You're bleeding, and Jack just can't help himself.
Tags - jack delroy x reader, dubcon/noncon, smut, unprotected piv, creampie, period sex, rough sex, blood kink, period kink, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, masturbation, pain kink, bit of fearplay if you squint, bit of manhandling, age gap, panty sniffing and stealing, pervy!jack, dark!jack. 4.5k words
A/N - i haven't written jack in so long! but what can i say. i was in a mood. he was supposed to be nicer than this and then...idk what happened. he's kind of evil inside. but genteel, too.
After carefully vacuuming the living room floor, creating the neat lines in the shaggy, rust-colored carpet, you unplug the vacuum’s cord and wrap it up. You tuck it away neatly in the closet, then mentally take inventory of what’s left to do. The bathrooms are done, the laundry is drying. The kitchen, well - the kitchen never needs much work, with Jack being gone so often. What else needs to be cleaned? The pantry could be organized, you think. The furniture could be dusted, disinfected. Never hurts.
But you need a break. So, you wash your hands at the sink in Jack’s kitchen, then help yourself to his freezer. You crack a tray of ice and put a couple cubes into a pretty floral painted glass, then fill it the rest of the way with some lemonade you made earlier with some lemons that had seen better days a week or so ago. God, Jack is terrible about that - he buys groceries, then never eats them. You use his overripe produce to make him banana bread, casseroles, anything - and hope that he eats it through the week. And usually, he does. He’ll tell you that you sure know how to take care of a hungry man.
You sip on your lemonade as you take a seat on Jack’s cream colored sofa, then turn on the television; Night Owls is already on. You smile as Jack does his monologue, how he waves to the crowd and smiles so big, so proud. His big hand gestures, Christ. How lively he is, how wickedly charming. He’s so dapper in his suit with that colorful tie. So handsome, with his dark, intense features. Those thick, strong, brows and those dark, sparkling eyes. The camera doesn’t show it, but he has gorgeous crow’s feet wrinkles surrounding them, and they look even more gorgeous when he grins.
A gentle pitter-patter of raindrops tapping against the window begins, relaxing you. You lay on your side and turn the volume down low, focusing on the soothing noise of the rain. An ache hits your gut then - just a quiet, dull sort of pain. You clutch your stomach and bring your knees to your chest, willing away the discomfort. The rain soon lulls you to sleep, and you allow yourself to rest. Just for a half hour or so.
Jack comes home and parks his Buick in his garage, then toes his leather shoes off in the doorway. He catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, neatly polished earlier by you. His hair is disheveled from running his fingers through it on the way home, his tie loosened and dangling crooked. Jack shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over a chair in the dining room, then rolls up his sleeves. When he turns his head, he finds you in the living room, quietly sleeping on his couch. Jack chuckles to himself, you poor thing. Worked yourself to the bone on his account.
He makes his way closer to you and watches you sleep, how you drool on the upholstery. He stifles another chuckle. You take quiet, steady breaths, goosebumps dotting your bare skin. Jack ghosts a finger across your shoulder, up your neck and over your cheek, grinning at the way you twitch. How gorgeous you are.
His cock twitches when he thinks of being a worse man, of taking you here, just like this. Gently unbuttoning your jeans, carefully slipping the denim down the swell of your ass. He’d prop you up with a throw pillow, one you neatly fluffed while tidying up his home, and he’d bury his face between your cheeks. His big, long, perfect nose teasing your ass, tongue carefully slipping over your folds.
And you’d let him, wouldn’t you? You’d fight it at first, sure. The way you’re supposed to. Oh, but you want it. He’s no stranger to your shy, wandering eyes, your lingering stares. It’s always girls like you - demure and bashful, younger - attracted to men like him. It’s his effortless charm, his age, his power. His silvertongue - how a couple of little words said in the right way, in the right order, has girls like you taking off article after article of their clothing for him. Sinking to their knees, keeping their mouths open all nice and pretty as he fucks their throats.
“Psst,” he whispers, tickling your cheekbone with the tip of his finger. “Wake up, darling.”
Your eyelids flutter open, and there’s Jack, hovering over you. His eyes and his smile are warm, his touch tender. “There she is. Hi, you,” Jack greets you softly.
It takes you a moment to register everything, and then you scramble a bit when you realize you’ve fallen asleep longer than you intended to. Jack’s home, so it’s…what, one-thirty, two in the morning?
“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry, Mister Delroy, I fell asleep. I didn’t mean–”
Jack hushes your worrying, “Shh, it’s alright. There’s no need to be sorry, honey. Nobody’s in trouble. How about we get you some cash and get you home, hm?”
“Yeah, home,” you groggily murmur in agreement. Jack takes your hands in his own, much larger ones, noting how the pattern of the fabric is imprinted on your skin. He gently lifts you up and off of the couch, but a stain catches his eye.
Blood. Everywhere. It’s all over the spot where your bottom laid against, all wet and sticky. “Dear, hold - just hang on a second.” Jack holds your shoulders and pulls you out of the way to better inspect the stain, then spins you around to check your backside. “Uhhmm,” Jack hums, clearing his throat. “What have you got on your pants there, sweetie?” he asks softly, so gentle as he speaks. Nobody’s around, but he whispers anyway. His way of leveling himself with you, so to speak.
“What?” Oh, you. Still so sleepy, so out of it. “What’s on them?”
“It’s…well, you’ll see. It’s not bad.”
Before you turn around to try and get a look at your pants, the stain on the couch catches your eye first. “Oh my god,” you gasp, voice shaking. “Mister Delroy, I - I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what to - oh, god, your couch!” You feel sick to your stomach, seeing the mess you made on Jack’s couch. Expensive couch, probably.
“Oh, let’s not worry about the couch. Besides, it’s nothing a little bit of peroxide can’t fix, huh?” Jack says with a laugh, his attempt to ease your embarrassment. “We’ll take care of it. Let’s just get you cleaned up, okay? Come with me, sweetie. Upstairs, up we go.”
Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders and guides you out of the living room, ushering you up the steps and toward his spacious bedroom, then to his ensuite bathroom. You stand awkwardly with your back facing the corner as Jack rifles through the drawers and the cabinet under his sink. You’re very conscious of just how damp you feel, how soaked you are. God, how could you let this happen?
“Let’s see if we can’t find something in here…” he mumbles, picking through odds and ends. Cologne, toothpaste, rolls of toilet paper. Surely there’s something around here, right? A tampon leftover by one of his dates. A sanitary napkin from before his wife passed.
“Did you find anything?”
“No, not uh - not yet. Ummm…” Jack trails off, realizing he’s coming up empty. “That’s okay. You know what we’ll do? We will - I’ll give you this–” Jack pulls a clean white towel from the cabinet, then spins on his heel and hands it to you. “And you’ll take off your clothes, and then wrap up in this towel, okay? You’ll sit down and - gosh, we’ll…well, we’ll figure something else out. One step at a time,” he smiles, patting your warm cheek. He notes that you look like you’re on the verge of tears. Squirming uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.
Jack gives you privacy to wrap your waist in the towel, then allows you to sit on his bed. He doesn’t mind the blood, no. Not at all. But he’s placed an extra towel down for your comfort. Knows you’re embarrassed and all that, even if you don’t need to be.
“Just gonna toss your clothes in the wash, sweetie.” Jack gathers your soiled clothes in his hands before walking them to his laundry room nearby. He tosses your pants into the washer, but first studies your bloodied panties in his hands, running his thumb over the damp gusset. The beautiful shades of crimson staining the pretty lace edge, fuck. He brings the stained garment to his nose and inhales deeply, his cock twitching in his pants, before surreptitiously tucking them away in his pocket.
Jack returns to the bedroom, where you’re sitting on the edge of his bed. Feet dangling off the edge, shoulders slouched forward, arms crossed. You look at him briefly before shying away, pouting in shame. He takes a seat next to you.
“I’m really sorry about your sofa, Mister Delroy. I’ll take it to get dry cleaned and I’ll - I’ll pay, or you can dock it from my pay.”
Jack’s expression softens into a sympathetic smile. “That won’t be necessary, darling.”
“But–”
“But nothing. I don’t care about the couch, really. I care about you,” he says gently, smiling. “How are you doing, dear?”
You laugh humorlessly. “Terrible,” you reply bitterly, “This is awful. And it hurts,” you add, clutching your abdomen where the ache lingers.
Jack nods, “I can imagine.”
You and Jack go quiet then. In the heavy silence, you feel that pressure building behind your eyes, the sting of the tears welling up. You’ve made it this far without crying, but you can’t help yourself any longer. You let out a loud sniffle, then press your fingers into the corners of your eyes, desperate to stop the tears before they start.
Jack frowns, his gaze further softening. “Hey,” he speaks softly, his voice low and comforting while turning your face towards him. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“I’m so embarrassed,” you choke out tearfully. “This is just so humiliating.”
“Oh, no, no,” Jack soothes, brushing away the tears that spill down your cheeks. “It’s not embarrassing at all. It’s natural. Beautiful, even,” he adds quietly.
His words hang in the air a moment too long. Jack catches that minor slipping of the facade, and quickly pivots, his tone lighter now, “What do you say, how about I tell you an embarrassing story of mine, huh? Level out the playing field a little.”
“If you want to,” you mumble
“Oh, I insist, sweetheart,” Jack smiles, looking up a little as he recounts the memory. “Let’s see…it had to be quite a few years ago now, gosh. Maybe the second season of Night Owls? Back when I’d rely on cue cards, because I couldn’t memorize my monologues to save my life. Anyway,” he begins, “I’m up there on the stage, reading from my cards. And then - bam! I drop them everywhere.”
“...And?” you prompt, a curious smile tugging at your lips. Jack likes to see that.
“So,” he continues, “I bend down to pick them up, and my pants rip right down the middle. It’s on camera one, camera two, camera three,” he laughs, turning a little pink as he recounts the memory. “I was wearing these horrible, silly boxers.”
“What were they?”
“White with red hearts,” Jack answers, grinning sheepishly. You giggle a little, picturing it. Jack’s stunned face, so red and blushy, how he’d clutch the torn seam of his pants and do an awkward little shuffle off the stage. “Everyone sees. Everyone. My gosh, I will never live it down. I still get teased for it to this day.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yeah. It was on air, mind you, so heaven only knows how many people at home saw it too.”
You laugh fully, momentarily feeling better. You think it’s sweet how Jack tries to ease your embarrassment and discomfort, proverbially knocking himself down a peg for your sake. As your laughter fades, though, the shame returns. Jack frowns as he can see it written all over your face, how your smile falls and you turn away.
“Thank you, Mister Delroy, but I still feel so awful.”
“I know you do,” he whispers. He brings a hand to your shoulder and squeezes it comfortingly.
“I bled on your couch, and now your towels. Probably your bed, too. I bet you think I’m disgusting,” you whisper, shying away from Jack’s gaze.
“I really don’t,” he replies firmly, but keeps his tone soft.
“You do.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Jack murmurs sympathetically, taking your face in his hands. He wipes your tears away with his thumbs, but more spill in their place, falling faster than he can catch. “You know blood’s never bothered me much. You remember that, right? When I took care of that nasty cut of yours some time back?”
You do remember. It was a few months ago, and you were dusting a high shelf of Jack’s with just a rag and some Pledge, that lemon-scented kind he loves so much. After removing the picture frames and the vase, you stood on your toes and slid your cloth across the wood when something sharp ticked your fingertip. You gasped at the pain and squeezed the rag around your finger, feeling that awful, damp warmth soaking through the fabric.
You ran to Jack, who was seated on his loveseat in the living room, feet resting on the ottoman so you could vacuum the space there as he read his book. He swallowed thickly when he saw you clutching your finger with the bloodied rag, and felt his heart pound hard in his chest.
Jack thinks about the way the blood trickled down from your finger, the shiver of excitement it sent coursing through his body. He took you to the bathroom, sat you on the edge of the tub as he rifled through his toiletries for first aid supplies. He tried to subdue his arousal at the way you whined and squirmed in pain at the sting of the isopropyl alcohol he dumped on your cut. He remembers kissing the wound better, how he pressed his lips against your fingers for a moment too long. The metallic smell, that warm, heady taste.
A part of Jack wanted to slice you up more. Not much, just a little. Maybe, fuck, maybe in his worst fantasies, carve a new hole in your flesh. Dip his fingers inside, his tongue. Taste your insides on his tongue in the most awful of ways.
Sniffling, you nod. “Yeah, but–”
“But nothing,” Jack interrupts, pressing a finger to your lips. “I won’t hear another word of this nonsense. Do you understand me?”
“Okay,” you concede quietly. A quiet beat passes until a cramp takes you over, eliciting a quiet groan from your throat. You shift a little on the bed as you hold your abdomen, waiting for the pain to pass. It’s always the worst during the first day or two.
“Cramps?” Jack asks, to which you nod. “Yeah,” you reply, voice a little strained.
“Poor girl,” he whispers. He watches you wriggle slowly, as if to twist yourself out of pain. The way your body bends and curves has him inhaling sharply, fiery arousal pooling in his gut. There’s a bit of sweat dotting his hairline, and Jack dabs at it with his tie. “Say,” he begins, pausing to swallow thickly, “Why don’t you come here? Take it easy until we get you sorted out. Yeah?”
“Hm?”
“Right here,” Jack says, patting his thighs. He doesn’t give you time to answer before he’s scooping you up and pulling you onto his lap. He has you wrap your arms around his shoulders, hushing your murmurs of confusion. Then finally, you settle. Hands clutching his neck and his back, breathing in the scent of him - the faint fragrance of laundry detergent, his worn-down cologne. Sweat. His shampoo.
Jack holds you close, running his fingers up and down your legs, soothing you as you quietly whine in pain. Not so accidentally, he nudges your towel out of the way, catching a glimpse of your bloody cunt. Such a beautiful mess you make, Jack thinks to himself. The towel is soaked beneath you, and he can feel the blood soaking through to his bulge. He thinks of you steadily dripping on his cock, that thick, crimson fluid that he loves so.
That salty, metallic scent as you bleed - Christ, Jack’s hard over it. His arousal strains against the confines of his trousers, twitching and throbbing. Subtly, he ruts his hips against your ass, searching for a bit of pressure to soothe that ache. He grunts softly when he finds it, his hard cock rubbing against your body.
“Mister Delroy?”
Shit. You look down at Jack, brow furrowed in confusion. He smiles sheepishly, his cheeks glowing the most delicate shade of pink. “Ah, gosh. See, now this is embarrassing,” he laughs.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, sweetheart, to be completely truthful…I uh, I suppose I find it arousing,” Jack admits. He’s bashful, yes, in the littlest way. It’s an act, and if you were a smarter girl, you’d see that. The crumbling facade. You’d recognize the warmth missing from his dark eyes, and not just fixate on the way they sparkle under the low lights. “Your menstruation, that is,” he clarifies.
“You - you do?”
Jack sees the way his words give you pause. Probably fills you with that icky feeling inside. He notices how your breathing changes, and he guesses that if he pressed two fingers against the side of your neck, he’d feel your pulse racing. “I do indeed,” he says, spreading his legs to press his hand against his sore bulge, all wet with your mess. His eyes shut and he groans, tilting his head back. “Would you - gosh - would you let me - oh, fuck.” Jack struggles through the sentence and doesn’t bother to finish it. No point in asking when he knows exactly what he needs, and has every intention of taking it.
He maneuvers you off his lap with a lack of gentleness you wouldn’t expect from him, and lays you in the center of his bed. Jack crawls over you and kneels, fingers fumbling with the now slick zipper of his pants. “I’m so sorry - I can’t help myself, sweetheart.” He looks almost menacing as he frees his cock, holding it between his thumb and first two fingers.
Jack harshly pulls the towel away from you, leaving you bare and bleeding on his bed. Your skin burns raw, stinging from the scrape of the rough fabric, and his carelessness shakes you. He places one hand next to your head, the other dipping between your thighs. He loves your gasp and the shock washing over your features as he collects your blood on his fingertips, then strokes his cock. “Ohh, god,” he moans, closing his eyes, biting down on a smile.
“Mister Delroy, you’re–” you say, voice breaking and cutting you off.
“Shhh, sweetheart. You’re fine,” he grunts, reaching for your cunt to once again gather your blood. You watch him stroke his cock, now painted red. The blood squeezing from between his fingers. He grips his length tightly as he moves his palm up and down, body shuddering with pleasure. He pauses then, holds his wide palm over your ribcage with a firm pressure, and uses his other hand to unbutton his white shirt, staining it as his fingers travel down. He shrugs it off his shoulders quickly, then roughly pulls your top off of your body, leaving you naked and on the bed. Vulnerable. Afraid.
Jack spreads your legs wide, hands behind your knees as pushes them toward your chest. You can feel yourself dripping, staining the mattress. Jack lowers himself and smirks, kissing your inner thighs, licking the dried blood off of your skin. He could make you bleed some more, if he wanted. A sharp bite and you’d be trickling that pretty dark red from more than just that little slit between your thighs.
He doesn’t speak before tasting you, licking your bleeding cunt from bottom to top with a flat tongue, tasting all of you. Your flesh, your blood. Your arousal. “Mister Delroy - hey,” you whine, squirming beneath him. You try to wriggle away, and for a moment you succeed, but Jack drags you right back. He shoots you a warning glare, eyes devoid of anything that’s not pure hunger, and it compels you to stay.
“Attagirl,” Jack praises, rubbing you with his thumbs. The juxtaposition of his sweet words and the violent way he eats you, the blood dripping from the corners of his mouth and down his chin. The tip of his long, perfect nose is also glistening wet and stained red.
He drags his tongue through your folds, swirling it over your clit a couple of times before traveling back down to push it inside you. He eats you voraciously, losing himself in your cunt. So warm, so wet, so fucking perfect. With every stroke, every flick of his tongue, his craving is closer and closer to being satisfied.
Jack’s littlest bit of stubble scratches your inner thighs, rubs you raw and makes your skin sting. “You bleed so pretty,” he mutters, humming. He fucking loves the heat of your pussy, your blood painting his face red. He pumps his tongue in and out, eating you for his own pleasure.
He’s wrapping his lips around your clit now, sucking on the sensitive bud as he pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them rhythmically. A loud moan escapes your lips and Jack reaches for your face, then covers your mouth. You make such pretty noises, but he wants to hear the slick, gushing sounds your cunt makes instead. His fingers are wet, painting your face in the same mess that paints his. You grimace at the taste of your own blood on his palm and try to pull away from it, but Jack squeezes his fingers, digging them into the hollows of your cheeks, feeling your molars under your skin. It hurts you. He hurts you.
You’re crying Jack’s name beneath his hand, begging him to stop. He fucking scares you. There’s a certain amount of pleasure that you derive from his violence makes you feel sick, and you just want him to be done with you. But he knows how you ache, don’t you see? He’ll make it all better.
“I know, god. I know,” Jack murmurs, ignoring your attempts to kick him away with an ironclad grip on your body. He keeps himself buried between your thighs, that most private place, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue as he works to bring you to the edge. Your orgasm takes you by surprise and confuses you, betrays you, even. Jack uses his thumb to circle your clit, lowering his mouth to your hole to feel you gush on his tongue as he guides you through your climax.
Jack pulls away from you and for a moment, you think that’s it - and then he’s hovering over your body, lining up with your entrance. “Please don’t do this,” you beg him. “Mister Delroy, please.”
“I know, sweetie. I’m so sorry,” he grunts, forcing himself into you in one quick, brutal thrust that sends you reeling. “I don’t know what’s come over me. Gosh, I’m sorry. I’ll make this quick, darling. Promise.”
You’re frozen as Jack pulls out of you almost all the way, then pushes right back in. He doesn’t look apologetic in the slightest as he fucks you, despite his words. Ravenous is more like it. Deranged, perhaps. He sets a quick pace and fucks you hard, bruising your cervix. The blood does little to lubricate with the way he so violently thrusts in and out of you.
The pain is utterly blinding. Your abdomen twists and clenches in pain from the menstrual cramps, and Jack’s assault on your sex does little to help that. His cock feels like it’s splitting you in half as he pounds into you, and there’s nothing you can do to fight it. No way to temper Jack, except maybe a desperate plea. “Stop it, please,” you whimper, begging him.
“Oh, but this is what you wanted,” Jack snarls, his face contorting into something awful, distorting his handsome features. “You wanted Mister Delroy to fuck you. Tell me, darling, is it what you pictured?”
“Ja–”
“Am I scaring you?”
The terrified look on your face is answer enough for Jack as he fucks you apart. Your eyes squeeze shut and Jack feels you clench as you cramp up again and oh, does he like that. He could keep you here, just like this. Use your pain for his pleasure. Let you squirm and cry and ache on his cock, giving you nothing in return.
But that’s not Jack, no. Never. Jack is a gentleman. Jack’s a gentleman as he uses his thumb to rubs your clit in those same practiced circles from before, studying you carefully. Your features do soften, and he can hear in your voice when your pain turns into pleasure. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he coos, drawing in and out of you as he massages your clit, “Come for me.”
You shake your head. “I don’t–”
“Be a good girl and come for Mister Delroy,” he says, and the sharp edge of his tone both terrifies you and makes you hotter. You dread your orgasm, but it washes over you anyway, rocks you to your core. Jack’s awful smile twitches a little as you come, your walls pulsing around his length. It coaxes along his own release, has his balls tightening and his cock so hard as he pulls you flush against him, spilling into you as he groans loudly.
Jack pulls out of you slowly, committing the beautiful mess you made on his cock to memory. He’s still not quite…there, yet. His eyes transfixed on your sex, admiring the way you seep a pretty pinkish color onto his bed, that beautiful combination of his come and your blood. He takes a private, sick satisfaction in seeing the way your body trembles with the aftershocks of it all. His sheer brutality.
Jack looks like he’s straight from a horrorshow - hair wild, eyes crazed. Blood dripping down his chin, down his neck and onto his chest, his soft abdomen. All that beautiful, pale skin, and the stark contrast of your blood painted over it. His graying pubic hair is stained red, too. His thighs. Fingers, and his fingernails are all caked and outlined in dark brown.
“Well, hey,” Jack laughs nervously, and in an instant, his familiar warmth is back. He’s back On, the darkness tucked neatly away elsewhere inside of him. “Let’s see about that peroxide, huh?”
if you enjoyed, lmk! please comment/reblog, send me a sweet little ask or somethin like that. mwah. thank you for reading ♡
She puts her hand on my lips, begging - ‘please, end this conversation.’
Baby Said: ‘Let me taste your silhouette. You can talk between my legs.’
I know you really want to.
Summary:
When you first met Rosita, you thought your attraction to her was hopeless and fated to die quietly inside of you. But it turns out - she felt the exact same way about you.
Though she doesn't quite know how to deal with her attraction to you or the new relationship that it blossoms into. She's only dated men in the past, and she never felt this way about any of them. She has never been this insanely in love before. Tempted to run away from her feelings, silently pulling away from you, she is shaken back to reality when she finds Spencer brazenly flirting with you one night.
There is only one obvious solution in her mind: claim you. Make sure the world knows that you're hers. Leave a mark on you that can't be so easily erased. (Not that you would want to.)
Dom!Rosita Espinosa x Sub!Fem!Reader. Strangers to Lovers. Smut. Set during Season 6.
Word Count: 15,100
The Walking Dead Masterlist | AO3 Link
Detailed warnings and author's notes below.
Warnings: the reader character goes by she/her pronouns and has a vagina and breasts; there is no major descriptors of the reader’s race, age, or looks in general (though when I was writing this, I did have in mind that the reader is around the same age as Rosita, Glenn, Maggie, and Tara - so she would be in her early to mid twenties, but that is not a hard fact); this fic DOES use Y/N; even though most of my reader characters are bisexual, the reader is explicitly a lesbian in this fic; Rosita speaks Spanish and it is not explicitly mentioned if the reader speaks Spanish as well and understands these words or not; this fic is about Rosita discovering her sexuality after the apocalypse - it could be implied that she is bisexual, but I wanted this fic to be about her discovering her true sexuality through loving the reader (so Rosita could be a lesbian or demisexual) - but she sex she had with men in the past was not traumatic, just not particularly exciting; mentions of Rosita x Abraham, including mentions of Abraham and Rosita having sex; Abraham and Rosita do break-up before Rosita and reader get together so there is no cheating; very background mentions of Sasha x Abraham (but in this version, Rosita is not at all upset about it or upset about the break-up because she’s in love with the reader); the reader calls Rosita ‘Ro’ or ‘Ro-Ro’ and she’s the only one who is allowed to use this nickname for her; this fic is set during Season 6, but there is no mention of Negan (I wanted to set this during the ambiguous time skip after the mass of Walkers is taken out in episode 8 - but I did mention Deana and Noah being alive - fucking details); mentions of common Walking Dead themes - death, Walkers, killing Walkers (and people) to survive, gun violence, etc.; lots of Spencer Monroe bashing (I fucking hate him!!!!) - mentions of Spencer having a one-sided attraction toward Rosita and toward the reader (attractions that are definitely not returned), mentions of Spencer ‘flirting’ with Rosita in a way that borders on harassment, implications that Spencer is homophobic/lesphobic and that he has a gross stereotypical fantasy of having a threesome with two women just because those women are in a relationship; the reader works as a school teacher in Alexandria (mainly teaching the teenagers); there is a scene of Spencer harassing the reader in a way that she finds scary and intimidating, (at one point, the reader even fears for her life in Spencer’s presence), but Rosita swoops in to save her.
This is a smut fic; there is sub/dom dynamics - Rosita is the dominant one (she is more of a mean dom) and the reader is submissive (the reader is somewhat of a brat at first); the main kink here is knife kink - the reader gets turned on watching Rosita use a knife while teaching a self defense class for the inexperienced Alexandrians and Rosita uses this to her advantage later; Rosita cuts off the reader’s clothes, and gives the reader a few small cuts with the knife (not major or painful) and teases her with it, and this ultimately culminates in Rosita carving her initials into the reader’s thigh - this is described as painful, but it is a pleasurable pain; general pain kink; Rosita slaps the reader (and she likes it); the reader is stripped naked and Rosita remains clothed; choking kink - not to an extreme and there is no major breathplay, but Rosita does take a hold of the reader’s throat and squeeze for a short period of time; thigh riding - Rosita grinds her knee and thigh between the reader’s legs; sweat kink - the reader fantasies about licking sweat off Rosita; blood kink - the reader is turned on by (remembered) visuals of Rosita covered in blood, and Rosita licks up the reader’s blood after cutting her with the knife; dumbification kink - Rosita calls the reader stupid (and she likes it); degradation kink - Rosita calls the reader ‘whore’ (in both Spanish and English, yay multiculturalism!!) and ‘stupid slut’ and ‘babydoll’ and ‘fuckhole’; discussion of housewife kink and kinks around ‘gender roles’ (in which Rosita is framed as the ‘man’ and the protector and the reader is framed as the more submissive ‘wife’) (though the reader is very competent in protecting herself, and it’s something Rosita is attracted to when they first meet); discussion of the reader being kept in a cage (that does not actually happen during the fic); oral sex - reader receiving; fingering - reader receiving. And I think that’s finally it for this fic.
A/N: I am soo excited to post this fic because it's my first ever fic for Rosita and I have been wanting to write for her for sooo long. I actually intended for this fic to be 'simple' and to be like 3k, but I am actually so happy that my first fic for her turned out to be like 15k and is actually really complex - she deserves it. I hope you guys enjoy it!! I love her so much and I hope that I did her justice.
...
Rosita knew that for most people, there was a Before and an After.
Before - back when the world was ‘normal’. When the world was ‘good’. When society was ‘functioning’. In her mind, that was all bullshit. People had been starving and living on the streets before too. Society had never been fully functional.
After - the now. When the dead walked the earth, after the society that everyone knew, the life that most people had been comfortable with had crumbled away. When, in most people’s minds, everything ‘good’ had died and gone.
But Rosita had a lot of trouble thinking of it that way.
She was one of those people who - in a lot of ways - struggled to survive in the Old World. She had to find creative ways to make ends meet and money was always tight.
(That was one thing she never missed - money. Yeah. Fuck that.)
A lot of those ways involved getting dolled up and schmoozing for tips from men who were twice her age, working late nights at sleazy bars, and once she learned that it paid better, straight up scamming guys out of their ‘hard earned’ cash. Morality was never one of her strong suits, but beauty was. And guys always think that a pretty face is a truthful one.
When the world fell apart, she saw no sense in falling with it. It was just another hard time that she would learn to live through.
Abraham came along with his big truck and his even bigger ambitions, talking about saving the whole damn world like it was his god given right. At the time, Rosita wasn’t sure there was much left to save, but he and Eugene were two more men who liked her for her pretty face and she liked their big truck and their guns - she liked her chances of survival with them. And she was always willing to join forces with someone who had something to teach her.
So she embarked on a mission that she didn’t have much emotional stake in. Not at first.
The first time she had sex with Abraham, she knew it wasn’t love. But, as far as she was concerned, love was a myth anyway. She was bored and he was warm, and that was all she really needed to know.
She was alive. She had some sense of purpose. Her life didn’t feel much different than it had before. In fact, it was better - without the dread of debt or bills hanging over her head. Even if that had been switched out for the literal dead hanging over her head every now and then.
…
Life was once so perfectly clear and simple to Rosita - and then she met you.
Abraham, Rosita, and Eugene found you on the side of a hot, desolate Georgia road, tears in your eyes as you desperately stripped the riot gear off (who they later knew to be) Glenn. You had been trying to assess his condition after he had collapsed while fighting Walkers - his body clearly still weak from the flu that had almost killed him at the prison. Tara stepped up to protect the both of you, using the butt of Glenn’s heavy artillery to smash in the rotting heads before she posed to the three strangers that she ‘hoped they enjoyed the show’.
You pointed a gun in Abraham’s face the moment that he approached Glenn’s prone body. It was something Rosita immediately liked about you - you were fiery, unafraid, and protective. You didn’t even flinch at a man so much larger than you - looked him in the eye and threatened him with a fierce tongue. It was why Rosita chose to approach you, chose to be the one to barter peace and hammer home the logic that you and your friends would never survive on the road alone. That Abraham and his big truck were truly the best option for you.
She later found herself surprised that Glenn was on such a determined quest to find his wife. With the way you fussed over him, dabbing a wet cloth on his forehead after you finally let Abraham hoist him into the truck, checking his pulse every few minutes, making sure he was draped in shade and comfortable. Rosita thought for certain that the two of you were together.
You laughed so hard when she told you this a few days later that you almost snorted up one of the beans that you had been eating for dinner, choking and sputtering on your food as Glenn and Tara gave Rosita a strange look. After you came down from your fit of laughter and regained your breath, you told Rosita that Glenn certainly wasn’t your type - you were only into women.
You and Glenn had an intense closeness because he had saved your life, more than once, and you valued him intensely as a friend. You quickly added that you loved Maggie just as much as a dear friend, and hoped that she was alive out there somewhere. You hoped that his search would be fruitful. You saw nothing but comedy in the idea that you might be romantic with him.
Rosita had no idea why she became so utterly fixated on this.
It wasn’t like she had never met a lesbian before. She had worked at gay bars, she had plenty of gay friends. When she worked as a bartender, Drag Nights were one of her favourite events to work at. She wasn’t just fine with queer people - she embraced them.
Tara was a lesbian too, and she didn’t find herself laying awake at night thinking about Tara’s laugh and wondering what Tara thought of her. Wondering what Tara’s hair smelled like, wondering if Tara’s skin was soft. Wondering if Tara was warm enough and wondering if she had eaten enough that day. Sure, she grew to love Tara as a friend during those days on the road together, but you were the one who was always on her mind. You were the one she couldn’t stop thinking about.
Even more than the goal of protecting Eugene and saving the world. And increasingly, even more than Abraham.
Even during times when Abraham would loosen his leash on Eugene just enough to insist that they sneak off somewhere to go have sex - Abraham would be inside of her and she would still be thinking about you. She would be grinning at him, kissing his neck, secretly terrified that you would overhear Abraham’s heated grunts about how much he loved her tits and that you would think less of her for it.
She could never get you off her mind.
There was just something about you.
Your laugh was melodic, your skin seemed to shine under the bright Georgia sun. Even though your hair was messy and hadn’t been properly attended to in days, you looked gorgeous. You were so gorgeous. You always managed to make Rosita smile with bits of your well-timed humor, and every bit of conversation she had with you was mentally engaging - more so than she ever had since society had dissolved. Hell, probably since long before that.
She found herself drawn to you in ways she had never been drawn to any other person in her life.
And she found herself oddly disappointed when the group found a real home at Alexandria - not because she didn’t like it there. But because after a few days of probationary caution from Rick, the group dispersed. She and Abraham (and Eugene, like a damn child, unsure where else to go) - started living in their own place. You started living with Maggie and Glenn.
And like clockwork, she saw you a lot less often. She worked her job keeping watch over the walls and teaching the Alexandria residents how to fight and defend themselves, and you took up a job teaching the few children that lived in the town as a school teacher - and the two of you crossed paths less and less often. Your lives became less entwined.
And stupidly, Rosita found herself yearning for the days when the two of you slept on the train tracks with your backs pressed together - quiet nights when she could fall asleep to the thumping of your heartbeat and the sounds of crickets in the bushes. Nights when being so close to you had been for survival - but it had also been a privilege.
…
Rosita was puzzled when she walked into the bedroom one night to find Abraham packing - seemingly clearing out all of the drawers where his things were kept.
It was something that instantly put a knot in her gut, though she tried her best to ignore it. She tried to tell herself that this didn’t mean anything bad.
“Packing your stilettos?” She asked casually, posing it as a joke, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the way her voice shook. “We’ll only be gone a night.”
She was referring to a run that was happening soon - one that he would need a much smaller, lighter bag for.
“I’m goin’.” He replied gruffly, refusing to look up at her as he continued stuffing things into his large duffle bag.
That bad, twisted feeling in her gut continued to brew, and she continued to try and ignore it. She tried to stay steady.
“I am too.” She replied, that shake in her voice now more determined to break through. “But - tomorrow.”
She hoped that he would reply in order to say that he was just overpacking out of paranoia. That his PTSD was acting up again. But instead, he said something that caused her stomach to truly twist up horribly as acid splashed at the back of her throat.
“I’m leavin’.” He declared firmly, finally zipping up the bag and hoisting it over his shoulder.
He finally looked at her, finally surrendering. The scared, small look in his eyes - one that she did not recognize from him - finally clued her into what was truly going on.
He was leaving her. He was leaving the house and not coming back. He was leaving the relationship.
Though a small part of her was terrified at the prospect of being alone, something that hadn’t happened in her life in a very long time, she found herself more scared at the realization that: this wasn’t all too upsetting. This wasn’t nearly as upsetting as it should have been for her.
She had found herself drifting away from Abraham for a while. She had never been all too attached to him in the first place. She loved him in a sense, of course. But likely in the same way that she loved Glenn and Maggie and Tara and Eugene. She loved him as someone she couldn’t lose because they had been through too much together.
She knew that she had never loved him as some deep, affectionate romance.
But still, part of her screamed to hold onto him. He was an anchor, he was real. They had been through so much together. They had been a pair for so long. It was difficult to imagine sharing a bed with someone other than him.
“Why?” Rosita whispered, almost afraid to bring the question to life in the air.
“It happens.” Abraham grunted back - short, unwilling to truly explain.
This only made her bubble with anger.
‘No.’ She thought bitterly. ‘Tell me fucking why. Explain it to me if you’re going to leave me alone.’
“Are you serious?” She whispered sharply, more so to herself, angry that he refused to even engage in the conversation - that he was just fleeing without even an explanation.
“This is how I want it.” He added, still refusing to truly engage with her at all.
So now was the time Abraham Ford was choosing to be a man of few words. For hours she had been forced to sit in that stupid fucking truck, listening to him yammer on, listening to his weird metaphors and his winding war stories. And now he was choosing to clam up.
“Why?” She demanded once again, raising her voice louder, trying to force an answer out of him.
“Why are dingleberries brown?” He snapped, raising his voice louder than hers, trying to scare her away from the conversation. “It’s just the way shit is!”
He then moved to leave the room, and she stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the door as she began to scream in his face, demanding answers out of him.
“No, no!” She screamed. “After everything we’ve been through, you are not walking out that door unless you can tell me why! Tell me why!”
She smacked her hands against his chest, trying to force his attention toward her as he stared down the hallway at the front door with intense, militant concentration. Of course. Focus on the mission. Fucking asshole.
Abraham stopped with a huff, grabbing her arms - not with any real force, just to keep her from annoyingly swatting at him as he finally looked down at her, finally ready to give her the answer she so desperately sought.
“When I first met you, I thought you were the last damn woman on earth.” He declared, firm and unapologetic.
A wave of shock went through her, and she went limp under his touch.
Her eyes went wide in a quick moment, they both knew that the other was thinking the exact same thing. It was the truth. The relationship had never been one of fondness or ‘love’ - it had never been one like Maggie and Glenn’s. Their relationship had been one of convenience. One to provide warmth against the coldness of the world. A good fuck to remind you that you’re not dead when there’s so much death around you, right in front of your face.
Before Rosita could speak up, something in her gut telling her to defend herself - her brain screaming to deny the truth, Abraham continued on.
“And I know you thought the same about me.”
He said, finally letting go of the tense hold he had on her wrists - in that moment, both physically and emotionally releasing her. Unconsciously telling her that it was okay for her not to be in love with him. It was okay for her not to be hurt over the end of the relationship.
He wasn’t expecting to be chased.
“And well, I’ve learned to be okay with that. You’re a damn fine woman and I was lucky to have even five minutes with you.”
“Abraham-” She breathed out, unsure where her words were even going.
“But I’ve found someone else.” He declared, charging right past anything she had to say. “And I know that you have too.”
“What?” Rosita gasped, entirely shocked by these words.
She wasn’t entirely shocked by the revelation that Abraham was finally leaving her because of another woman. She had seen him hanging around with Sasha with increasing frequency. She had seen how close they had grown since the church. And she knew that he was too self upstanding to start fucking Sasha behind her back. Of all things, Abraham was not a cheater.
It was the latter half of what he said that really threw her off.
He thought that she had someone else waiting in the wings? Did he believe that Spencer’s stupid one-sided flirting actually meant something to her? He had to know that she absolutely despised the guy, and that she would never pursue a relationship with someone as soft and stupid as Spencer.
“What the hell are you talking about?” She gaped. “Do you think I’ve been cheating on you?”
“No,” He shook his head, as if insulted by the idea. “Dammit - I was hopin’ to make this whole thing easy on you. To make this easier on the both of us so that you’d stop bein’ so damn stupid and just stop lyin’ to yourself. But I guess I’m gonna have to be the one to get the starch of your pants and kick you squarely in the ass, huh?”
He had never before called Rosita stupid. She stood there, gaped with shock for a moment before she gathered the only words that she could.
“Abraham, what are you talking about?” She asked firmly, now well and truly confused.
He was leaving because he wanted to be with someone else. What the hell did that have to do with her being ‘stupid’?
The small grin that graced his lips was the same one he usually held right after he smashed a Walker’s head open, or right after he ripped a particularly nasty fart that polluted the truck in a way that made him laugh when nobody else did.
“Oh come on, darlin’.” He chuckled. “The way you’ve been eyein’ her up - you make it pretty obvious.”
Her?
Abraham wasn’t talking about a guy?
When Rosita stood in dubious silence, Abraham was forced to clue her in.
“Y/N.” He said.
The name hitting the air was like a slap in the face for Rosita.
He was leaving for Sasha, and he - he expected her to go after you?
No.
“Abraham, I’m not - I like guys.” Rosita sputtered out, eager to cover up the odd feeling rising in her throat, the feeling that something was wrong. The sense that she had been caught somehow. “I’ve been having sex with you. What - you think I’m gay all of a sudden?”
“I think you spend a hell of a lot more time lookin’ at that woman’s tits than you ever look at me.” He shrugged in return. “And hell, I can’t blame you. She is one fine-”
“Aye. Stop it.” She hissed sharply, kissing the inside of her teeth while she gave him a glare.
“Alright, I get it. You don’t want me talkin’ about your girl that way.”
“She is not my-” She let out a harsh sigh, cutting herself off while Abraham let out a chuckle.
You would never want her.
But that thought also struck her in the gut harsher than a blade piercing through her skin. The idea that she had been hiding here, cowering in an unhappy relationship with Abraham, hiding from her feelings for you. Hiding from someone she truly wanted to be with because she believed that you would never want her back.
Maybe it didn’t matter if she was gay or straight or whatever. Maybe it mattered most that she was terrified of being rejected. Especially if it was being rejected by you.
There was a pitting silence, in which Abraham stared her down with a knowing look while she turned all this over in her mind, and she hated just how smug he was.
“Shut up.” She spat at him, though he hadn’t said anything, simply wanting to dull volumes that his smugness was hurling at her.
Rosita was now swimming in a terrible mix of feelings - annoyance that Abraham was right, insecurity (something she so rarely felt), fear, anxiety, dread. Those confusing feelings for you bubbling toward the surface. Something she had brushed off before as friendly fondness that she was quickly learning to call affection - romantic affection.
She became even more annoyed when Abraham let out a bright, bellowing laugh, now fully smiling at her. She resisted the urge to smack him, now wanting to blow off some steam by getting into a physical fight. She knew he wouldn’t have taken the bait anyway.
“Fine.” He sighed, still smiling. “You don’t have to believe me. But hell, if a monkey puts on a three-piece suit and believes it’s a man, it’s still a damn monkey.”
She wanted to point out how she hated being compared to a monkey, but she ground her teeth - because he was right. She hated it when he was right.
“Rosita - I love you. I would still die for you or kill for you. Nothing’s gonna change that. But we both know it’s not the same anymore.” He continued on, becoming oddly soft for a moment, making her flex with a small smile now. “And I can’t sit around here waitin’ for it to be the way it was. Hell - I don’t think I want it to be the way it was. I like the way it is now.”
“When did you get all shiny and whole?” She asked, silently knowing that this was the touch of ‘love’ on him - the glimmer of a woman who had made him feel whole in a way that she never could. She found herself oddly okay with that. She enjoyed it, in fact. She was happy for him.
“I started goin’ to church.” He shrugged, throwing out one last bad joke.
Rosita nodded, smiling at him, calmly accepting the truth - he was happier now. At least one of them was.
She just wasn’t sure if she was ready to find her happiness. It was a terrifying prospect - approaching you. Exposing herself to you when she might get rejected. The idea that even if you said yes, even if you felt the same way - she would be embarking on a relationship like one she had never experienced before. She would have something so damn precious to lose.
Abraham turned and began to walk toward the door again, and Rosita reflexively called after him.
“Abraham?” He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “Do you think-?”
She choked on her own words, too intimidated to even ask - but of course, he already knew the unspoken question that she was trying to voice.
‘Do you really think that me and Y/N are supposed to be together?’
“I think anybody would be damn lucky to have you.” He said, giving her another strangely warm, genuine smile. “And I know that she spent a hell of a lotta time with her eyes focused on your ass when you weren’t payin’ attention. So I’m pretty sure all you gotta do is go get ‘er.”
Abraham finally took off then, and as the front door shut behind him, Rosita collapsed onto the edge of the bed.
This was the first time in so long that she had been truly afraid.
Terrified that you were so close, yet so far away. Terrified of the idea that she could waltz right up to you and - tell you what? That she was in love with you? (That didn’t sound like a lie. In fact, the longer she sat with it, repeating it in her mind, the more it sounded like the truth. The more it felt like it.) The idea that she could ruin her friendship with you in one single second.
That almost sounded worse than death.
Losing you - having you upset with her and not wanting to be around her - that would be a living hell.
And those words kept ringing through her head.
‘All you gotta do is go get ‘er.’
Fuck - she hated it when Abraham was right.
Forcing herself up with a burst of anger - anger toward Abraham that he had known about this for so long and failed to tell her, that he waited this fucking long - she rushed toward the front door, only to be stopped with Eugene’s hand on her elbow.
“Hey, I thought you said we were gonna watch Star Wars later. I was only able to locate a DVD copy of A New Hope, which I find to be inferior to-”
“Eugene,” She sighed harshly. “When a woman says ‘later’, what she really means is ‘fuck off’.”
He gaped with shock, enough to let her go, and then he began shouting complaints at her. But she didn’t hear or care to hear what he said as she slammed the door in his face, and began swiftly walking (not running, telling herself not to look too stupidly eager) down the street toward Glenn and Maggie’s house.
She had to find you.
The three of you were sitting on the porch, laughing brightly, chatting about something. You and Glenn each had a beer in hand and Maggie was cradling a mug full of something, and she had Glenn’s hoodie draped around her shoulders - it was a very cozy, friendly scene. For a moment, Rosita almost backed off. She almost lost her nerve.
“My Mama used to call it God's Dirty Little Loophole,” Maggie laughed brightly, adding onto whatever conversation the three of you were having. “You're supposed to keep your knees closed before marriage and you don't need to open them to get behind,”
“Yeah it's some kind of dirty hole,” Glenn snarked in response, earning him a light smack and an eye roll from Maggie.
But then - you noticed Rosita, standing in the middle of the dark street. A bright smile broke across your face. And her insides lit up as she remembered in an instant why she was there. She became flared with annoyance once again as she remembered that Abraham was right about the whole thing.
“Ro-Ro!” You chimed, drawing the attention of the other two toward her. This was a playful nickname for Rosita that you had started using while on the road - one she pretended to hate that she only ever let you get away with. “I actually want you to weigh in on this - if you do anal the first time you have sex, does it count as losing your virginity?”
Of course. You were cheerfully talking about something nonsensical and delightfully distracting.
But in that moment, all she could think about was your lips. The way you so sweetly and delicately wrapped around the words, making something so crude seem so perfect.
She knew that she looked like a mindless Walker, drifting up the porch without a word, not even responding to your question - but she couldn’t deny her magnetism toward you any longer. And she didn’t even care that Glenn and Maggie were watching when she grabbed both sides of your head and firmly planted her lips on yours.
You immediately went slack under her touch, almost dropping your beer as you melted into the kiss, gently moaning into her mouth - both of you feeling the intense heat and pure chemistry that you had both been trying to deny for so long. A feeling that had been building up between the two of you since the moment you had met.
(With her back turned to them, Rosita didn’t see the excited, knowing look that the couple gave each other, even exchanging a soft high five as the two of you continued to share that kiss.)
Rosita pulled away from the kiss after a long, perfect moment - and while you looked at her with a dizzy, vacant expression, your whole body tingling, wondering if you were dreaming, she grabbed the beer from your hands and took a long swig. And then she propped herself beside you against the porch railing, turning to face Glenn and Maggie, who were both beaming with smiles.
“Personally, I think the concept of virginity is bullshit.” She said, choosing to answer your earlier question instead of acknowledging the fact that she had kissed you. “Why should anybody let a man’s dick define them? It’s completely barbaric-”
“What’s barbaric is storming out on a man in the middle of a conversation!” Eugene shouted, shuffling up the street in a pair of flip-flops, his flannel pj pants, and his obnoxious ‘Virginia Is For Lovers’ tee shirt.
Rosita rolled her eyes.
“I am not watching Star Wars with you!” She shouted at him, her words echoing down the near empty street.
“Wait - you have Star Wars?” Glenn asked eagerly, turning to the mullet-headed man for confirmation.
“Yes.” Eugene replied. “But some people don’t appreciate the finer points of well-made science fiction.” He eyed Rosita heavily when he said this, and she flipped him a middle finger in response.
Glenn and Maggie exchanged a look, Glenn clearly asking for permission to go and watch the movie, to which Maggie nodded. Glenn grinned widely and kissed Maggie on the forehead before he eagerly fled off the porch. He and Eugene walked away talking excitedly about the film and then, surprisingly, Maggie stood up from her chair.
“I think I’m gonna head to bed early.” She said, giving an exaggerated yawn - and then she tossed a wink in your direction. “Goodnight, y’all.”
“Night, Mags.”
“Goodnight.”
You and Rosita both bid her goodnight - and then, after the front door to the house closed behind her, the two of you were completely alone.
“So - you’re not into letting a man define your life?” You posed, snatching the beer back and downing the last of it.
“Not anymore.” She replied, giving you a grin.
She then grabbed you by the back of the neck and kissed you firmly once again.
That was the day she realized it. There was a Before and an After.
The time in her life Before you, and then - the time After you.
The time before her world was whole, and after it became whole.
…
Your relationship with Rosita was nothing short of electric.
The first time the two of you had sex was shortly after that first kiss (a matter of hours, actually) - and you had never cum harder than having her between your thighs, pinning you to the bed that Abraham had once slept in while she ate you with a newly discovered passion that had you screaming. (Initially, the two of you had attempted to be discreet, but Glenn and Eugene’s movie marathon certainly didn’t last long after that.)
You knew that the people around town were likely sick of the two of you. Annoyed by the fact that you two were constantly staring at each other, so sickly in love that you couldn’t resist grabbing and groping each other in public, a simple peck of a kiss often turning into something sloppy in front of your friends when you never meant it to.
There was just something so intoxicating about the relationship - likely because the two of you had been trying to hold back your feelings, stuffing down the attraction for so long. And now that you got to experience those feelings so freely, now that you got to be with the person that you had wanted so badly for so long - you couldn’t help but to enjoy it.
You couldn’t help but to enjoy something so good in a world that didn’t seem to have a lot of good in it these days.
That was why you took any opportunity that you could during the day to visit Rosita.
Yes, the two of you lived together now, so you saw her a lot more often. You had moved in with her and Euegene after Abraham had moved out, prompting many jokes from your friends about ‘shacking up’ - both to your face and behind your back. This meant that you saw her almost every single morning (if she didn’t get an early start before you did, or if her job didn’t call for her to pull some overnight duty). And you saw her most nights before you fell asleep, but you still felt like you didn’t get enough of her. Even the domestic bliss wasn’t enough to fulfill you when you were so damn lovesick.
So late one afternoon, after you had dismissed your class, you walked across town to see Rosita. You would deny until your last breath that you semi-regularly dismissed your class early for this specific reason, especially considering that your class was made up of a whopping four kids and they all definitely got more than enough one on one time with you to be well educated.
You knew that she was holding a self defense class for the under-trained, more sheltered Alexandrians in an open field out by the solar panels. If anybody asked, you had released your class early because the kids deserved to enjoy the nice weather and not because you had an alternate agenda.
“You’re going to need to carry a knife on your person at all times,”
She spoke with perfect authority, her voice filling the air in a way that sent chills down your spine. You couldn’t help but to admire her quiet dominance - the natural confidence that she always had when she pressed herself on top of you. You couldn’t help but to imagine that firm, smooth voice next to your ear, giving you instructions about how you were going to behave for her while she took you apart and made you quiver.
“A well sharpened knife could always mean the difference between life and death against a Walker or a person that wants to hurt you,”
You loved watching her work.
She used her own switchblade as an example as she showed the others proper technique - and you couldn’t help but to admire her, a certain kind of deadly heat growing in your stomach as you watched her strong, toned arm wield the blade with confidence, slashing into the air against an imaginary enemy as she continued to spout confident instructions to her class.
Her sleeveless shirt made it easier for you to enjoy the sight of her bronze skin in the bright sun, enjoying the sight of the sheen of sweat that gathered there. You couldn’t help but to imagine tonguing across her bicep in order to lick up that sweat, worshipping her in the filthiest ways to honor her strength, to show her what a great protector she was.
Both of you knew that you were more than capable of protecting yourself. But there was a certain thrill whenever she stepped between you and danger. Whenever she stepped up as your protector. One that you felt now as you were reminded of just how strong she was.
She took another stance, crouching as she slashed her knife through the air again, and she continued to yell more instructions at the class.
Your lust numb brain couldn’t easily take in what she was saying, though.
You simply enjoyed the pleasant warmth of her voice rolling through the air as your mind continued to wander. You remembered visuals of her stabbing that knife into soft Walker skulls and having blood drip down her arms. You thought back to a time during the escape from Terminus when she hadn’t hesitated to stab a man in the eye to keep him away from you and his blood had splashed up onto her cheek, making her angered grimace look all the more heroic as she extended a hand out to you and pulled you back from oncoming gunfire.
At the time, you had been terrified. You had only been thinking of the fight for your life in the face of so much death. But now, you looked back at those memories - flashes of those moments - with a certain fondness. Your mind tunnel-visioned in and you could only see Rosita as a kind of beautiful Combat Barbie, coming to save you.
It was the kind of rose coloured vision that made your pussy wet as you continued to stand there, admiring her as she stood tall at the front of the group, hands on her hips as she spoke more powerful, firm words.
Your eyes continued to fixate on her hands - surprisingly, today she had chosen to forego her typical ‘combat’ gloves. So you were blessed with the sight of her bare, rough knuckles and long fingers twirling the thin handle of the knife around, causing the sharp, shiny blade to glint in the blazing sun.
You almost hated that you couldn’t help but to imagine that blade pressed up against your skin. It was such a filthy thought, but once the fantasy wiggle its way through a tiny gap in your mind - it exploded to life. You knew that you would love how small and powerless you would feel underneath her if she held the knife against your neck. It would be nothing but a threat coming from her - but oh, the things you would do for her under the duress of that threat.
You would love it if she pinned you down and tore your clothes to shreds with the sharpness of her knife, if she ran the cool metal across your skin. Even if she treated you to the sweet, stinging pinch of that knife’s tip in your flesh - just a bit. Just a little kiss of pain to make the pleasure sweeter.
(It was a thought that had you squeezing your thighs together, hoping that your underwear wasn’t utterly ruined.)
Rosita would be the only person you would trust to do it. Someone who had saved you from danger so many times, who had threatened men for even looking at you in a way she didn’t like. She would worship your body with the smallest touch of pain that you needed rather than punishing you cruelly with it. And again, this was a thought that had your pussy throbbing between your thighs as you mocked yourself with something that was probably never going to happen.
(She did like rough sex, but she valued you too much to even consider hurting you.)
You were genuinely surprised when the group she was teaching began to disperse - you hadn’t realized how long you had been standing there, fantasizing about her. You knew that you were lovesick for her - but fuck, you didn’t realize that it was this bad.
Rosita waltzed across the field toward you, and you suddenly felt frozen under her gaze. You knew that it wasn’t anywhere near a crime to come and visit her - in fact, it was probably welcomed. But you were surprised that she didn’t seem happy to see you. She gave you a stern, firm-lipped scowl with tight, stressed brows pressing down from her forehead rather than greeting you with a smile.
Perhaps the class was stressing her out, but you had a feeling that it was something more than that.
“Hey, Ro-” You greeted her with a kind smile and warmth in your voice, and she immediately cut you off, shaking her head as she lifted her leg and retracted the blade of her knife back into the handle with her boot before she tucked it back into the pocket of her pants.
“No.” She said. “What are you doing here?”
Your stomach curled with an odd kind of guilt as she stared you down with piercing eyes. Of course she had noticed that you had been dismissing your class early to come and visit her.
But like you suspected, it was more than that, even if she would never admit it to you. She wasn’t upset about the class she had been teaching or the fact that you had ditched yours in order to come and see her.
Something had happened a few nights ago. Or rather - very early in the morning a few days ago.
When changing over the guard shift, when the sun had just barely been kissing the sky, as she had passed Abraham her sniper rifle at the base of the ladder before he climbed up to take her place, she had made a comment about how she was glad that he hadn’t been late. (Which he had been a few other times.) She was glad because it meant that she could rush home to make you breakfast before you woke up. Your favourite was instant oatmeal with cinnamon - something she liked to wake you up with.
Abraham had chuckled deeply in that jolly way he usually did, and said that he was happy for Rosita, because she had finally found a lover that made her ‘sweet’ and ‘soft’. She had no clue why - but those words got to her. He got inside her head once again. And this time, not for the better.
She hadn’t rushed home to make you breakfast after he relieved her of her duty. And instead, she sharpened her knife and took a walk out in the woods. She spent the next few hours playing target practice with a random tree - throwing her knife into it so hard, over and over again, that she nearly threw out her shoulder, furiously trying to prove to herself that she hadn’t gone soft.
For the past few days, she had been avoiding you, even if you hadn’t realized it yet. She was picking up more guard shifts, teaching more classes, volunteering to do inventory at the armory and acting like she got roped into it whenever you asked to spend time with her.
She simply couldn’t face the fact that after all the relationships she had in the past, relationships she had with men, this relationship was going to be the one to ruin her. In those relationships, she had been so level-headed and detached, she had been able to move on so easily after the break-ups - they had come in and out of her life taking nothing from her and leaving her with valuable life skills.
With you, she was getting soft. She was getting sappy. She was getting attached, she was becoming vulnerable. She was setting herself up to become broken.
With you, she had so much to lose.
Rosita Espinosa - the powerful woman - was going to be broken by you.
“I came to bring you these,” You said brightly, giving her a smile as you extended your hands out, suddenly remembering that you had baked in another excuse to come and see her. You had brought along a bottle of water and a brown paper bag with the other half of a very large sandwich that you had saved from lunch specifically to share with her.
“It’s pink,” She noted with slight suspicion as she took the bottle from you, eyeing it hesitantly.
“It’s an electrolyte drink mix,” You explained. “It’s supposed to be good for you. You’ve been out here in the hot sun sweating all day. You probably need it,”
You resisted the urge to mention how you loved the look of the sweat on her skin - how you would have given her a tongue-bath if she had asked you to. You had a feeling that she wasn’t quite in the mood to hear those remarks from you right now.
She unscrewed the lid and took a few healthy gulps, and found herself thirstier than she was willing to admit, especially when she found that the drink tasted quite good - you were probably right. You were always good at taking care of her in ways that she forgot to take care of herself.
“This is lunch,” You said, shoving the paper bag further into her personal space. “Mrs. Gordon made sandwiches for class today - she wouldn’t stop talking about how she made the bread from scratch. And I would be a lot more annoyed about that if it wasn’t really fucking good,”
After she screwed the cap back on the bottle, she took the bag from you and peeked inside, and her stomach did growl quietly at the sight of the very fat sandwich wrapped in plastic. She had been so busy trying to avoid you that she hadn’t even realized she had skipped breakfast that morning in her rush to get out of bed before you woke up.
“Thanks.” She said, her tone still sour and curt as she closed the bag again, vowing to take a break to eat later.
“Is something wrong?” You felt the need to ask, wondering why she was being uncharacteristically cross with you. Perhaps she was just having a bad day, but it felt like she was angry with you - like you had done something.
She shrugged, shifting her gaze toward the ground.
She hated that she felt the need to avoid you. Especially when she missed you. She hated that something inside of her ached, that she yearned to taste your sweet lips and hear you whimper as she pressed herself between your thighs. But she had to remind herself that the thing inside of her that was yearning was something soft. Something she could afford to have.
“I should probably go.” She said, trying her best to shrug you off. “I have to go relieve Sasha at the guard tower - and I’m pulling double duty tonight, so I probably won’t see you before you go to bed,”
She began to walk away, but your words cut her off.
“So we won’t get to hang out tonight?” You posed, the disappointment dipping through your words almost causing her to waver in her conviction.
She could get someone to cover her shift if she truly wanted to flake off and hang out with you. It’s not like there was some big threat approaching town - guard duty was a precautionary thing, and a lot of people did it because they saw it as an easy job.
Rosita did it to keep herself sharp.
But then another wave of spite crept up inside of her as she remembered that. She needed to stay sharp.
“No, I can’t just ‘hang out’ -”
She swore sharply under her breath in Spanish, and for once it was in a situation that didn’t involve you naked and shoved between her body and some hard surface. You felt oddly scolded by her, as though she knew something that you didn’t.
“I can’t just sit around doing nothing all the fucking time, okay? Not all of us are princesses - some of us have jobs, remember?”
This was the first time she had ever called you ‘princess’ with a tone of an insult to it. This was the first time that she had ever insinuated that you didn’t pull your weight or didn’t do an equal amount of work.
It felt strange - and it definitely felt like it was coming out of nowhere.
“I have a job-” You shot back weakly, shocked.
“Yeah, which you keep blowing off to come visit me like some wide-eyed little housewife.”
She slurred the last word like it was the greatest insult she could muster, causing you even greater shock. Especially considering the last time she had called you that had been with her knee rocking between your thighs from behind, pressing precisely into your cunt while you made dinner for her and she purred into your ear about how pretty you looked in the dumb ruffled apron that Carol had given to you.
You couldn’t pinpoint why she was so angry, and before you could formulate a reply to her dumbfounding words, someone else disrupted the conversation between the two of you.
“Y/N?” Carl was walking up to you, holding the novel you had assigned to him in class. “I have some questions about the book - can we talk?”
“Go do your job,” Rosita snarled at you. “I have to go do mine.”
You tried to brush off the bizarre conversation as you turned to Carl to discuss the book, but you definitely weren’t going to let it go.
…
Later than night, after you had gotten off working a volunteer shift helping out at the pantry with Olivia, you were walking home by yourself, wondering how you were going to approach the problem with Rosita when the solution practically fell into your lap.
You were carrying a white plastic laundry basket with some things in it - a plate of cookies wrapped in plastic given to you by Carol (delivered with that sickly sweet fake smile that always freaked you out a bit, especially because she only did it in front of other people); a jacket that Rosita had needed mended, now freshly sewn up by Olivia; a couple of pairs of jeans that you liked swiped from the community clothing bin; and a ‘new’ pair of boots that you thought Rosita would like, hoping that the gift would put her in a better mood. All that, and some rationed food supplies for the week for your household.
With the canned goods and the boots in the basket, it was slightly heavy, but you were balancing it on your hip and the way home wasn’t that far. It wasn’t like Alexandria was some large, sprawling metropolis - walking from one end of town to the other took less than five minutes, even when you walked at a leisurely stroll.
You thought you had it handled, but it seemed that your arms were pretty exhausted from the day. You had helped to unload a large haul that Glenn’s scavenging group brought back, so your back and your arms were aching from lifting all the boxes - many of them containing heavy books and paper supplies for your future classes, which you were incredibly thankful for, even if they were a pain in the ass to carry all the way down to the house that you used as a makeshift school.
Between that and your mental distraction, thinking about Rosita, you weren’t entirely surprised when your grip wavered and the basket slipped out of your hand, accidentally spilling your goods out across the vacant street.
At least - a street you thought was entirely vacant for the night.
You let out a defeated sigh and dropped to your knees, beginning to gather up everything, just feeling glad that the plastic wrap was on tight enough that it had secured the cookies to the plate and you hadn’t lost your treat. You watched with intense fatigue as a can of your spaghetti rings rolled away - especially knowing that it was one of Rosita’s favourites, and again, you wanted to cheer her up with it, but you were almost too tired to chase the damn thing down the pavement.
But you were surprised when someone appeared seemingly out of nowhere and stopped it with their foot.
Your brief moment of relief was entirely ruined when their voice broke through the air.
“Need a hand?”
Spencer.
Your gut twisted with disappointment and dread as you looked up the length of his body and saw him grinning down at you. You just hoped that those emotions weren’t too visible, not entirely written across your face as you forced a smile back.
One awful thing about living in such a small town - you had to be polite to all of the people living there. You had to make nice with the residents to avoid being stuck behind the walls with endless petty drama. As much as you hated Spencer, you had to put up a front of likeability around him. Especially because he was Deana’s son.
“Uh - yeah. Thanks.” You replied, shoving a few more things into your basket and rushing to get off the ground, hoping that you could make up some excuse that would get you home as quickly as possible.
Spencer was - he was a piece of work.
He was one of the only people in town who outright refused to acknowledge your relationship with Rosita. As much as the two of you engaged in PDA or as many times as your friends made jokes about the two of you being like ‘an old married couple’ - he never seemed to acknowledge it. Not once.
And strangely enough, it didn’t seem to be out of homophobia. But instead, it seemed to be for the fact that he had some kind of one-sided obsession with Rosita. And since Abraham had broken up with her, he thought that he deserved an ‘opportunity’ to date her instead of you. You honestly couldn’t figure out which was worse - if he was actually a homophobe and he was just pretending to be okay with Aaron and Eric’s relationship and Tara and Denise’s, or the latter, which seemed a lot more likely to be true.
Whenever Spencer interacted with Rosita, he complimented her in some skeezy way - he commented on her looks, he called her nicknames that she hated (like ‘babe’, or ‘sweetheart’). He kept trying to ask her over for dinner, kept trying to invite himself into your home to fix things that weren’t even broken (the ‘leaky’ faucet, the hot water heater, the ‘creaky’ floorboards).
He had blatantly said in conversation multiple times that your home would function better with ‘a real man in it’. It had been the one time you had been thankful for Eugene and his big mouth - because he always reminded Spencer that he was the man of the house. Even though, compared to Eugene, with his Star Trek sheets and his sock monkey, Rosita most definitely was the man of the house. She was the one who knew how to fix up things and killed the spiders that Eugene screamed like a girl about.
The last time you had needed a light bulb changed but Rosita had been off on a run, you had made a point of inviting Abraham over to do it, and having beers with him on the porch after he had finished. When Spencer walked by, looking for Rosita, Abraham told him very blatantly to ‘get the fuck off my porch’ - even though it was no longer his house, and Spencer hadn’t stuck around after that.
Spencer picked up the few cans that had rolled away on you and put them in the basket, and before you could beat him to it, he picked up the basket and gave you another unsettling smile.
“Is this going to your place?” He asked, looking over the items and knowing that was the only obvious answer.
“Uh - yeah.” You replied. “I - I can take it from here.” You said, holding out your hands, patiently waiting for him to hand you back the basket, but sadly - knowing that it likely wasn’t going to go over that easily with him.
He was stubborn. And because you were known around Alexandria as ‘the school teacher’ - he wasn’t intimidated by you. He had never seen you bashing Walkers skulls or gutting unkind men when you had been forced to.
“Oh come on, I can walk you home.” He said, a breathy chuckle in his voice. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be lugging around all this stuff anyway. What do you even have in here - some snacks, ooh - are these boots for Ro?”
He gave another glance at the basket and then put it off to the side, back on the ground - dismissing it for now. You knew that you could have just picked it up and walked away, but you feared that he would have followed you home. Eugene had mentioned playing some card game with Tara and Noah, so you weren’t sure if he was there. Even if he wouldn’t be of any use in protecting you, you knew that Spencer wouldn’t try anything if another man was watching over you. He was a bastard like that.
“Rosita.” You easily corrected him, annoyance angling on your breath.
“What?” He replied, confused.
“Rosita.” You repeated, firmer. “She only goes by Rosita. That’s her name.”
You didn’t bother making the distinction that she only let you call her Ro, or Ro-Ro - that you got special privileges because you were her girlfriend. Any time you brought up things like that, Spencer usually breezed right past it in conversation. He wasn’t someone who usually cared about facts.
You felt a pair of eyes on you, and when you glanced over your shoulder, you saw the glint of something dancing in the moonlight. You didn’t know that it was Rosita’s sniper rifle, perfectly pointed at Spencer’s head while he continued to smile at you in that utterly creepy way.
It had not been your intention to wander past her lookout perch on your way home - it just worked out that way. For a lingering moment, her finger sat comfortably on the trigger, heavily considering putting a bullet through his brain for talking to her girl like that - for even daring to look at you like that. She wanted to prove to him and everyone else in this fucking town that her love for you did not make her soft. If anything, it made her more powerful and ruthless than ever, she realized.
But then she considered that if she shot him so suddenly, it might scare you. You didn’t deserve to be dirtied with his blood. And if she killed him, if she killed Deanna’s son, she might risk getting kicked out. She couldn’t risk losing the home she had always wanted for you.
There was another way to get this done.
“Whatever,” Spencer chuckled lightly.
He shrugged off what you had said, and when you moved to pick up the basket off the ground, he very pointedly stepped in your way, causing a harsh knot to twist in your gut as he crowded into your personal space. He continued to hold your basket hostage while he looked you up and down with an odd kind of… lust lingering in his gaze. You always knew that he had a thing for Rosita, but you had never considered what might happen if he turned that disgusting attention toward you.
Even though it had only been a few moments, you quickly learned to hate it.
“Come on, sweetheart, let me walk you home,”
You choked on your breath, strangely enough, you did not feel brave enough to call him out on the nickname and tell him how much you hated it. Maybe it was because you eyed the gun on his belt, one he technically wasn’t supposed to have according to his mother’s rules - or because he was much taller than you, towered over you.
As you took another glance down the street and realized how truly vacant it was - your hand drifted to your belt and you realized that the leather holster that usually kept your knife was empty. Something Rosita would have scolded you for endlessly - but you had been using it to open some of the (miraculously) untouched boxes that Glenn had brought back in order to unpack them, and in your tired state, you had forgotten it - left it behind. The rigid, important rules that Rosita had been teaching in her class earlier that day had already been broken by you.
So now you were stranded on an empty street with Spencer staring you down in an uncomfortable, piercing way, insisting that he walk home with you. He had a gun and he was trying to get you alone in an enclosed space. All of your danger alarms were screaming and you had no clue what to do.
“What time does Ro get off?”
He asked, further reminding you just how vulnerable you were. It was a question you didn’t want to answer because she had told you that she was working a double shift of guard duty and that meant she wouldn’t be back at the house until the early morning. When you were speechless at his question, he reached out, brushing fingers down your neck in a way that made you recoil slightly, tempted to simply run away until you made it to Glenn and Maggie’s.
“I’m sure we could make the bed and nice and cozy before she gets back-”
“No.” You said, finally finding your voice to reject him, utterly disgusted by the implications behind his words.
When you tried to step away from him, moving to act on the idea to simply abandon your supplies in favour of running away (hoping to find Abraham or Rick or Michonne or Daryl or someone) - he reached out and snatched your arm, gripping your wrist so tightly that it startled you, and caused you to freeze as an uncomfortable pain bloomed from the spot where he dug his grip into your flesh.
Panic spread through you, and your breath stilled in your chest. You wanted to scream, but nothing came out.
“No?” He repeated back, clearly aghast that you would dare to speak the word to him. In a moment, he shifted from playing at kindness to something a lot darker - rage painted across his features in a way that utterly terrified you. “Come on, I’ve seen the way you look at me. You can’t tell me that you waltz around here in those tight pants and those low cut little shirts because you don’t want a man’s attention,”
The only person’s attention you ever wanted was Rosita’s.
You tried pulling away from him, but he dug his hand into your wrist harder, making you wince. Your heart thumped inside your chest, and you wondered for a terrified moment if he would be the type of person to stab you or shoot you in the head and then spin some story about how a Walker got you.
“No, I-”
“Y/N.”
You let out a breath of relief when Rosita’s voice came from behind you, and Spencer’s touch quickly retracted from you - like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, quick to rip his hand back from something he knew he wasn’t supposed to be touching. Though she had been angry the last time you had seen her, you found an intense comfort in watching her approach - you knew that an angry Rosita would always be kinder and safer than a Spencer who pretended to be kind.
You melted into her touch as she wrapped a firm arm around your shoulders from behind, pulling you into her and very pointedly away from Spencer, making a gap between you and him as she glared at the man over your shoulder.
“Everything good here, babe?” She said, her voice low, her breath puffing against your cheek, the words very clearly directed at you, but still loud enough for him to hear them.
“Better now.” You sighed, leaning into her body, feeling protected by the arm around you - by the warmth of her presence against your back, and the hard prodding against your lower back that you knew had to be a knife on her belt. (One she would never carelessly forget somewhere.)
Spencer, clearly anxious under Rosita’s gaze, scrambled to explain himself.
“I was just-”
“You were just backing the fuck away from my girl.” Rosita barked out sharply, cutting off whatever bullshit he would attempt to spew.
You would be lying if you said that the power and dominant possessiveness in her words didn’t turn you on. It was something that had been latent in you for hours - since you had become obsessed, watching her handle her knife with so much skill while she taught her class. And now it was back again with a vengeance as she woefully let you go and stepped around your body to face Spencer, rearing up against him as though she were ten feet tall, even though she had to crane her neck to make eye contact with him.
“Come on-”
“No.” She growled. “Whatever you were gonna say - no. Whatever you’re thinking - no. Whatever you think you can do - fuck no.”
She then pointed to the basket on the ground, and with power so intense that it nearly crackled in the air, she ordered out:
“Pick it up.”
“W-what?” He stuttered out, clearly intimidated by her but making some feeble attempt to stand his ground.
“You heard me, bendejo. Pick. It. Up.”
Spencer then moved toward it in jolting motions just as stuttery as his words, and you watched with intense magnetism, in utter awe of Rosita’s power as he bent below her and picked up the basket, and then she snatched it from his limp arms and in turn, shoved the rifle from her watch duty into his arms, which he clumsily took.
If he had anything more to say, he didn’t dare attempt to get the words out. Not while she was looking at him with a tight jaw and fire in her eyes.
“I’m gonna take this, and you’re gonna take my watch, and you’re gonna feel lucky that you get to walk away from this with all your limbs intact, comprende?” She spat out harshly, putting a thick accent on the last word, showing just how angry she was with him.
“Ro, I was just joking around-” He made one last attempt to make amends, and one final, fatal mistake along with it.
“It’s Rosita.” She corrected him sharply. “And you can go ‘joke around’ - by yourself, at the top of that fucking watch tower.”
She said, clearly injecting a double meaning to her words as she propped the basket on one hip and pointed to the tower she had just come from.
“I’m gonna take my stuff back to my home and fuck my wife in my bed - because that’s my goddamn job, not yours.”
Rosita put an intense amount of fire on the possessive words, causing goosebumps to spring up across your skin within seconds.
Before Spencer could speak another word, Rosita put that free hand on your lower back and ushered you away, leaving Spencer gape-mouthed in the middle of the street and shocked at the pure vulgarity of her words.
Which was something that had your pussy throbbing between your thighs as you took a sideways glance at her still very mean, rage fueled expression. It was the most vulgar way she had ever claimed you in front of someone else - and especially after the conversation the two of you had that afternoon, you had a feeling that whatever crisis she was having was most definitely over.
She had a new mission in mind now - a new divine purpose.
…
And that divine purpose started with shoving you down onto the bed so roughly that the springs screamed in protest. But neither of you could come close to caring as she kicked the bedroom door closed with her foot and shed her jacket - you stared at her with lustful eyes as she flipped off her hat as well, causing a few stray hairs to escape from her neat ponytail. She was a vision in a tight tank top, the round neckline dipping to reveal just the right amount of cleavage, her jeans tight as usual with her knife holster clipped to the hip, making her look all the more powerful.
You were settled in the middle of the smooth comforter (you always made it a habit to make the bed - you liked to keep a neat and tidy home, even though it didn’t matter much these days) on your elbows as you watched her, trembling with anticipation as to what would come next. You wondered what was in store for you with such a powerful woman - if she would treat you like a precious angel as she normally did, or if you were finally in for the punishment that you had always craved at her hand.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” She huffed out, her power and intensity filling the room to capacity, making it near impossible for you to breathe as you continued to stare up at her, mesmerized.
It left you speechless - unable to answer the question, your brain numb to the fact that she had even asked you something as you squirmed aimlessly, unconsciously seeking friction between your thighs.
“Hey!”
She shouted, crowding into your personal space, planting a firm knee on the bed between your thighs and grabbing your face with a fierce, tight grip - her thumb digging into your cheek on one side and her two fingers disturbing soft skin almost down into your teeth on the other.
“I’m fuckin’ talking to you.” She snarled, her quiet voice much more intimidating than a full on scream. “What’s wrong with you, are you stupid? Why the fuck were you talking to him?”
The feeling of being underneath her, being trapped there - it made your heart thump and made your pussy ache, but strangely, something inside of you flared with defiance. Something in you screamed to see just how far this would go.
“Me?” You snapped back in reply. “He approached me! He-”
Rosita didn’t care to listen to the rest of your excuses - her anger at Spencer was still boiling inside of her, and she was too tense and fed up from all the emotions that had been running high inside of her for the past few days. She had been trying to avoid you, trying to deny everything she felt for you. She needed to protect you, to keep you away from scum like him - but you were too damn stubborn. You couldn’t just shut up and see how special you were - how perfect you were.
She pulled her grip away from your face, hauling her hand back and swinging her arm to collide the back of her hand sharply with your face. At the same time, she shoved her knee right up against your cunt, making for a dizzying combination when pain bloomed across your cheek and the first bit of contact caused between your thighs tingles to spread through your swollen, aching pussy - trapped inside of your jeans. The combination of sensations made you moan weekly and arch into her touch, only proving how much you needed her.
“Puta!”
She spat out harshly, the filthy word bouncing off your skull in the most delightful way. She could call you anything in her velvet voice and your pussy would leak because of it.
She then reached down to take a hold of your throat, tentatively gripping, not nearly enough to make you dizzy - just enough to truly possess you, to show you that she was in charge. It was something that had you gasping and leaning into the touch, aching for more. And she shoved her knee tighter against your clothed cunt while she gave you another sharp glare.
“You should have been at home! You stupid slut! What the fuck do you expect when you’re running around out there at night, huh? You think the world is gonna treat pretty little whores like you nicely?”
It was her very guarded way of telling you that she cared. Her way of telling you that she had moved you into her home so quickly after the relationship started because she wanted you to be protected. She preferred that you took a calm day job as a school teacher while she was the one on guard duty, the one out beyond the walls doing runs so that you wouldn’t have to worry about facing the harsh reality of the world. She would have killed a thousand men for you if it kept your hands clean and your mind unburdened.
She probably would have killed Spencer to protect you if she hadn’t been more worried about the consequences from Deana.
But still - instead of telling her that you had been working at the pantry, filling your basket with things to bribe her into a better mood with, that defiant thing rose up inside of you again. That thing that begged for her to squeeze harder around your neck - for her to strip off your clothes and fuck you senseless. That part of you that was angry that she had been so harsh with you earlier that afternoon.
“Maybe I liked it,” You choked out, rubbing yourself down against her knee, unable to resist playing the whore that she accused you of being. “Maybe I was happy to finally get some attention from someone,”
Unknown to you, this was just the right button to push. Rosita’s possessive instincts flared up again, and she ticked with rage as she became fueled by the goal to have you thinking of nobody but her.
“Oh, attention?”
She mocked you, the faux-sweet tone already making you dizzy. Your stomach flipped when she reached into her back pocket and pulled out the switchblade from earlier that day - your breath hitched as she pushed the button, flipping out the blade and causing it to glint in the light. She had seen the way you had been staring at her during the class - the lustful look on your face so damn readable. Of course she was going to use that to her advantage.
She leaned down, putting more pressure on the hand holding your throat as she brought the blade close to your cheek, causing you to let out a harsh whimper.
“Seemed like you only wanted my attention when I had this in my hand.”
“Ro-” You whined, arching up, unintentionally making yourself breathless as you leaned into her tense palm stuck to your throat, pressing the seam of your jeans tightly to your clit where her knee was still so firm between your legs.
It was a combination of sensations that made your brain melt between your ears in the most perfect way. All too quickly, your bratty act melted away, and now, you were incredibly pliant under her touch and all too desperate to see what she would do next.
She let out a mocking laugh, giving you a grin that could have cut down a field of Walkers with its sharpness, and your heart pounded in your chest as you waited for her next move.
“What, babydoll? Are you so damn eager for the slightest lick of attention that you don’t care if it’s my fingers or my knife? You want me to slice you up?”
You knew it was insane, but you couldn’t deny how fucking soaked you were - and you knew she felt the heat coming off your cunt, that she saw the lust absolutely glossing over your eyes.
A look of dawning came across Rosita’s face - shock flickered over her features for just a moment before it was restored to calm, intense control. She was hit with the realization that you truly wanted this - you truly wanted the pleasurable pain that her knife could bring you, especially when she was the one controlling it. She gave your throat a tiny squeeze, ensuring you that she could give you exactly what you needed before she continued.
“Oh my god - you really do want this, huh? You crazy slut.”
You gave a nod and let out a moan - a sound that only doubled in on itself when she placed the cool blade flat against your cheek, beginning to oh-so-slightly skim the sharp edge along your soft skin.
“Hmm…” She said, as though truly contemplating. “No, I can’t mark up this pretty face.”
Then she moved the knife downward, and you let out a sharp gasp when you felt it press under the thin strap of your tank top. You were wearing it under a loose flannel, which had mostly fallen off your shoulders in your haste to get to the bed and was now tangled around your elbows. You hadn’t put on a bra that morning, as the only good one you had needed a hole sewed up in it, and you knew that your lust-hardened nipples were more than visible through the thin fabric of your tank top.
“Maybe… here?” She grinned at you, pretending to be indecisive when she was the most sure-minded person that you knew.
You let out a loud, rattling moan when she yanked the knife upward, tugging it through the fabric of the strap, cutting it completely loose and free from your body. This left only your shoulder bare and didn’t even mark your skin, but the act of her cutting off your clothes felt so erotic to you that your blood was thumping even harder through your veins. You couldn’t hold yourself back from grinding even harder against her knee, humping her like a bitch in heat as you panted harshly into the air, gasping for breath and becoming utterly overwhelmed with lust.
“I shouldn’t even let you have clothes,”
She whispered furiously, skimming the tip of the knife along your cleavage, barely pressing it down, leaving behind just a tiny sting where the utmost point scraped across your skin - just enough to leave you buzzing and arching up into the touch. By the time she let go of your throat, passing off the knife into her other hand to place it under the other strap, you were panting earnestly, watching her with intense rapture.
“I should just keep you here, in this room, naked. I should keep you in a fucking cage so that scum like Spencer can never even look at you,”
Her words alone made your clit practically vibrate between your thighs, utterly entranced by the idea of being a caged whore for her.
She punctuated this point by ruining the other strap, making quick work of it. So quick that the tip of the knife left the tiniest little indenture on your shoulder, one so small that it drew up the barest little droplet of blood. Of course, she was eager to lean down and tongue over it, moaning into your skin as she sucked this small trace of blood down, making you shove your fingers into her hair and moan loudly in return.
“Rosita, please!”
“Say that you’re mine.” She demanded, her breath becoming airy too, showing that you definitely weren’t the only one affected by this.
“I’m yours,”
You were her mindless puppet now, and you easily complied with the demand. You absolutely loved the feeling of the words on your tongue while you looked into her dark eyes, loving the honey sweet madness that danced there - something that was eventually going to drive you insane but made you feel perfectly at home for now.
“Again!” She barked.
The power was swallowing her whole, but she couldn’t help it. If she had you, she was capable of anything.
“I’m yours!” You replied, louder this time, more desperate.
“What the fuck were you thinking, huh?”
She posed, moving to straddle you across your thighs, sadly removing her knee from between your legs and taking away the thing you had to hump against. She pinned you to the bed with her body weight while she brought the knife to the top of your shirt, slicing into the fabric and quickly tearing it apart, revealing your heaving breasts - your nipples pebbled tight with lust.
“Going out after dark, going out alone - are you fucking stupid?”
Stupidly, as she accused you of being, you thought this was actually a question that required you to answer.
“I thought-” You began, but she sharply cut you off, pressing the blade to your lips in a way that made you immediately freeze up, letting out a whimper.
“That’s it! That’s the whole fucking problem!” She hissed in return. “A dumb slut like you shouldn’t be allowed to think. You’re just a stupid little fuckhole. You should know your place.”
You began panting harshly again as she ran the knife down across your neck - just barely skimming the blade across your skin as she ran it down your chest and over the mounds of your breasts, teasing you as your panting became more intense with anticipation. The whole time, she stared you down with a very certain, serious gaze. You felt so delightfully trapped underneath her - there’s no other place in the world you would have rather been.
“Do you know your place?” Rosita asked, utterly serious.
You nodded in quick jolts, believing that she didn’t want you to speak again.
“Then tell me.”
“I’m yours.” You babbled out again, loving to say it, knowing it was an answer she liked to hear.
“And?” She prompted.
With your brain so focused on the sharp edge running across your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and your cunt throbbing between your thighs, you had to rack your brain for what felt like a moment too long, desperately looking for the answer.
“I’m - I’m a stupid fuckhole,” You stuttered out.
This revelation earned you the end of your teasing - Rosita finally, precisely, dipped the end of the knife against your breast, making a small, sharp cut right above your nipple. Something no bigger than a paper cut that leaked the smallest amount of blood - a cut that likely wouldn’t even leave a scar.
Still, the feeling made you moan like a whore as you arched up wildly, the endorphins driving your body wild. She didn’t leave you hanging for long, immediately dipping her head down to tongue along the cut, not letting the blood escape her as she laved over the small cut before she engulfed your tit completely into her mouth. She sucked so harshly on the flesh, devouring you in a way that made you moan even louder and thrash underneath her.
You didn’t have room to be upset at the fact that she didn’t linger there for long, because she began to descend down your body with more wet, open-mouthed kisses. She even threw in a few harsh, sucking bites - clearly determined to mark you, even if it was in places that nobody would see. Your thighs shook with anticipation and your throat became choked off in your own spit. Especially when she reached for your jeans and was absolutely merciless in ridding them from your body, using her knife to desomate the button in such a harsh way that it clinked on the floor somewhere.
In the back of your mind, you were thankful that you had picked up those new pairs of jeans. But that ghost of a thought completely dissolved off as she ripped the denim off you, her patience clearly thin and growing thinner by the second. She then took her knife to the leg hole of your underwear at your hip - proceeding to completely cut them off your body. She was forced to peel the scraps off you with how wetly it was stuck to your pathetically hot, overwhelmed cunt. Something that both turned you on a little bit more.
She swore under her breath as she was faced with the sight - your pussy now freely leaking onto the bed, absolutely throbbing, clearly so utterly needy for her.
Eye level with your weeping gash, you thought for certain that she wouldn’t hesitate to dive in. You thought that she would want to make an example out of forcing orgasms out of you until you cried just to prove how much you needed her. And you were surprised when she rose up on her knees, locking eyes with you once again.
“You really wanna be mine?” She asked, a surprising timidness creeping into her voice.
“Of course,” You replied, a sex-addled warbling in your tone that made it sound like you had been thoroughly fucked even though she hadn’t touched you yet.
“You trust me?” She wondered quietly.
You had to wonder why she even asked the question, but you gave your most honest answer.
“More than anything in the world, Ro.”
It was a passionate declaration on your part - one that made her entirely certain about her next move.
She grabbed the meat of your inner thigh with her left hand, pinning your leg down to the bed and forcing you open in a way that made you think her fingers or her tongue were coming next. You received a delightful shock when she took the knife in her right hand and brought the tip of it to the soft, delicate flesh of your inner thigh with intense precision and certainty.
Sharp stings of pain ran up your body from the place where she dug the knife into your skin, and you began to moan.
It wasn’t even close to the worst pain you had ever felt, and with the lustful heat already so intense inside of you, your body couldn’t help but to interpret this as the most glorious kind of pain. Especially with the feeling of her hand on your thigh, the knowledge that she was the one doing this to you - it certainly didn’t feel wrong. In fact - it felt so damn right.
If she hadn’t been holding you down so firmly, you certainly would have been writhing under her. You knew that your pussy was leaking even more, and the sight of your hole pulsing and clenching around nothing with utter need was the only thing that broke her concentration even slightly. It was lucky that she finished up quickly, and didn’t take intense genius to partake in what she needed to do.
All too soon, she removed the knife from your skin, leaving you aching with the dull aftershocks of the sweet pain. You choked out another moan when she lifted the now red-soaked tip to her mouth and licked your blood off it. She hummed with pride at the taste, feeling utterly content as she looked down at the modestly sized but very clear sight of her initials now carved into your thigh.
You were marked as hers forever now.
“Ro, Ro, please-”
You moaned out, now somehow more desperate than ever, shaking with need, absolutely desperate for her to touch you. She placed the knife on an empty spot beside you, abandoning it for now, very tempted to never wash it again now that it was blessed with your blood.
“Hey, shh. I’ve got you,” She said, her voice dropping low in a perfectly delicious way. “You’re all mine now.”
She got low on her stomach once again, propping herself between your legs to collect her prize. She opened her mouth and swiped her tongue across your inner thigh, making the wounds sting even fiercer as she licked up the blood that was freely leaking down onto the bed (mentally vowing that she would bandage you up properly later). And then, she finally turned her head and used that copper tinted tongue to make a greedy swipe along your swollen, untouched cunt - a move that made you moan and arch into her as a lust that had been festering in you all day was finally working to be released.
She didn’t hesitate from there - you were hers now. Utterly, undeniably hers, and no girl of hers was going to leave her bed unsatisfied.
She pinned your knees to the bed wide open, careful not to dig her fingers into the freshly cut skin, still admiring her work out of the corner of her eye and absolutely loving it. She latched her lips into your mound and began jabbing her tongue against your swollen clit - sucking the swollen bead intensely and loving every wrecked noise you let out. Loving the feeling of your heartbeat throbbing under her lips, loving the way you kept desperately trying to buck up into her touch even though your body was already too worn out to do so.
You could do little more than lay there and take it as she opened her jaw wide and laved her tongue over you, drinking up as much of your wetness as possible, intent to truly devour you. She loved how your sweetness mixed with your tinny blood on her tongue - both so sharp and bitter and so utterly you, your essence now absolutely entrenched in her veins, part of you inside of her that would never be able to be washed away.
She was marked just as deeply as she had marked you.
Truthfully - Rosita knew she had been marked by you since the day she had first laid eyes on you.
It was likely why she was so determined to leave a lasting scar on you - so determined to have proof that you were hers. It was why she was driven so mad by the idea of another man even looking at you when she had barely been bothered by him flirting with her for weeks before that. She wanted to protect you from the horrors of the world, she wanted to keep you high on a pedestal where nothing could ever reach you.
She wanted to crawl inside of you to have your warmth constantly surrounding her because the touch of a man had never compared for her. It had never even come close to this.
She wanted to bathe in your cunt and the pretty sounds you made whenever she fucked you like this. She wanted to own you the same way that the earth owns the sun - not in truth, but in the belief that it could be possible while bathing in that perfect warmth without completely burning up.
“Please, please, please-”
You chanted, humping yourself mindlessly against her face while she selfishly sucked on your clit, not yet with true intent to make you cum, but simply enjoying your taste - simply bathing in that warmth.
But then she was reminded of her job, reminded of her sacred duty to you. So she took one of her hands off your knee, bringing her fingers - slightly calloused, strong from all the hard work she did to protect the community, to protect you, firm from all the time she spent wielding knives and working the trigger of a gun. And she didn’t hesitate to slide those fingers inside of you while she tongued furiously over your clit. She finger-fucked you wetly, causing intense, filthy sounds to resonate through the room while you gasped for air.
“Rosita!”
She hummed against your clit at the pure enjoyment of her name on your lips, and it was those small vibrations that sent you hurdling over the edge, bringing your orgasm crashing down over you.
You arched up off the bed and flooded around her fingers as you went near-silent, absolutely breathless while your body was rocked by the impossible sensation - your cunt now smeared with blood as your wounds continued to leak freely. Rosita leaned in and tongued over the wound again, enjoying another coppery mouthful with a heady moan of her own as she continued to finger you through your orgasm.
When she finally pulled away, your heart throbbed at the sight of her - her chin covered in your wetness, her dark hair wild and falling from its once neat ponytail, her lips covered in a trace of red that was more perfect than any lipstick you could have ever imagined. You couldn’t help but to smile at her as you pulled her in for a kiss, savouring the taste of yourself on her tongue.
…
She took the time to bandage your leg nicely before the two of you went to sleep. The simple kiss that she laid on top of the bandage meant more to you than any complex words she could have spun.
You were truly hers now. And there was no running from that.
…
The next day when you went to visit her as she prepared for a run - oddly enough, one that would have Spencer on the crew - there was a distinct soreness to your gait. One that made it look like you had just gotten off a very long horse ride as you tried not to rub your sore inner thigh up against your other leg while you walked. Spencer gave you a strange look as you bid Rosita good luck on the run and gave her a long, heated kiss on the mouth - but both of you ignored him.
...
A/N: Please keep in mind, this is a oneshot, and there will not be a continuation or a 'Part 2'. This story is complete as it is, so if you are going to comment, please only comment about the content that has already been written instead of asking for more.
If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging to show your appreciate, or check out more of my writing on my Walking Dead Masterlist. Happy reading!
a/n: wait okay i didn't mean to fall down this rabbit hole but roose bolton can get it i dont really care. genuinely sometimes i forget that hes a bad... bad bad bad man. he has that flavor of bad thats just so alluring though i cant resist. i forget that the boltons often torture people for fucks and giggles but rewatching the scene where roose just fucks with jamies head for no reason other than thinking it might be funny made me think to what lengths would he go for something he actually wants. warning that its unedited and unplanned and this is more or less a train of thought fic.
summary: he had to have you. whatever it takes.
warning: REALLY explicit, major dubious consent, honestly headed toward straight noncon. very problematic trope of being forced to fuck but then enjoying it. forced marriage. id say dark roose but lowkey this is pretty in character for this bad bad bad man bad man. bad man.
Your heart raced out of your chest, fear even threatening to bubble and explode out of your throat. You almost got away. You nearly escaped. And here you were, tackled into the mud just by the river by men who wanted to hurt you. Hurt you and whatever was left of your family.
The men who whispered taunts in your ear as they tied your hands behind your back laughed. These were the same men who just two days ago invited the woman who you call mother and the man who was like a brother to you into their home to feast and murdered them.
You knew they'd send out a hunting party after you. But you thought swimming in the water might throw them off your scent. You weren't so lucky.
And as they dragged you back, the words of those men rang ominously through your head, "It's too bad the lord wants her untouched. I'd very much like to touch this one."
A lurking feeling told you that you'd probably have preferred to fall into the river and crack your head open on some jagged rock than find out what use the Lord of the Dreadfort had for you.
------------------
"What happens if I refuse," You asked, lifting your chin in defiance, as much defiance as you could manage with your arms tied behind your back.
Roose tilted his head at you almost like he was amused that you'd even think you have a say in the matter in the first place. "Then I'll put a bastard baby in you," he responded, his frankness and lack of shame sending cool shivers down your back. "And once the bastard is born I'll put another in you."
You couldn't help the frustrated tears that pooled in your eyes and you ripped your gaze away from him, fear bubbling in your chest and making you feel sick.
"Whore of Winterfell, or Lady Bolton. It's your decision, love."
Ever since that conversation you had pondered how likely it is you'd make it even a few miles before you were captured, either by Bolton hunters or the Ironborn. Either would be unpleasant. You wondered if you could find a way to just be done with it all and join your ward family in the seven heavens rather than fight. But you knew you could never bring yourself to. You were one of the living, through and through. You had to run.
And plan, you did, but no opportunity came. It was only a matter of time before you were put in a pretty white dress and brought under a Godswood to speak your vows to the man who betrayed your true king.
All you could think was why. Why cant he just let you go. You have no legitimate claim that could threaten him. You're not a stark. You're just a girl. You don't come from a large family. Not one of influence. There are no banners to raise. No substantial actions you could take against the new wardens of the north. You were more likely to die trying to run north than you were to be any kind of threat.
------------------
It wasn't like Roose to hold affections for any particular person. It was rare for him to even feel a vague sense of fondness towards anyone. A person is useful and competent. If they aren't then at best they are a nuisance that he could do without, at worst a threat to the Bolton name.
But you.
You were every bit as much a fool as the man who took you in as a ward, and that same mans son who grew up with you. You fretted over honor and doing the right thing when your enemies would not pay a second thought. You argued in favor of the late Queen Talisa's insistence on helping both Northern and Royal forces, allocating countless coppers toward medicating the enemy.
You aggravated Roose to no end when you first began to speak out. And yet he found that his eyes would always meet yours, rake downward against his will really. And though it only added to his aggravation, he brushed those feelings aside as the natural desires of a man.
He, in no way, found you difficult to gaze upon. It was infuriating, even more so that you seemed to understand the effect you had on men, flirting about with the son of Karstark and joking crudely with the men as if you weren't a lady to be respected.
And yet he found a stirring in him when you'd make an innuendo that was a little too risque.
He soon found it difficult to not think of you. Especially when you, the beautiful fool, revealed yourself to be of a sharper mind than even the King in moments.
"I love Talisa, truly, but think about it, Robb. You may be winning battles right now. But if you become too close to her, your closest advisors may falter. You risk losing the war."
"We have little food to sustain the rest of the camp, perhaps it'd do the Northern cause some good to do something about the overflowing kennels. As distasteful as it is to execute so many."
"Karstark will be avenged if you go through with this, please Robb. His forces make up a third of ours. Think. Think about it, I beg you."
Roose was irked by the fact that he agreed with you on more occasions than not, but he was impressed nevertheless. And it only kept you on his mind more. No, it wasn't love, Roose was sure of it, it erred more on the side of an intrigue that escalated to the point of near obsession. You were, after all, young, beautiful, thoughtful, and you held a level head. More strong than his first wife, less stiff and rigid than his second. More alluring and exciting than both.
The way Roose saw it, Robb Stark was becoming more dangerous to the interests of the North, growing increasingly reckless as the war went on. It was really his duty to usurp the so called King in the North, whod surely lead all the great Northern Houses to extinction if this masquerade continued on. You, however, would be a great loss if you were to drown alongside the wolf.
A great loss, indeed. Not to any higher purpose, you were not from any significant house. No, you just deserved to live. It baffled Roose to know he felt that way about any one person. But he reasoned it's simply because he wants you for himself. His pretty little wife — you'd fit that role so well.
He even remembered the way the old Lord Frey cackled when he stated his intentions with you.
"Marry any of my daughters and I will give you her weight in silver, My Lord. An offer of good faith and my grandson shall become Warden of the North."
"I'm honored by the offer, believe me. But I already have a prize that I've set my eyes on."
Frey's eyebrows arched in amusement.
"The Stark Ward," Bolton answered the unspoken question.
And the old man laughed, harder than a man his age should be able to, and sure enough his joy was cut short by a few uncouth coughs. "Pretty slut. I cannot say I blame you, Lord Bolton. I'm embarrassed I didn't think to take that pretty thing as my spoils before you did."
Roose offered a polite smile and hum, "I'll wed one of your children or perhaps grandchildren to whatever child I will have with my new wife."
Frey chuckled, nodding, "Hm, expect me to remember such a promise, my lord..." Then with a sardonic smirk, the lecherous old man spoke again, "Eh, I assume you aren't the type of man to like to share, are you, Lord Bolton."
And Roose's smile dropped into a hard glare. Frey laughed again, waving him off.
"A joke," he reassured, "Alright. After we kill the boy and his mum, you keep the whore. I cant wait to see how you deign to tame the bitch."
------------------
The very same halls you grew up in echoed terribly as your husband led you to the chambers you would share. The Lords chambers. You remember running to this very room to pester your Lord and Lady, sometimes Sansa or her older brother running alongside you.
Lord Bolton hardly spoke a word to you. All the better, for you could not bear to look at him. All those months of sitting across him as both of you counseled the proclaimed King in the North, and you thought you knew the man. You even admired him, vied for his approval. You thought him to be intelligent, more clear headed than the men that are easily driven by anger or lust and other vices of men. You'd smile to yourself on the occasions he'd agree with you or appear to approve of your advise.
To be honest, you thought Lord Bolton had no such love or affection toward you, especially in the very beginning when he wouldn't even stop to regard you, or he'd clearly speak over you, brush you aside, advise your king the opposite of the words you'd spoken. You thought he saw you as a mere child, playing at king and hand like you and Robb would as babes.
Now you think he really must have hated you. You wonder how long he hated Robb, and all the Starks, all their allies. But you, he must have hated you especially. Why he would feel the need to subject you to the greatest torture of living with him, being bred by him, carrying child after child, you wondered why why why. Why does he hold so much resentment toward a young girl. He must be a sad man.
You suddenly realized he was staring at you, watching your teary eyes, your clenched jaw, your shaky breath. You stared him in his cold eyes, defiant. Though you knew it was useless. You knew what would come next. He made it clear.
Whore of Winterfell, or Lady Bolton.
Was there any difference?
For Lady Bolton, the children you bear him would be heirs rather than bastards. For Lady Bolton, you'd have a title, your "honor" in tact. But everything that mattered would remain the same. Youd take him nightly. You could only hope for him to cease his visits once a babe has taken to your belly
"Lady Bolton," your husband commanded your attention.
You faced him, inches away from the bed. He towered over you and you did your best at a feeble attempt to not let him intimidate you. You were scared. You wanted to be strong but the thought of what was to come next was scaring you. There's no escape.
"Lord Bolton," you replied, nothing but spite in your tone.
He breathed a humorous scoff, shaking his head slightly, "Undress yourself," he said, barely above a whisper, challenging you by tilting his head to the side. His eyes were so cold, barely feeling. You'd not be surprised if he told you he wasn't human.
Swallowing, you began unlacing your dress, attempting to remain hard as steal. But a tear finally trickled down your face when his hand reached up to cup it.
Your fingers stalled to a halt when he leaned in to kiss the tear, an action that would be comforting from any other man but you knew he meant to mock you. This was meant to be humiliating. He doesn't care for you. He kisses your tears away to remind you he doesn't care. He might even like it. Stop crying.
But you couldn't. You squeaked out a small sob as his lips came down to meet yours, hungry and demanding. Your shaky breath let out a heavy sigh through your nose and the feeling of fear strangely extinguished from your chest for a moment. Instead, your chest rose and you met him in his kiss.
His lips were surprisingly soft, his tongue felt dirty in your mouth but you couldn't explain why you didn't want to bite it off and spit it out. Instead you felt helpless and you let his tongue roam your mouth with little to no fight. When he pulled away from you, a string of spit tried desperately to keep the two of you connected but smacked against your chin after a mere second.
Your breath was heavy, cheeks wet with tears, flushed and probably looking a mess. You didn't want to imagine it. The vague sense of disgust with yourself remained but it just felt slightly different. You didn't know how to place it. It stirred rather pleasantly in your lower tummy and you felt really tense down there.
"I will repeat this command. But for the future, I want it to be known that I don't enjoy repeating myself. Undress yourself."
You heard his words clearly and allowed him to kiss you again. Your fingers clumsily and hurriedly worked at your dress. You stripped yourself bare as he did as he liked, kissing, nipping at your lips. His hands explored the new inches of your body as they became more and more exposed to him.
They roamed over your back, and back in front to cup your soft tits, weighing them, toying with your nipple... roamed back down your back, squeezing your firm ass. You couldn't place the feeling, you couldn't place it. You didn't like the feeling. You wanted it to stop. And yet if he pulled away you felt as if you might lean back into his touch inexplicably. You'd hate it but you'd go back for more.
Whenever he groped you a little too hard, you'd whine without even realizing it and Roose's pleasure would grow. Once you were fully naked, you grew awkward, not knowing what to do with your hands so you backed toward the bed. But he followed.
The rough fabric of his clothes felt harsh against your soft skin. You had nothing to do but whimper again and when you turned your head away, he simply let you, instead taking the opportunity to finally look at you, his little wife. Beautiful, clever, stubborn little wife.
You ducked your head, crying, confused at the way you felt, confused as to why you weren't fighting him harder. And that spurred you to begin.
Roose realized you weren't fighting him the second he kissed you and he shared your confusion for a second until he felt your tongue caressing his in reciprocation. He's sure you hadn't even fully realized your own actions as you had rushed to comply with his orders.
He half expected you to be a shy blushing bride but this reminded him that you were a little of a tease with Robbs men, cracking nasty jokes that a lady should not have been aware of. You were no blushing bride. In fact, you were a bit of a slut. A tease.
And suddenly, it struck him that the behavior hadn't so much aggravated him in the way that he thought. In fact the memory of you flirting with those men who were now burried in the ground or thrown into the river, gave him this strong sense of accomplishment to have you here.
Roose began undoing his trousers, unsheathing himself to your horror and you pushed him away, escaping the only way you were permitted, crawling on the bed and trying to get over to the other side. Roose was too fast, grabbing your ankle and pulling you down.
You fell but you kicked him in the chest and he laughed, dropping your ankle, but only so he could grasp your hips firmly and pull you back along the edge of the bed.
"Down, girl," he commanded, as if you were a dog.
You cried, clawing at anywhere to escape to. But he was right behind you and as you looked around, you knew it was hopeless. Still the fight burned on in your chest. Then you heard a smack and a sharp pain in your buttock, jolting you under your husband.
Another one came because you refused to calm yourself, then his hand slipped between your thighs and he spanked you again as another feeble warning.
"My lady," He started, waiting for you to calm finally before chuckling. Then your torturer informed you of something, no doubt to break your spirits, "Are you aware, Lady Bolton, how wet your cunt is?"
His rough weathered fingers rubbed at your entrance, barely pushing in and sure enough the sound of your slick being rubbed and spread around, filled your ears. Your fists balled the sheets under it and your legs helplessly kicked up, though with no purpose. You couldn't get away. From him. From your shame. From your body's betrayal.
"Your womb is begging me to fill it. You feel it, don't you?" He taunted, "You're confused, aren't you. Stupid, confused, little wife."
His fingers slipped away and you fought to catch your breath, fists relaxing because he stopped. But then his fingers were replaced by something thicker and hotter and your struggle resumed. Your hips squirming but all it did was slicken his cockhead for an easier entrance.
"Let me clear your confusion, stupid little wife." Roose cooed to you, the tone of his voice unfitting of the cruel words. "You are exactly where you belong. Under your husband, serving your husband. The Warden of the North. There's no need to fight your fate or fight your pleasure as you are exactly where you belong."
Then he began pushing into you and your toes clenched, back arching inexplicably. The new angle that you provided made it easier. You knew it didn't make sense but it made perfect sense to Roose, who chuckled behind you, smacking your ass, this time not in displeasure but as a praise. Your body twitched at it, cunt squeezing and pulsing around him as if it were trying to suck it in.
Your moans grew more wanton as he pushed in torturously slow. And of course it hurt, stung, when he forced past your maidenhead but you couldn't even bring yourself to squirm away from that. You were rightfully his.
When his hips met yours, he just held himself buried inside you for a few seconds and you continued to contract and twitch around him, small squeaks of confusion escaping your throat against your will. You couldn't stop squirming. The sensation of something so big filling you stirred you uncontrollably.
A hand trailed down your thigh, nudging it upward and you followed the movement, allowing him to prop your leg up on the bed. Then he began thrusting and your face heated up when you heard just how wet you were. Each time his hips pressed flush against you, youd feel the cool sensation of your slick on his balls.
It was all so vivid. Even if you couldn't see what was going on behind you. You knew. And the most shameful noises forced past your throat as your husband fucked you deeply and slowly.
"Listen to yourself," Roose muttered, hands coming up to grab your shoulders.
It allowed him to hammer deeper and harder into you, the sharpness of his thrusts contrasting the slow strokes he started with. You cried out, shameful but you were horrified to find that you did not want him to stop. Not when he was... oh his cock was hitting something inside you. Deep inside you.
"Keep making those noises, darling wife. I cant tell if I enjoy your pleasure more or your tears."
You cried out, a small sob at the end of it. And despite your better judgement, you turned your head to look at your husband. Your naked body contrasted so much with his garments, which stayed mostly unmoved. Only his pants and breeches were pulled down to his mid thigh.
His expression hardened upon evaluating your features. There was nothing more beautiful, your lips parted in a pleasure that confused you. The tears had dried by now but your hair was a mess and your eyes swollen and pinkish. Not to mention the way you were splayed out beneath him. He landed a firm spank to your buttocks again, aiming to leave marks.
You whimpered, eyebrows coming together as your pussy clamped down around him. Roose grabbed your hip that was propped higher than the rest of your body due to your leg that was positioned on the bed. And he used that hip as leverage to pull your body into him.
The confusion within you turned to fear when an unfamiliar feeling began building within you. You cried out loudly and involuntarily clamped down even harder around him, pulsing uncontrollably as he jackhammered into you ruthlessly, intensifying when his hands abandoned your hips for your neck.
You couldn't help but feel as if you were reduced to a little object. He could grab you wherever and however he wanted and pull you against his cock and you had nowhere to run and yet you couldn't even deign to lift your legs and kick at him. You surrendered to the smallness that he made you feel, cries and distress replaced by whimpers and submission.
You came to find your body shaking and convulsing with a blinding kind of pleasure. Even your moans died into a breathy, shaky sigh, back arching as you sank further into the sheets beneath you. Your lord gave no sign of stopping, another self satisfied hum rumbling from his chest.
"Good, so good, darling. I knew you would come to enjoy your new position."
And with that you were filled again with shame, though not yet strong enough to overshadow the stubborn pleasure which muted any feelings that might incite discomfort. You especially could not feel displeased when your husband firmly snapped his hips into you, releasing a grunt. He continued to pump into you, slowly but firmly. sighing along with his thrusts. It was the only compromise in composure that he allowed you to see and you were only sure at this point that he was finished with you.
Surprisingly the spilling of his seed didn't feel like much but your cunt squeezed him, as if it was aware. And you felt satisfaction wash over you, as if your body was also aware.
To your shock and shame, your ass gyrated beneath him, rolling itself against him to fully milk him for all he had to offer you. And you hid your face, pausing once you realized.
After recovering from his release, Roose watched you closely, appreciating the way you still squirmed, restless. You moved your leg back down to the floor and pushed back, hips meeting his and your cunt convulsed again around him due to the overstimulation. He stood like a barrier, looming over you a he rested his hands on the edge of the bed where your hips were and your restless little cunt continued to twitch and pulse as you tried to compose yourself desperately.
You breathed deeply but it was hopeless. You could not walk away with your dignity, fully aware of how Lord Bolton stared upon his Lady Bolton, satisfied with how you gave into him so easily.
You shivered and your breath hitched when he landed a kiss to your shoulder blade. Then you sighed, settling down again for him. And a needy whimper confirmed your submission.
Roose loomed over you, giving you another small kiss on your temple.
"You did well, my lady."
The approval got to you. Your days on Robbs counsel trying your best to say anything intelligent that would make him accept you as an equal. It all led you to this moment. But you never did accomplish your goal of being viewed as an equal, at least it didn't feel that way in this moment. His softening cock still inside you, the only thing stopping his spend from trickling down your leg. Oh the shame of it all.
"I'm pleased to find that you enjoyed it as much as I did."
"No," You protested but in your voice you could tell you didn't even believe yourself.
Lord Bolton merely laughed. And you whimpered again, willing yourself to sink into the bed and disappear. Then your husband pulled back and spread your ass cheeks apart, giving you a lengthy thrust. Though he was not as hard as he was moments ago, the movement was enough to make you shiver.
"Then we should try again in a half mark of an hour. I shall train my lady wife to welcome me into her bed."
You bit the inside of your mouth to prevent another whimper but it was ripped from you when Lord Bolton spanked you again.
Oh yes, Roose Bolton would commit a thousand betrayals and massacre a hundred false Kings if it meant he'd end up with you, here, to warm his bed.
Cdf characters at chrimus, grinch or absolutely wet for merry chrystler?
Darren: Completely and utterly obsessed with christmas, decorations are going up november 1st!!
Larten: Likes that it makes Darren happy but generally doesn’t understand the point of dedicating so much time to preparing for one day.
Harkat: Doesn’t care for the christmas hype until the actual day, in which he stands at attention with his black trash bag, ready and waiting for the wrapping paper to leave the present.
Paris: Does not gaf in his rock
Seba: Gives a fuck in his rock but won’t admit to liking a human holiday
Kurda: ‘christmas!!!! is an excuse for capitalist ideals!! to infiltrate the lives of everyday people by using overly joyous adverts as propaganda to subject them to a western style, over-consumptionist and unnecessary month of buying crap for their ungrateful children!!!’
Mika: ‘yeah what he said’
Arrow: Loves christmas, used to celebrate with his wife. Still loves it after her death, but uses the day to quietly mourn.
Arra: Hated it as a human, hates it as a vampire 🤷♀️
amandla
vaporwave
gummygunk
gracieabrams
blakekathryn
2087
prguitarman
