arms. you moaned, absentmindedly, when he gently lowered one hand to the pillow beside your head, wincing at the rush of blood prickling back into your palms. he removed the other cuff and sat back on his knees, looking down at you.
you pouted and rubbed at the grooves imprinted on your wrists. a soft laugh grumbled in his chest. “c’mon, then.”
a soft line pinched between your brows and you looked up at him, your eyes catching on the press of him chubbed up against his thigh in their search for his face. “i thought… you’re not gonna—?”
“what, fuck you?” he rumbled. he grinned when you gave him a shy, sheepish nod. his head tilted to the side, and he hummed in feigned consideration. “yeah, i thought about it. i’ve got a bed at home, though, don’t i?”
you blinked slowly at the hand he extended to you. “you gonna be good?”
it wavered in front of you for less than a second before your palm slipped over his. if you had let your mind wander away from where you were in that moment, you might have been confused with yourself. ashamed. disappointed. but rick had been nice to you. he was gentle, in the end. that was more than you could say for the saviors — for negan. maybe rick was your ticket out.
you’d won, after all.
⤷ oops. sorry if this has too much plot and that it’s like 70% dialogue lol. i kinda got carried away ;-;
the concept of accidentally developing a nicotine addiction after getting with daryl, him realizing this, getting guilty over it, and then committing to the task of helping you quit.
the concept of him plucking cigarettes from your lips whenever he’d catch you smoking one, slotting it between his own, before pulling his cock out and pushing you down to your knees.
the concept of him sliding his cock down your throat, holding you still at the back of your head, and grumbling, “you want somethin’ to suck on so bad, here. go ahead.”
also the concept of lowks getting pavloved into getting stupidly horny whenever you smell cigarette smoke, but hey, he helped you quit!
Baelor Targaryen's unruly daughter getting caught one too many times trying to fool around with stableboys and squires and others of that ilk. He pays it no mind at first, gives you some grace, knowing the budding passions of youth burn hot when first stoked; one or two stolen kisses in the shadows of the Red Keep's halls are the least of his worries. It isn't until one of his men comes to inform him that your sworn knight has just been discovered in your quarters with his stark white cape lying crumpled on the floor and his hands wandering beneath your skirts.
He realizes he's been too lenient with you. Discipline, is what you need. A heavier hand. But it feels near impossible, here in the capital. King's Landing crawls with threats to your honor, wolves prowling after a lamb too stupid to know not to bare its throat. They eye your virtue with foam dripping from their bloody maws and all you do is bleat and goad them on. The city isn't fit for a girl like you. So you're sent south to Summerhall, sent to ward until these... whorish impulses of yours can be properly reined in.
It was thought that the fresher climate and idle lifestyle would be enough to rid you of your earnestness to disgrace yourself, but it seems not. Not a week into your stay, the steward of the castle comes to inform Maekar that he's just witnessed you coaxing some poor cookboy in close and whispering sweetly into his ear.
When you're summoned to your uncle's study later that night, you think nothing of it. You didn't do anything—not really. Back at the Red Keep, your talking and teasing would only have warranted a brief scolding, maybe a few hours reciting the Maiden's prayers in the Sept. But now, you're in Maekar's care, and things are not as they were before.
He sighs when the doors shut behind you, and you brace yourself for the lecture on propriety and your duties to the realm, but it doesn't come. Instead, he only stares and beckons you forth with a crook of his fingers, not pleased until you're standing beside his seat. Your lips tremble as you prepare to spill the practiced, simpering apologies you've come to memorize, but you're silenced by the cold hand that curls around your nape and brings you down over his lap.
"Your father charged me to protect your honor, and here you go, continuing to whore yourself to anything with eyes and a cock," he spits, settling you over his knee. He flips your skirts over your ass and traces his blunt, cold fingertips over the slit of your swollen cunt, ignoring the way you jolt and splutter at his touch. The steel bite of his rings cuts into your skin as he holds you still. "Stay. I have to make sure you haven't fucking sullied yourself already."
