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devnmon · 12 days

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Reason on the Common Tongue (of you lovin' me)

Dutch Van Der Linde x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve taken another man in camp out for drinks while Dutch was busy and unwilling to take the night off. Who’s to say he’s forgotten where you’d gone by the time you return?

warnings: oral (f&m receiving, sir kink, rough!dutch, dom/sub roles, unprotected piv, orgasm denial, cumming inside (not recommended for irl experiences), sweet aftercare <3

a/n: anyone else insane about dutch van der linde? just me???? anyways just wanted to say this is filthy and also one of my favorite things i’ve written. i say that everytime i write something new but i truly love this fic. [who would have known this was going to be my first fic for rdr2.] also huge shoutout & credit to my moot jay @bandittlikemee for everything she’s done to help me write this fic. youre truly a genius bestie! also this is set in the clemen's point camp!

Dutch Van Der Linde was a busy man. So much so that he didn’t have time to get up to ludicrous activities such as drinking the night away in the Rhodes saloon. It was another sweltering night in Clemen’s Point; nothing exciting had happened for a few days on account of lying low to skip out on any facetime with the Pinkertons. Since you’d been itching to get out of camp, and your ever-so-important leader wouldn’t spend a singular night with his partner drinking and dancing, you offered the trip up to a familiar gunslinger instead.

With a wave towards his tent, the two of you were off to the local saloon on the back of Arthur’s horse. It was long after dark before the two of you returned; you had been more indulgent than your companion, practically making Arthur carry you out to his horse before you got too inebriated on the drink. Being swept off your feet like Arthur had done felt like flying, especially when he sped up his horse on the ride back to camp.

“Whoo! That was one fun night, Mister Morgan. Even if you didn’t let me out on the dance floor.”

“Don’t you dare get sick on this horse b’fore we get back to camp.”

“I ain’t drunk!” you called out.

“Yeah, and I ain’t a gunslinger.” Arthur joked.

You both boasted with laughter and quips during the ride back into camp, fairly shortened by Arthur’s ability to ride a horse, and soon enough you were entering the clearing.

Dutch, spending his night nursing a cigar, perked up once he heard your familiar laughter in his ears. He knew the minute you’d left camp with Arthur, it was a mistake. Were you to blame? Or was he? Surely you could’ve known all he was combatting at the moment; the leader of a powerful gang, the Van Der Linde’s, had more on his plate than you could even fathom. Moves, and countermoves, he’d say. All in good time, Dutch has a plan.

To find out you’d left camp with Arthur of all men, his son, whom he’d raised since just a boy– was he a fool to you? Did you underestimate all he was capable of? Did you think him a fool?

He’d show you, indeed he was not.

Dutch took another deep inhale of his cigar, the tobacco filling his mind with a haze of your figure. Then he’d remembered who you’d been spending the time with. Another laugh escaped your lips, louder than usual, and his dark eyes found you sat on the back of Arthur’s horse, reaching toward the cowboy for assistance in getting down. He can’t help but glue his eyes to your waist, accompanied by Arthur’s hands for what seems to be a moment longer than he’d like.

Sat in silence, he's almost as red as his vest when you approach the tent.

“Hey, baby. Wish you came with us t’night. I almost punched a man for makin’ a crude comment toward me. You would’a loved to see it, the guy basically pissed himself when Arthur threatened ‘im.” You're slurring your words while babbling on incoherently; your balance is shoddy at best, and he doesn't even say anything until you mention his right-hand man.

"Have fun drinking with Arthur, dear? Was he able to... satisfy you?"

"Mhm, Arthur was very kind to me tonight." To even suggest you'd be satisfied being in the company of anyone else but him makes Dutch furious.

"Did he... rustle your feathers, dearest?" With the way he punctuated his words, you're a bit confused by what he means, since the drink's gone to your head.

"What'dya mean?" you ask, batting your eyelashes at him by chance he'd forget Arthur was by your side all night instead of him. Dare you poke the bear.

"Did he–" he let out a breath of smoke, "Was he such good company that you'd forgotten about me? Your leader?" The grumble in his voice fans the flames in your chest; if you weren’t warm from the alcohol, you certainly were now.

Your glazed eyes make out the vision of Dutch, his silhouette darkened by one lamp still lit. When he starts sauntering towards you, step by slow step, you know he's not amused by all this Arthur talk.

"Mm, no, never." Your intoxication doesn't help you sound convincing, though sober you knows Dutch loves the reassurance.

"Sounds like you're lying to me, my love."

He flicks his cigar out of the tent and watches as you stumble to sit down in a chair facing him. Then your mind pulls you back to the events at the saloon– drinking with Arthur and watching him dance drunkenly to the piano– you're giggling at the image. But Dutch.. he's not finding this funny.

"What’s laughable, right now, dear? "He asks, accentuating the h sound while tilting his head at you down with his dark eyes.

"Jus'... Arthur was so fun to be with t'night. An’ I missed you... wish you'd come with us, handsome."

"Well I had to tend to more pressing matters, my darling. You'd only understand if you weren't so piss drunk right now. Maybe I ought to teach you a lesson about what company you should be keeping."

Dutch takes a seat on his cot, his right hand tapping the corresponding thigh. As if instinctual, you lunge yourself over to him and take your rightful seat.

Dutch has always been intimidating, it was one of the reasons you've become enamored with him. But when he narrows his eyes and guides them down your face and figure, close up? you're blushing out of being perceived by such a man of power in this world.

"What're you giggling about now?" he inquires, holding your head with his palm so you'll make eye contact.

"You're jus' so handsome, Mister Van der Linde. My sweetest, the most dashing man I've met."

"You, my dear, are adorable,” he began, and with a click of his tongue, he continued, “But, I still don't believe you. How ‘bout you… make it up to me, hm?"

At that point, you can already feel him hardening under you in his lap, and you clench around nothing. For the first time tonight, your voice shakes.

“What.. would you have me do?” You swallow nervously, wavering your eyes from his for a moment; he ordered your gaze be brought back to his immediately with the clearing of his throat. As if to check you for disobedience.

“On your knees… now.” Dutch’s voice lowered, his words putting a spell on you once spoken. Sliding down to your knees, your hands glided over his thighs for just a moment, letting the friction spike his legs with another level of desire to show you who you belong to.

“Don’t tease me, darling… lest I have to remind you why you’re on your knees for me.” Dutch’s eyes darkened once you were firmly on your knees, tongue darting out to wet your lips. It was as if a Greek god asked you to bow down to him and solely him– Dutch’s physique and natural manliness only contributed to that image of him in your mind.

Your hands reached for the button of his pants, pulling them down his muscular thighs to see his growing hardness underneath the cloth. For a minute, your palm brushed against his girth, earning a grumble from the man above you. It wasn’t lost on him the way you were acting, all innocent like you weren’t aware of the way you were making him burn for your touch.

Once your hands had them down far enough, the dark tuft of hair from his mound came into the light, which opened your eyes wide upon pulling it all the way off. Dutch’s length sprung upwards and caught your eye, especially frustrated and swollen, much like his growing displeasure with your actions. Freed from the confines of his pants and undergarments, his cock stood tall, lying well past his navel against that black vest of his.

As your grip surrounds his base, Dutch clears his throat once more whilst observing every move you made. Your thumb runs along the prominent vein sticking out and moving your hand up his length. He’s certain you aren’t aware just how vexed you had gotten him.

“Get to it.” he spat, enunciating every part of his words with that sharp wit and tongue. Without another second to spare, you licked the pearling precum resting on his tip, before enveloping it with your lips. Luckily for you, he filled your mouth quite nicely, his fingers running through your hair to grip tightly at the back of your head. Tongue running down the underside as you began to ravish him with your lips, he took the advantage to push you down a couple inches more.

With his tip almost nudging the back of your throat, you push down another inch or so and bobbing up and down on him to your heart’s content. The alcohol-buzzed vision of him, burning brighter with each inch you took further past your lips. Dutch rolled his shoulders and neck out in a slow motion, locking those gluttonous eyes of his back onto you with a smirk.

You came up for air with a pop of your lips, his erection shining under the warm light from your saliva.

“So big…” you whispered, stroking him with your hand and going back down for another taste. This time, Dutch was not simply fooling around; his hand forced you down rougher this time, the back of your throat welcoming him once again. It was ravishing to be put under the control of a man such as Dutch; the power he held over you was maddening and traveled to your head every so often. With the tip kissing the back of your throat after each shove down his length, your eyes begin to well up.

“Takin’ me so deep, love, you’ve got tears in your eyes. Now I have truly seen it all.” Releasing his hard grip for a moment, you come off his cock and wipe them away like they aren’t anything special.

“I’d do much more for you, sir.” You choke out, lips swollen from just his cock, and you press a kiss to his tip before sticking out your tongue and swallowing him whole again. The hand that was once gripping your hair was cupping your cheek, the other had undone two of his vest buttons, leaving his broad torso on display in just that white and blue striped shirt.

This time Dutch chuckles in that deep gravel of his, surging your heat with a plethora of warmth. His chest broadens with every exhale of fervent breath, the slow burn of dissatisfaction eating him up inside. Beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead, the knot in his groin tugging at him ever so slightly.

You let his length fill your throat wantonly, pushing yourself down enough to take every inch. Your nose became buried in the dark patch of curls he’d kept tidy, clearing his throat once more while relishing in the warmth of your tongue against him.

“You’re gonna taste me for days, sweetheart. Gonna – fuck – gonna remind you who you belong to. Make it so you don’t forget this time.” Dutch’s right hand combed through your hair, controlling your mouth’s movements down his shaft, saliva messily covering his skin. A particular thrust of your head in his grip pushes your nose into his curls, making you gag around him. It’s not much to remind him why you were his, the raw class he omitted an infectious disease; it just so happened to be you found under his spell.

Repeatedly, your head moved up and down his cock, Dutch gripping your hair and taking what he deserved. After all, you did take another man out to drink. How dare you not bask in the appreciation of his company otherwise? Dutch had no discretion– no temper to waste on explaining himself to you. You should have known he’d get mad.

On spur of the moment, his controlling movements halted and your tongue swirled around his tip. A feral growl erupted from his chest, painting your cheeks pink before releasing him to catch your breath.

“Mmmph, Dutch…” comes out as a whine, shifting the weight you’d been sitting on.

“What now, dearest? I don’t think you deserve to complain after what you’ve done.” His words manifest a wave of arousal scorching your skin and mind– Dutch was torturous in that regard. When he clicked his tongue, you knew there was only a matter of time until he truly took control. This was only the beginning of a very long night.

Dutch had a way of changing the temperature of a room with one fell swoop. To you, it was a life altering experience being under his discipline, especially in this setting.

Another whine escaped you, words eventually choked out, “I’m sorry, Dutch…”

He solely chuckled, sitting up and raising your chin with his index finger.

“That’s funny, my dear. You didn’t seem sorry when you stormed off and took Mister Morgan as company.” He sneered, the permanent smirk on his face, becoming bigger by the second. You clung to his words like water coating a piece of cloth, soaking up every syllable for a smidge of satisfaction.

“Please, I’m so…” you trailed off, your thoughts whisked away when you heard him chuckling.

“You’re sorry?”

Nodding almost instantaneously, he clicked his tongue.

“Fine. As much as I’d love to fill that sweet mouth of yours all night long, I’m itching for a taste of your perfect cunt. Come here.”

Two fingers motioned you towards him, tongue sticking out to wet his lips, while inclining his head at the vision of you still kneeling for him. Dutch didn’t miss the slightly pained sound as you relieved the weight on your knees, knowing they’d most likely be bruised tomorrow. He took incredible amounts of pride seeing himself in the bruises, teeth marks, and spend he left behind on your saccharine skin.

Your swollen lips wet from your tongue, sensitive thanks to the friction against his length moments ago. Still shy of that dark gaze when he too stood, a forefinger and thumb brought you right back to him.

“I need you to know…” he spoke breathlessly, crushing your lips to his in one motion. Dazed by his sudden affection and the thick tension in the room, you drowned in his taste.

Unbound by any other attachments, your soul was his.

Dutch’s lips pressed against yours were fervent and skillful, a new taste of himself on you. By the third peck, Dutch had forced his tongue into your mouth, venom coating your mouth. Intoxicating.

His right hand finds your waist, pulse hammering in your chest as that broad figure of his flooded your visual field up close.

“... that your actions have consequences.” His grip tightened around your jaw, tobacco on his breath as he spoke.

“Just because I don’t wish to accompany you to the town saloon for a drink does not mean you’re permitted to take the next desperate fella in company who’d so easily strike you from my arms.” That slight growl in his voice paired with the liquor in your system triggered the heat at the apex of your thighs to burn hotter.

“Arthur ain’t like that–” you slurred, getting cut off by a hiccup; a clear sign you were still not understanding how gravely Dutch was taking your little excursion out of camp. His voice was nothing but otherworldly, smooth and rich with charisma and magnetism. No surprise you obeyed his every word without question.

“I don’t remember asking for excuses,” he spat, smirking, “Let’s get you out of this dress..”

Those calloused yet talented hands of your leader find the back zipper quite easily, wasting no time by pulling it down your shoulders roughly. The fabric was tight, but with the level of Dutch’s strength, you wouldn’t put it past him to create a few rips. His movements were followed accordingly, still ravaged with the current indignation he held upon you.

Once you met his eye, seeming to shrink a bit more when looking up to him, that foreboding glare into you was similar to putting a flame near a stick of dynamite. There was no telling when he (or you) would explode. That dashing face of his created another spark inside you, one bold enough to pull his lips to yours once again. A hand grasped the back of your neck tenderly, the first soft action Dutch made upon your skin.

Don’t fall into his touch… you tell yourself. But the drink was too strong, and his venom made its way into your bloodstream. There was no turning back.

Aphotic, tantalizing eyes studied you, the only way you could sense his willingness to please after the fury that still embodied him.

“Satiate me...” he beckoned, walking you backwards to his cot where your knees met the side. Adhering to his plea, your back found the fabric and sighed amongst the sight of him above you. His hands never left your body, sliding down your back to the side of your leg, then moving to your inner thigh with the slightest touch before gripping it with his broad palm.

Suddenly the thin chemise was much too hot against your skin.

“Dutch, please…” you begged once again.

“Ah ah… that’s Mister Van Der Linde to you, my sweetness. You’ll receive the right to say my name when you’ve earned it.” His voice was like honey, eager fingers tugging at the white cloth. Dutch didn’t need permission, he gladly took what he believed to be his, no matter the cost. You swallowed thickly at the cool air prickling your skin with the tensity and vigor the man before you withheld.

“Yes, sir, Mister Van Der Linde…” you professed, breathlessly.

Dutch’s cock twitched upon the sir that fell from your lips. He chuckled, tightening his grip on your undergarment and dragging it down your skin. Your chest was exposed to him first, keen skin still layered with sweat and goosebumps while your nipples hardened against the nighttime air. You were just as he expected, breathing heavily and quivering under the first touch of his fingertips. Impatient, the garment was dragged down your legs by the older man and discarded on the floor.

Dutch’s hands parted your quivering thighs, calloused palms from years of using a gun gripping around you firmly. You could practically feel the flame of his gaze make its way up to the tuft of hair making an appearance from between your legs. He slid both palms up your legs, parting them accordingly so that your slick caught the light. Focused on his face, you notice his walnut eyes catch yours, immediately heating your cheeks.

It was meant to be; Dutch was your siren, luring you in with each word he manifested, every spill of his cherry wine words onto a white tablecloth. His mouth neared the thick curls protecting your supple skin from harm, a similar style in which Dutch protected his people.

“Such a divine sight laid out for me like this. I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to, have you come back to me.” The baritone and rumble in his voice was like nothing you’d ever heard before. He was quite honestly a man starved, no matter how angered he was at what you’d done.

Before you knew it, Dutch’s nose was poking your clit the slightest bit, meanwhile he’d pressed his tongue through your folds and covered himself in your taste. You gasped, your breath coming in ragged bursts as everything you’ve ever felt for Dutch comes flooding back in the blink of an eye. Each stroke of his tongue was another day you’d spent by his side, loyal to no other.

Your leader, your lover, your siren.

Nothing else filled your senses, except for Dutch Van Der Linde.

Those dark brown eyes were lidded against the lack of light, his tongue skillfully drinking in your sweet nectar as if it was his last meal. You danced across his taste buds and he groaned, the vibration sending your hips rolling against his mouth out of impulse. Exhaling sharply and continuing to breathe shakily, the tip of Dutch’s tongue circled around your sensitive clit.

“Fuck– sir… oh god,” He pressed a chaste kiss to your clit, breath hitching in anticipation. The flat of his tongue ran kitten licks up your folds, each movement sending a jolt coursing through you. Before you could protest, he ended another stripe up your cunt with a tantalizing drag against your sensitive bundle of nerves. It was particularly frustrating when he hummed against you once more.

“Hope this is reminding you,” he swallowed, “of where your loyalties lie. To whatever man you can get your hands on? Or me, your leader? The sole individual responsible for keeping this entire group pieced together?”

It was a no-brainer.

“You– fuck… My loyalty lies with you, Mister Van der Linde. I promise… never to take another man in company… again.” You breathed, in disbelief at how composed he was; you were a downright panting mess, but a goddamned sight laid out like this for him.

Upon your hips stuttering against his tongue, Dutch shifted closer to your core, hooking his large biceps around each of your thighs and gripped with his overpowering strength. The cool gold of his rings was a contrast to how hot your skin ran under his touch. That tongue of his circled around your clit repeatedly, until he pulled away to admire the mess he’d made of you in such short time.

“Fuck– oh god…” your nails ran through his jet black hair to grip at the back of his head. Dutch’s mouth worshiped each part of you equally, sticking his tongue inside you every so often; it was driving you mad.

Thinking himself clever, he pulled his right arm from gripping around your thigh. His rings ran across the vast expanse of your skin, trailing the chilled metal close to where you were most sensitive.

His amber eyes glanced upward, past the natural curves of your breasts to your fully blissed out expression; your eyes were scrunched together, mouth hanging open with bated breath. The haze of intoxication still coursing through you sent ripples of pleasure surging up your spine.

“I’ve decided to let you redeem yourself, my love. What would you say to that?” Dutch inquired, using that philosophical tone of voice he’s picked up from reading and quoting Evelyn Miller often.

“I’d do… anything to have you. To please you, to bring you bliss, sir.” Your breath quivers at the point of offering yourself to him in a plea to finally satisfy you.

“I’m not quite sure if you’re deserving of it– just yet, that is.” Maintaining eye contact with you, Dutch stood himself up to undo the buttons down his shirt and let it lay open under his red-backed vest.

“Been… been so good for you, sir. Please,” you implored him an inch further, watching his broad chest heave with deep breaths. His hand adorned with two thick gold rings heads straight for the belt buckle around his waist.

“Have you understood, yet, my darling? How I must be torturous? For it is the only way you’ll learn never to disobey, betray, leave me?” Dutch’s prophetic stance above you was truly enticing, the vibrato of his words coaxing another whimper from you.

“I’ve… understood, sir,” you eyed the belt coming undone within his skilled fingers and exhaled in relief.

“You’re going to have to do better than that to convince me. Speak, girl.” The astounding heat, not only flowing through your veins like hot magma, but also flooding your head and hazing your mind with him. Interested in what you had to say, he waited for your response and discarded his belt.

“Sir, I’m a fool… a fool thinking anyone else could satisfy me in the ways you do.” your voice quivered, breathing heavily and watching his hickory eyes study you. His black pants found themselves in a pile along with everything else he’d discarded from your body and his. “My leader, no one else can replace you, you’re the only man made to save people in the ways you did… even me. We’re– I’m so lucky to have you. And I’m– I apologize deeply for my actions, sir.”

He’d be hard pressed to admit the praise wasn’t intoxicating him at this moment, a growl erupting from his chest among his length stood tall against his exposed torso.

“Well, isn’t that nice. An admittance of your mistakes. Such a lovely difference from the snark I’d been given earlier. Hopefully you’ll learn your lesson.” He gripped the base of his cock and crawled above your supple figure on his cot, noticing your sharp inhale once he was fully perched above you. Dutch’s free hand parts your thighs, making room for his tip to slide through your folds, stopping below the little bundle of nerves that ached for any kind of stimulation.

It was easy for him to pick up on your sharp, quickened breaths upon his close proximity, scrunching your eyes shut to avoid that beckoning gaze of his.

“If this is going to work, my love, you must look. Observe how I split you open, how you take my cock, how I fuck you.” He snarled, pecking the side of your face with open-mouthed kisses. Your eyes fluttered open as if second nature, meeting his gaze while pushing himself completely inside of you.

His length filled you to the hilt, every ridge and groove of him welcomed by your warmth. Dutch breathed a moment with you, smashing his lips against yours to swallow the whimpers you omitted. Your hands ran up his chest, dragging your fingers through the thick chest hair to Dutch’s broad shoulders. He shrugged off the shirt and vest upon your hands sneaking under the cloth, leaving him fully bare to you.

The first drag of his cock against your insides manifested another filthy moan to secrete from your lips while he pushed back in.

“Sir–” you gasped, his natural musk clouding your senses. Dutch thrusted into you deeper, kissing that special spot inside of you to send you seeing stars. Quick as light, his thrusts picked up pace, setting a steady rhythm with his hips.

“Say my name.” Dutch’s voice in your ear echoed through your head like a mantra, the only thing bombarding your senses being him.

“Oh god, Dutch–” you choked out, his name on your tongue only spurring him on more to push deeper.

“Yes, that’s it, again.” he spoke between thrusts, clenching around him while pulling groans of his pleasure into the air. His cock has molded to your walls, relentlessly beating such a punishing pace.

“Dutch… ah-!” His name in your throat like a jewel only spurred him on more, humming approvingly and latching onto your neck with the sweet sucking of his lips. There was absolutely no chance of Dutch letting you get off easy without any showable marks. He had an inkling all the men in camp would think twice before making any advancing remarks toward you– lest they forget who you belong to.

A glance downward had you turning lightheaded– did he really always look that dashing? You’d become tantalized watching his girth disappear and reappear at least a dozen times before his fingers brought your gaze back to him. Each thrust of his hips was dizzying, picking up the familiar groans in your ear once again.

In this moment, you were completely and utterly his, transcending into a place of physical surrender and letting the world fall away. A particularly rough thrust had you calling out for him again, his hand coming up to wrap around your throat.

“Got myself such a good little whore, ain’t that right? One who knows her place is with me– your only leader.” You could scarcely manage a nod upon reveling in the touches he gave you.

Dutch was maddening, luring a groan from him once he saw how far gone you were. It was immensely overstimulating the minute Dutch’s right ringed hand dragged up your torso to the pebbled nipples standing upright from stimulation. Goosebumps expelled across your skin as the knot in your stomach began to tighten, walls fluttering around his length aimlessly. He leaned down again to the side of your face, breathing heavily above you. Slowing to deliver deep and agonizing thrusts, Dutch only drew out your orgasm further, as if he read your state of overstimulation like an open book. His fingers twisting your nipples, those smacks of his hips against yours– your sheer bliss in the center of it all.

Your hand fisted his dark waves at the nape of his neck, another grumble aligned with his thrusts. His pace wasn’t as merciful as you hoped it would be, the sting of his precise and rough thrusts pricking tears in your eyes the same as before. You were at such a heightened state that you weren’t able to control what left your mouth anymore.

“Daddy… I-I’m gettin’ close..” you whimper, running your other hand up his bicep to grip desperately. He felt the pride well in his chest upon his skill to pleasure you like this while also making you cry. To see you in such desperate of situations fueled his ego like a bonfire.

“Oh, are you, my love?” he began, snaking his hand down to your navel and pressing his hand against it. The tip of his cock poked just the slightest bit against his palm. “Feel how deep I am inside you, darling, and know that nobody could fill you the way I do.”

Dutch’s deft fingers moved downward to rub at your clit, throbbing incessantly upon his first touch. The whimper you let out was like music to his ears, filthy and drenched in content of being pleasured by him.

By the expression on his face– he’s impressed at how well you held back from letting yourself go. It’s Dutch’s realization then that you’d always known you were his to touch and please like this, more than any other before. Dutch Van Der Linde is the object of all your desires; continuing to orchestrate bliss under any means possible.

Every ridge and vein of him massages you in such a euphoric way, and it’s not too hard for you to be sent over the edge. It’s as if every inch of you explodes in that moment, allowing each morsel of stimulation; his fingers twisting your nipples and on your clit, the sensation of him throbbing inside you, and the sound of his voice in your ears; come together to send you gasping and moaning over his cock once again.

You can’t hear much else other than the wet slide of him inside you, walls slick as his once steady rhythm grows erratic, forcing his thrusts to become harder and harder. An ache like this would always have a way of satisfying you in more ways than most. Dutch’s groans became visceral as he thrust one more time into you until he too was sent keening over the edge. His hips stuttered, white ropes of seed coating your walls while riding out your high to the sounds of Dutch’s melody of sweet groans and praises.

Both of you breathed heavily as the moment passed, your grip on one another grounding you back to Earth.

“Now, say ‘thank you, daddy’.” he snarled in your ear, keeping himself sheathed inside you while moving his hips the slightest bit.

“Thank you, daddy..” You swallowed, breathless upon his capability to have just come down from his high and keep that cocky attitude.

“Well, what are you thanking me for, doll? Be specific.” Dutch cupped your cheek, his thumb running along your skin lightly.

“For… reminding me who I belong to. You.” Your lips crashed against his once again, the passion and heat of the moment still rung in the air.

“That’s right, my darling.” He pulled out of you, lying beside you with a smug grin on his face. The two of you laid in the warmth your body heat offered, catching your breath. Cool air continued to seep into the tent, a drastic difference than the heat you two shared. Dutch was the first one to break the silence, your alcohol dazed mind still fluttering from such intense contact.

“Oh, my darling, are you alright? You were ravishing tonight.” You glanced over, his forehead glowing with sweat in the warm lantern light.

“Yeah, I’m good, baby. After all that, ’m glowin’. You sure know how to make a woman stay loyal.” you smirked at him, struck by his handsome face in the light.

“I’m sure,” he chuckled, “Hope I wasn’t too hard on your precious body, my love. The last thing I would want is to injure you or push a boundary I should not have. Tell me.. dearest.” Dutch sat up, grabbing your hand with one of his, caressing your wrist with his thumb. His hair was disheveled in the most perfect way, afterglow still apparent on his cheeks.

Warmly, you beamed at him, “Of course you weren’t, not if I made you mad in the first place. Not at all…”

Your words brought a smile out in him, and you caught it just before he pulled you in closer to an embrace. That skin on skin contact fueled every desire for him you had since meeting him. When he noticed and made you his– that was the real luck of the draw. So many women chased after Dutch Van Der Linde as a dream, something to grasp onto as an escape from their lives. But for you, it was all so very real.

“You are mine, my love. Don’t ever forget it again.” Dutch’s voice tickled your ears once more, placing a soft kiss on your forehead before grabbing a nearby blanket to cover your body from the chill of night.

“How could I, my leader? No one could possibly compare to the man before me. I love you.” You sweetly spoke to him, one of your palms lying against his chest lovingly.

“I love you too, my sweetness. I’m so overjoyed to hear you’re loyal to the right man.” He chuckled, pressing another kiss to your cheek and letting his forearm wrap around your waist.

“That I am.” you replied, laying your head on his chest with content, sleep overcoming you from the exhaustion and haze your body had been through with the night’s events. Warm and safe in his arms, your heart was Dutch Van Der Linde’s.

#signed rye #ryesff #devnmonwrites #devnmon writes #dutch van der linde x reader #dutch van der linde smut #dutch van der linde #dutch rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #dividers by benkeibear #dividers by peachesboard #dividers by rookthornesartistry

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daniecho · 2 years

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I'm rereading Catcher in the Rye (yes bc of the discourse 🤡) and Holden's like. I left on a note on my history test so my professor wouldn't have to feel bad for failing me. I think my little sister is so smart and she's my favorite person to talk to on the phone. I have to write this essay for my roommate on his shitty typewriter because I already lent my typewriter to someone else. I invite the friendless guy next door to go to the movies with us even though he's consistently rude to everyone. I got in a fistfight with my roommate because I got so upset thinking about how badly he treats girls and the possibility he'd done so to one of my friends. I think you shouldn't be intimate with girls you're not really fond of and it's confusing that sometimes things that seem rude to do are fun in that context and I don't know what to do about it. I'm freezing in the snow because someone stole my coat but I still want to say goodbye. I couldn't stand watching my former headmaster be rude and dismissive to students' parents who didn't look perfect and rich. I'm still heartbroken over my little brother's death from leukemia.

And people not only call him a misogynist asshole but say things like "I get that's he intentionally written to be an unlikeable monster, but I still hate this book because I just didn't like the experience of being in his head." The book opens with him telling you he's in a sanatorium. There are other reasons to engage with art than just rollicking good funtimes entertainment jfc

#maybe you don't need a little dark academia aesthetic blog like no you don't have to like any particular book #but maybe you also don't need to write about literature if you can't read #literally saw someone say something dismissive like 'i guess he's sad his brother died of cancer or whatever' like do you hear yourself #the catcher in the rye #holden caulfield #let's get this read

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laidenbreecatchall · 3 months

Text

Perhaps, today, it is.

Trafalgar Law x GN!Reader

Summary: Reader has a nightmare which leads into a dissociative episode, teetering on a panic attack. But is grounded by their captain.

Author Notes: This is the first time I've ever posted my fan fic so it may not be the best and he may be out of character but oh well. The choppiness of the writing is intentional btw given the readers state of mind.

This is written with my OC in mind, who was trapped in, essentially, a psychic prison and experimented on prior to meeting Law and the Heart Pirates. So the "him" referred to in the second paragraph is the head scientist where she was kept. The mental episode written is a heightened/exaggerated depiction of my own experiences with panic attacks, Dissociative/Derealization episodes, and the hypersensitivity that sometimes comes with it. This is by no means an over-arching depiction of what these episodes look like for everyone, nor should you attempt to comfort someone in the way that is written here before knowing what is helpful to that person. It's just what sounds nice to me, hypothetically. This is fiction. It's hurt/comfort, baby, not a mental health article.

Tags: TW!Dissociative episode, TW!Derealization, TW!Panic attack, TW!Paranoia, TW!Mentions of self harm desire, hurt/comfort?, Possible OOC for Law (I head cannon him as selective with his physical affection, rather than completely anti)

Gnawing. Biting. Tearing. Clawing. The edges of my brain begin to converge in onto themselves till I feel nothing at all. Overlapping, replaying, distorted. Overwhelmed by the sense of nothing and everything all at the same time. If I had the mental grasp or energy perhaps I would have thought that this is a state no human should ever be in.

Yet here it all is. For a moment I feel as though I may grasp something but, before any comprehension of the world around me filters through my mind, its ripped from me in the most violent manner. Why am I put through all this? Why am I here? Without moving an inch I feel like I'm fighting for any semblance of grounding. I’ve been here before. Over and over and over and over. A grip on my mind thats been there for an eternity. Before I met him and long long after. Tearing me from any normality or reality I held onto. Im cold. Im hot. Im sweating. Im shivering. Its hard to breath. Im falling. Im floating. Like a touch ghosting my skin, I feel it all over, yet not at all. Never fully connecting. Will I snap this way? Im not here. Im not there. Where was I? Where have I gone? Who was I with? Distant. All my senses highly sensitive in a hope to feel something, I hear it far away. A sound I cant quite make out. Louder. Muffled. Sharp in my skull, yet still nontangable. Louder Louder Louder. Turning up the volume before the record even starts playing. Then blasted.

Ripping me from my sheets, my body jolts up. Drenched in a cold cold sweat. Ringing in my ears. Hot streaks from my eyes. So loud yet still distant. Is something beside me? Eyes blurry. Should I focus? Should I focus? Threads interwoven. In. Out. In. Out. Over. Under. Over. Under. Soft yet still textured. Thwik thwik thwik thwik. Threads individually catching against my nails. Every hair on end. Sheets balled in my fists. Where am I? Where have I been? How did I get here? How long have I been here?

Fire! Lightning! Connection! Rejection! Warmth against my skin. Thousands of pin pricks down my spine, along my shoulder blades. Soft. Sharp. Leathery. My body pulls away from the sensation. Eyes agape, diggin through reality, searching, aching to focus. Reaching black watery eyes, animalistic, kind… Worried. Low beside me, crouched down, his soft fluffy white hands placed gingerly on the edge of the bed. Who? Who? Who? My chest feels heavy. Eyes break away from his, tracing the room. Where? Where? Where? Muffled speech. “Ca- -ou he-r me? -o you kn-w --ere y--- ar-?” Delicate, Ginger, As if I’ll shatter or snap. Warrented. Yet the pit in my stomach makes me sick. Skin feeling vile, lungs being torn ragged by quickened breath. Tighter. Tighter. Clawing. Tear it off. Tear it off. I need out of this skin. I need out of this skin.

Then Release.

A sound like a long blade cutting through the distortion clouding my senses. Smooth. Easy. Stong. The air shifts. The bear moves. Ragged breaths still tight in my chest, ease like waves on a beach. Each one easier than the last. A new warmth takes the place where the bear once occupied. Instinctively it pulls a deep breath through my nose from me. Something sweet like vanilla, bergamot, woody. The chaser of underlying antiseptic. Just a twing. I chase it. A safety. My eyes trail to the space he occupies, focusing on his. Gold shimmering in the warm light of my room, framed by dark lashes. Almost unreadable. Almost. There’s worry, but more so, a determination. A calm clarity held in his eyes that washed away my own disorientation. The blade slicing through the strings that tied me to my own head, his voice spoke my name. The air hung heavy, but now with a comforting warmth. Expectation of a hope answered; those outside the door still waited. Breaths almost even, though the soreness of a tight chest still lingered. With each inhale I was grounded deeper and depper to him, breathing in his scent. I needed more of him.

“...Captain…” A hoarse voice eeked out, it didn’t sound like my own, though it came from my throat. Perhaps I was leaning closer. Perhaps he was. But the distance was short when he came to place a gentle hand against my cheek. The touch felt foreign, and a part of me wanted to flinch away like I had Bepo, but it was warm. Oh so warm. So against the fear in my body, I followed the yearning, and leaned into the touch. His large hand cupped my face with ease, his fingers slipped behind my ear into my hairline like second nature. It didn’t take much to move my exhausted frame, so the slight tug forward sent my forehead onto his shoulder with a soft fwump. A warm hand pressed against my back gliding across it, finger tips tracing the ridges of my spine. Sweet caresses up. Vertebrae after vertebrae. Still holding me gently, he shifted up from his kneel on the ground, then smoothly next to me. The dip in the bed slipped me deeper into the crook of his neck.

Perhaps if I wasn’t so dazed I would have noticed the hitch in his breath as mine fanned against his skin. And perhaps if I had noticed that, I would have peered up at him to see the slight flush against his tan speckled skin. But I did not. Instead I just closed my eyes and breathed him in. I leaned into him as he draped my knees across his lap, turning to hold me tighter. No, I didn’t notice when or why the tension in the air dissipated. Nor the relieved crewmembers quietly closing the door to my room with a knowing appreciative smile to their captain. All that existed to me in that moment was him. Soon it would extend to my bed, to the room, then the ship, then the sea. But right now all I could hear was his breathing, all I could smell was his scent, all I could feel was his warmth, his heartbeat, one hand still tracing my spine, the other delicately playing with the hair on the back of my head. All of him grounding me to the world my mind pulls away, hidden in the mess of my own memories. Jumbled and disorienting. I squeeze him tighter, warm cotton under my fingertips, afraid he might somehow slip away. Perhaps he’s just a distraction in this moment, a comfort from an issue I must someday face. Or perhaps it’s something he will help me through understanding, that somewhere along the way our similarities, or even differences, will reveal something to me. But in this moment, he holds me tighter, nuzzling his face gingerly into my hair, whispering,

“Im right here… I’ve got you… I’m right here.”

Someday that may not be enough to keep the creeping darkness at bay.

But today it is. Today it is.

#one piece #trafalgar law #my writing #rye writing #rye fan fiction #trafalgar law x reader #hurt/comfort #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgar law fanfiction #uhhhh yeah... thats it

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quotefeeling · 5 months

Quote

I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it.

J.D. Salinger // The Catcher in the Rye

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zynart · 2 years

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“book lovers” don’t love anything about books and it’s weird (or, defending classic novels)

kevin durant is talking about basketball fans but you’ll understand exactly what he means in a much broader sense if you’re on the basketball side of twitter and immediately recognize the mindset he’s describing — that it’s a sentiment that isn’t really about basketball fans at all, but about how we engage with all sorts of things especially in the social media era. but this tweet is just table-setting. the important thing here is that the rest of this post, about many writers and english teachers and book bloggers and overall people who describe themselves as book-lovers on the internet, can be summed up as a caption to this screenshot that just says “same energy”.

same energy. many writers and supposed booklovers on the internet actively dislike and disparage most literature. and actively dislike and disparage the entire literary tradition of the novel, and the novel as a form, and all the tools or frames of engaging with art, and many of the writers or novels known for beautiful writing, and the books that made up the history and development of the medium and inspired so many more of its writers and inspired stylistic shifts, so much fundamental context for any kind of novel… i’m losing my thread here but the point is, many people who describe themselves as book-lovers, many of them authors themselves or english teachers, will proudly and vocally announce their dislike and hatred of so many classic novels. often what seems like almost all of them.

and will not just proudly say so, but won’t shut up about it. and will bring it up constantly among themselves. it’s not a one-off thing either, this comes up con-fucking-stantly in what feels like almost any conversation about literature. often fully unprompted. and will somehow pretend it's an original insight and that they're being bold and brave and controversial and starting a conversation for saying it, when it's all been discourse every two months for as long as an online commons has existed, and when we all know they got that take from endless cycles of online discourse, and when the reason they say it is because they know people will agree with them, because we've seen how that plays out a million times already, b e c a u s e so many other people who like to imagine themselves as brave bold original thinkers for having picked up that opinion in a previous online cycle themselves will respond enthusiastically through some kind of collective pretense that it's a new conversation.

that's part of it too, everyone involved in that discussion collectively performs some kind of amnesia where this is a take they're hearing for the very first time, and speaking a truth they've always thought but never felt like it was socially acceptable to say. because that way, you get to feel like an original critical thinker without having to do any critical thinking, or to feel like you have a superior understanding of a piece of media without having any media literacy. and you get to feel some self-flattery about your superior insight for having the originality and courage to believe what is now a pretty mainstream view — maybe not mainstream among literati, but absolutely mainstream in the online commons, enough that you know many people agree with you already because you've seen the same agreement and mutual self-congratulation play out in a million online cycles already.

(it feels very disingenuous. maybe it's not consciously and intentionally disingenuous, maybe it's just a lack of self-awareness, but it's like.. you know how we could say a great joke at a family function that we once read on the internet, and they wouldn't know and would just think you're just that witty for coming up wiht it? like that, except we're all on the same internet and we'd all read the same joke already but we all have to pretend we'd never heard it before so we don't break kayfabe, because that way you can convince yourself that nobody else had seen it before and they all thought you were witty. everyone just performs the exact same roles every time discourse about any given book happens every 2-6 months on the internet. next time, can we all at least not pretend like this isn't the 26th time we've seen this conversation and spare all the "FINALLY someone said it!" "someone needed to start this conversation!" schtick? is that too harsh?)

but anyway. the thing is, alright. if you think jane austen is boring. and that the great gatsby is overrated. and also that the bronte sisters' books were super problematic (bc heathcliff and rochester with mad wife in the attic are both kinda misogynistic). and also that hemingway is boring posturing. and catcher in the rye is overrated (because the abused kid processing his brother's death is "annoying"). and that shakespeare is too old english style to be worth reading.

and that only pretentious wannabes read tolstoy or dostoevsky. and as for ursula k le guin or isaac asimov or philip k dick, sci-fi is a boring genre. and that nabokov is weird and kinda suss, and kundera seems like he has an ego and philosophizes too much (will claim to have liked one hundred years of solitude tho bc that’s still seen as fashionable). and only pretentious hipsters read david foster wallace or pynchon or franzen. none of them seem to remember that edith wharton exists. some quote george eliot as another white man, or just don’t mention her at all.

and never even mention chinua achebe or toni morrison or james baldwin or arundhati roy. and — this is something i actually saw being said on twitter in conversations between english teachers, authors, and people who call themselves book bloggers — say "kazuo ishiguro is only read by white people who want to feel smart but is actually full of weird stuff" while including a screenshot from a haruki murakami novel. even though ishiguro and murakami write very different books in very different styles, one has lived in the uk his whole life and his best known books are all set in the uk while the other is a japanese pop writer, and they have very little in common aside from a kinda sparse prose style and being ethnically asian…

at that point, do you even like literature?

having a few or couple of those opinions is one thing, people’s tastes vary and i don’t expect everyone to love every supposed literary classic, i’ll admit to not enjoying ‘a separate peace’ at all — but so many writers online proudly announce pretty much all of this. and it’s usually not even with specific justification about the specific author or book, just broad strokes commentary. a lot of it seems to be half-remembered from bored high school years, books where they barely remember what even happened during them but retained their opinions on them with full unwavering confidence, a lot of the comments that sound like someone who’s only vaguely heard of the book and not even to the level of reading the wikipedia page to check, who misunderstood the main themes and seems to not have tried to critically engage with it at all.

honestly, i know most people online's clever opinions about books are just regurgitated from the internet. i’m pretty convinced this applies to 80% of all mentions of the catcher in the rye online, for example. fuck it, here’s the screenshot of the ishiguro/murakami incident i mentioned a couple paragraphs back:

how is this not, really, just the hardcore marvel-only fan types of the book world? people who aren’t happy with their movies basically being so dominant they’ve outcompeted every other kind of movie in cinemas and make a trillion dollars, but also demand they get the critical appraisal of the godfather, and that martin scorsese praises them without reservation as high art, and also that they should get the same kind of respect and cachet among film artsy types as people who love all the classics of cinema or whatever. it’s the exact same mindset.

in a way, i feel like a lot of how gen x-millennial-zoomers are about art is like a relatively harmless version of how maga boomers are about society, in the sense of.. having the smallest expectation made of you or the smallest amount of effort/inconvenience asked or anything that isn’t super familiar exactly the way things were unchallenging or anyone not praising you for all of it is some kind of horrific thing that shouldn’t be allowed. i think this is a pretty terrible cultural development, as those go. its some kind of social collective self-infantilizing, all propped up by a whole circle of mutual reflexive defensiveness at any criticism of this way of being. and it’s a bit stressful saying all this knowing that there’s a pretty good chance that if the shoe fits, the response is likely not going to be a careful consideration — i mean, why would this somewhat incoherent and sloppily edited rant by some random on the internet warrant a level of careful consideration that people are proud of denying f scott fitzgerald or toni morrison?

its normal to have to put in a little tiny bit of effort and accommodation to access great things, like good art or a functional society. it’s good, even. it’s part of what makes life beautiful. there’s so much beauty to be found in art that you have to sit with and dwell on and read criticism of and analyze to find more and more layers of beauty, to find complexity, to develop a personal relationship between yourself and the art that’s so much deeper than just superficial infatuation because it’s something you built. you cant be mad about that expectation and demand praise for not following it. it’s fine to enjoy art on a simple and escapist level, but that’s not all that art is meant to be. insisting that it’s all that art has to be, or that expecting art to also be more is somehow morally wrong or elitist, is just philistinism and i’m only being a little bit hyperbolic when i say the normalization of that understanding of art is detrimental to society.

art is also meant to be something where you understand and respect the amount of craft and learning and attention to detail and thought and transcendent talent goes into making beautiful things, and you want to engage with it to the level that it deserves, to peel through the layers. to see how you interpret and find meaning and emotion in it based on the person you are at that moment in time, the most salient experiences and thoughts as you encountered that piece of art, the setting, the memories, an understanding that you can look back on and see change as you yourself change. to create an emotional correspondence with a mind you’ve never met, one that might have died decades ago and that lived in a world unimaginably different from your own but shared so many familiar thoughts and feelings and hopes and fears.

that carried the torch of a beautiful tradition of the form — the novel from miguel de cervantes through flaubert and tolstoy into the novels of the lost generation, the development of internal life as an art form in a way that’s unique to the medium and that can’t be shown in a play or film, the transition from novels as storytelling similar to a play in its earliest days to novels coming into its own as a unique art form that allows the reader to truly inhabit someone else’s mind, to think their thoughts and feel their feelings, in a way you can’t get from anything else. not from visual mediums, where you can see the action but can’t inhabit the inner minds of characters, only infer it. not from short stories, which even at their most introspective and internally oriented still don’t give you enough time.

i'll quote milan kundera from the art of the novel here, about what i mean when i talk about the development and tradition of the novel, and what only the novel can do: "Since its very beginnings, the novel has always tried to escape the unilinear, to open rifts in the continuous narration of a story ... Through its own logic, the novel discovered the various dimensions of existence one by one: with Cervantes and his contemporaries, it inquires into the nature of adventure; with Richardson, it begins to examine "what happens inside," to unmask the secret life of the feelings; with Balzac, it discovers man's rootedness in history; with Flaubert, it explores the terra previously incognita of the everyday; with Tolstoy, it focuses on the intrusion of the irrational in human behavior and decisions. It probes time: the elusive past with Proust, the elusive present with Joyce. With Thomas Mann, it examines the role of the myths from the remote past that control our present actions. Et cetera ..."

[my note: interrupting kundera here to note that all that's just up to pre-war early 20th century. there's still novels by the lost generation shaped by world wars and the great depression attending gertrude stein's salons in paris, the influence of fitzgerald and hemingway as branches of prose style, william faulkner and southern gothic, stream-of-consciousness and feminism with virginia woolf, chinua achebe and jean rhys with postcolonial inversions of older classics, magical realism with gabriel garcia marquez and salman rushdie and the like, big self-referential playful intertextual postmodern novels like david foster wallace through the weirdness of the 1990s, to this day there's still evolutions in form like jennifer egan with 'a visit from the goon squad', which such a great book by the way but i digress.. all that came after what kundera described here! and so much more that i'm likely forgetting right now]

but anyway, continuing kundera: "The characters in my novels are my own unrealized possibilities. The novel is not the author’s confession; it is an investigation of human life in the trap the world has become ... The novel has an extraordinary power of incorporation: whereas neither poetry nor philosophy can incorporate the novel, the novel can incorporate both poetry and philosophy without losing anything of its identity ... it can blend philosophy, narrative, and dream into one music ... it has [the ability to] marshall all intellectual means and all poetic forms to illuminate “what the novel alone can discover”: man’s being. ... I’ll never tire of repeating: The novel’s sole raison d’être is to say what only the novel can say."

i think that's very cool. i love thinking about what the novel can do and all the possibilities offered to me by its presence and what only the novel can do. when you’re reading a novel, the same little voice in your head that speaks out your own thoughts are speaking out someone else’s thoughts; the same body where you feel sadness or tension or excitement at events in your life, through the power of imagination, replicates those same feelings in you as you read someone else experience them. you get to understand situations and develop insights that you never could’ve if you’d only had your own experiences to rely on, because you could briefly borrow the direct experiences and emotional responses and realizations of others. having that lightbulb moment as you piece together some insight that the writer had laid out the breadcrumbs and guided you to discover. where things that wouldn’t have gotten through if you’d just been told it in bullet points become things you understand intimately because on some mini scale, in that brain-in-a-vat that’s your mind inside your skull inside your body, a book gave you the same experiential stimuli as being someone else and living a different life. that shit is fucking magical. learning about the journey, tracing that development, witnessing writers over the year gradually understand the full power and capabilities of the novel as a medium and experiment in finding ways to use the medium, is just fascinating to me.

reading classic novels to me is discovering a whole parallel history. not just events, not just ideas, but the way we think about stories. aren’t you interested in that? if you’re an english teacher, don’t your students deserve to experience that with your guidance? if you’re a writer, doesn’t taking your work seriously call for a more intimate knowledge of the clay you’re molding?

i think people give a lot of excuses for their reading choices where they can’t just admit it’s a simple choice with trade-offs, or a preference where what you value in the moment is just different. that’s fine. there’s no need to be ashamed of that and to try to make it out to be anything deeper than that. nobody has to act like a certain type of book is the only kind that’s sufficiently accessible or that has characters of a relevant age or certain background. i mean, there's just straight up books. all kinds of books, a whole wide world of them. i understand being unable to read out of attention span or language level or whatever, but if you can read and its just about needing the book to be unchallenging, there's many many books. relatively short books, readable books, even books with characters in their 20s.

and i would argue that even if there aren’t, its still valuable to read about people with different lives and experiences. marshall mcluhan has a point about how what we call narcissism is a misunderstanding of the actual myth of narcissus from which we get the word. i'll include the quote here first: "The Greek myth of Narcissus is directly concerned with a fact of human experience, as the word Narcissus indicates. It is from the Greek word narcosis, or numbness. The youth Narcissus mistook his own reflection in the water for another person. Now the point of this myth is the fact that men at once become fascinated by any extension of themselves in any material other than themselves... the wisdom of the Narcissus myth does not convey any idea that Narcissus fell in love with anything he regarded as himself. Obviously he would have had very different feelings about the image had he known it was [literally] himself. It is indicative of the bias of our intensely technological and, therefore, narcotic culture that we have long interpreted the Narcissus story to mean that he fell in love with himself, that he imagined the reflection to be Narcissus."

and i think this was really prescient about the state of a lot of modern online criticism and discussion of art. the organizing principle of how some "book lover" communities, whether on YA twitter or fandom tumblr or at your local library reading group, judge the value of media: by their "relatability", whether you can see yourself within the book and setting and characters being the ultimate arbiter of whether a piece of fiction is good or bad. i don't want to call it narcissistic per se, but it does mirror (pun intended...) the myth of narcissus, in that falling in love with a piece of fiction is about whether it's relatable, whether you can see yourself in it.

i'm going to head off a likely response here by emphasizing that this is different from the broader phrase of "feeling seen", which conflates "relatability" and "representation". i'm not here to quell the power of feeling seen, especially for people who have traditionally been surrounded by media where they haven't felt seen, but i think it'd be disingenuous to claim what mcluhan says here is referring to representation. representation is about seeing people *like* you, finding a sense of community in seeing someone who experiences the world in similar ways and would understand how you experience the world as a result. where the myth of narcissus would be applicable is about falling in love with media, even judging the objective value of media and whether it's good or bad as a work of art, based on how much you see yourself in it.

which i think kind of defeats the point of books, the reason why books and reading got this semi-mystical reputation in the first place. the concept of the empathy machine was coined, to my knowledge, by roger ebert referring to movies. art forms in general have the power to be empathy machines, compassion machines, tenderness machines, sympathy machines. empathy as feeling what it's actually like to be someone else, compassion as understanding that someone else also feels things you feel, tenderness as feeling seen and empathised with, sympathy as sorrow and commiseration because you see someone else, maybe the exact way you'd define them might be different but let's phrase them clumsily like this. the machine doesn't operate by itself, it needs you to plug directly into it, and the machine works differently based on your own nature and what you put into it and how you engage with it. most art has the capability to be empathy machines for someone empathetic willing to engage enough, but the barrier of entry is different

the magic of books is that they are a special kind of empathy machine that puts you directly inside the mind of another human being, almost like an other-selves simulator. other-interiority simulator, other-inner-self simulator, whatever you'd like to call it. which makes them uniquely powerful as an empathy machine, even compared to other types of art. how it feels to be someone else is the most unbreakable, most fundamental barrier in existence. it's the AT fields from evangelion and the argument for the human instrumentality project, the impenetrability of that barrier is the reason for wallfacers in the three-body problem, its how sufis and ascetics fall in love with god when nobody else but the omniscient can ever ever truly know what it's like to be you and feel what you feel

this can't be conveyed in the same way in mediums like movies or plays where the medium itself is from an external point of view and is viewed through this barrier of the mind, and is harder to convey in structured forms like poetry which may not be able to capture the endless variety of form and expression within our thoughts and feelings and experiences (or, going back to kundera, the freedom of form within the novel as enabling polyphony). i think the closest art forms in that sense may be music, which also has a relative freedom of form and the ability to express depths of feeling both individually and through the interaction of music with words and even the sequencing of tracks across an album, and video games, which may not directly put you in the mind of someone else the way books do and which may at first glance seem like they belong alongside movies in being seen through the AT field but where the difference is that in a video game your character makes *choices* and you feel how it feels to make those choices as an agent — even if you're not inhabiting someone else's thoughts, you're feeling how it feels to be someone who experienced and did certain things and made certain choices. but i think there's still plenty about books that is unique. the empathy machine has to be collaborative, your imagination is a necessary creative or generative aspect for it to be a novel and not just a report of events

"book lovers" often act like books have some kind of sacred and mystical power but don't seem to be able to justify this idea in how they engage with books as a whole, beyond this sense of books as an identity signifier or aesthetic or accessory. but books do have a certain sacred and mystical power — that they are invitations, almost portals, you could call them pensieves even, where someone gives you a window into another mind. (not necessarily their own mind — the mirror of books as an empathy machine is how even writing itself is an empathy machine of an activity that asks the writer to empathize up a creation — which is also partly why i think that to be a good writer you should also be a good reader).

in much of online, the idea that any book or piece of media that isn't personally relatable would naturally be boring and impossible to connect with is so widely accepted that it's never even really a point of dispute. i want to say it should be, and that we should start disputing it. because i think the magic of books and fiction in general is that it's a way for you to exercise your empathy muscles. the characters or settings don't have to be "relatable" for you to be able to relate to it: it's just about stretching your capacity for empathy a little bit, inhabiting someone different from you with a life different from yours, seeing the world through their eyes, and ultimately learning something about yourself, the world, and humanity as a result. i think it's important to make this argument forcefully and not let this narcotic view of art — that it's natural and expected for us to only be able to enjoy art that is relatable, that relatability is a merit and unrelatability is a flaw in itself — not become even more hegemonic.

but ultimately, prioritizing enjoyment or relatability is fine. there's no harm to the preference. life is short and exhausting, free time is limited, and what we do for leisure can just be about having a fun time, or about getting a guaranteed emotional hit from a genre or medium that you know will fill whatever you need emotionally from reading right now. it's fine to read romance because it's fun or sexy, or fanfic because it'll make you cry. even "narcotic" isn't an inherently bad thing to be: even in a very literal sense, we all accept that it's perfectly normal to unwind with a glass of wine or a joint. it’s fine to prioritize other things. but for people who make their whole brand being about books specifically, i think it deserves far more harsh criticism that so many are so wilfully against engaging with the majority of books. a lot of it is an echo chamber where everyone else in the same circles feels the same way, i guess, but society in general has given this obviously ridiculous state of affairs a free pass for so long.

maybe the internet just isn’t real life and i’m seeing an unrepresentative subset of people. but at least going from “book lover” twitter, which is a loose amalgam of authors and english teachers and people who run wordpress blogs with book reviews, it feels like a lot of it is a whole generation of people who got into writing through fanfic and exclusively read YA or fanfic and felt embarrassed about it being seen as dorky, so they made their whole identity and personality and mission to be about validating kids like their imagined younger selves, without ever really growing up in that aspect of their personalities, and without doing any further developing/exploration of their tastes.

you know what i really don’t understand coming from an author, or even an amateur writer? having zero interest in reading the classics, even just to see if there's anything worth learning from great prose stylists to improve your own craft. i mean, if you think there's nothing in classic novels worth learning from, not even like 5% of it to try find what details or specifics you might find from widely respected prose stylists or lauded writing, like that its not worth reading it even to find just a few points you can use to develop your own writing — let alone that whole thing about all that art has to teach us about the human experience, which is so much more than the ground covered by contemporary YA and fanfiction, and what value that could add to the actual lives of yourself or your students —

if you're blinkered enough to think that your subset of writing is all there is to take value from, and you're basically just doing the reverse of all your "people who respect the classics don’t bother to see that there is insight and value and quality to be found and learnt from within pop fiction like YA and fanfic!", and arrogant enough to believe that you don’t need any more than that —

clearly you don’t actually love writing, or language, in that case. and that’s the truth. none of it was ever about a love for literature or writing or language as much as it was about validating the child version of themselves by coddling it and saying it’s actually fine to feel superior about it. what’s missing is any process of validating what does bring them out further, for getting into writing/reading in the first place being a starting point for growing and branching out and discovering how much more there is to art, rather than using it as a reason to just double down and shut out anything else.

i may not be able to do some critical meta-analysis of all new literature but look, a generation of writers filling a whole genre not actually wanting to learn from all the lauded writers before them to improve their prose style or get ideas or insights isn’t going to be doing the best job they can. it’s a mindset that is actively damaging to the genres you claim to love, one that’s going to lead to stagnancy and decay, and one that disrespects an audience of voracious readers who want to get the best art they can. i don’t think this should be all that controversial. people might try to argue with me about whether old books are better than new books or whatever, but that’s not a point i’m interested in arguing — survival bias does mean that often only the very best from the past is what makes it through the decades to still be widely known to us, and i’m not qualified to compare the absolute very best of modern literature to that of the past and i’m not even sure that’s possible — but that’s not a point i’m interested in arguing.

thing is, it doesn’t matter which were better, what matters is that there’s definitely unquestionably indisputably a lot to be learned from books that have connected with millions across generations, and inspired movements and moved critics, and led literature lovers to their spark of love, and that passing up all of that is a cynical, nihilistically arrogant, aggressively anti-intellectual approach to art. if i tried to build a plane engine without ever really studying, i might wing something that gets you off the ground by watching some youtube videos, but it's likely not going to run a plane as well as something built by engineers who've spent years learning from the lessons of masters and geniuses before them honed through the mistakes of thousands before them.

and if i respected the craft, i’d bother learning. and when i pick up those textbooks, they’re going to be boring or hard if i never bother doing much study, or doing any complementary readings, or doing the exercises or discussions of the material, or even doing any close reading at all. i can’t slack on all of that and then say the textbooks or lectures are just impenetrable and too hard to bother with. that would be an asinine way to approach any other craft or skill. and i think authors and english teachers and people who love books should respect the art enough to take it seriously, and not just blow it off as “who needs to study or learn or read up on it? anyone can write, it’s just putting some words down!”. we shouldn’t be saying that. that’s for my parents to say

work with me here. at least try put aside your prejudices about some of those classics, or what you vaguely remember as your first impressions, and actually engage with them in good faith. reading commentary or discussions and critics' views on them, paying attention to spot the metaphors and turns of phrase and motifs and how the sentences are structured to make something sound beautiful or how something is set up to come together later. you don’t have to love it, but you can at least engage with it in good faith first, with an approach of respect and seriousness. it’s a fun way of socializing with like-minded people when you can make it an identity signifier thing, where you have an imagined view of classic novel lovers as aloof opponents making fun of you in class and you stake out an identity as being anti-that and pro-ya or fanfic, like a fanfic or YA protagonist who learns to embrace their differences and acknowledge their specialness against the world or whatever.

where it genuinely depresses me is to see it coming from english teachers. from anyone who influences what young people get to read, really, but especially coming from english teachers who take pride in denying their students the opportunity to learn many of the great novels that they could be learning, and that they could be finding beauty in and enjoying if you could bring that same passion and approach to teaching them instead of letting your dislike show. i understand that the way those english teachers may have initially been introduced to the classics in their high school years was probably not pedagogically ideal, but it's really not an excuse for an adult making a career out of it. at that point you have a responsibility to your students and sometimes that responsibility requires you to get over yourself and do right by your students. no copouts here. no avoiding responsibility. it's an understandable excuse for why any random adult might not be a fan of the classics. if that same random adult claims to be a book lover literature fan i may find them a bit of a fraud for it, but they aren't doing wrong by anyone. an author who does it should think their readers deserve better. an english teacher doing it is self-centered and malpractice.

if what you’re modeling for your students is that they should also feel comfortable or even empowered flippantly dismissing the books they’ve been told make up part of a great education, you’re not all that far removed from the people in school telling kids that books are lame and for nerds and that they should just watch a movie. it’s only different in degree, but it still communicates the exact same concept to students. what an english teacher is meant to do is to at least try inculcate a love of books in students, a sense of awe and respect for the power of the written word. that books are amazing and that there’s so many kinds of books out there that they should give a real chance to and that they’ll find some book they love and that it’ll open up whole new worlds. don’t you think that out of all your students, the book which makes some of your students fall in love with reading might be one of those great novels of history?

i’m not saying that assigning books that kids will find easier to read and engage with isn’t a perfectly fine approach to involving students, especially if other approaches aren’t getting them as involved. but anyone reading this essay in good faith already knows that thinking that’s what i’m criticizing is defensively propping up a strawman, because i’m not talking about the english teacher who clearly loves novels and goes with a book at the class’s overall level while still encouraging students to go seek out more and pointing them toward the wide world of great novels out there that they can try read and engage with in their own time if they want. i’m talking about this very common attitude and phenomenon of people disparaging most novels, this often being english teachers who discuss this mindset informing how they teach their students. who proudly tweet about how they shut down some kid’s curious question about the catcher in the rye or the great gatsby or the grapes of wrath with some soundbite from the internet detritus that’d do great for clout, telling their students something like “ugh, those books are so boring”. which i think is something that an english teacher should feel embarrassed to admit.

at that point, it’s not really about those kids’ education at all, its about the teacher themselves. or it’s not about their young readers, it’s about the author’s need for personal validation in their tastes and choices, and seeking that validation from people who are influenced by and take cues from them in the first place because that’s a way to receive uncritical validation without much pushback. it's just a kind of self-laudatory narcissism that claims to be supporting kids, when it’s really just about those teachers or authors themselves in some ways never having moved on from childhood. not saying they're immature or childish as a whole in their lives but in this specific aspect, it is absolutely an immature and childish approach that casts themselves and their students/readers as characters in a high school setting fanfiction or YA story. just people congratulating themselves for teaching their students that a lot of reading is lame and uncool and boring and elitist beyond an entertaining subset of it. which, to clarify, is something which i think should be considered malpractice for an english teacher.

that’s just doing the kids they're teaching (or writing for) a disservice. it’s basically making them just a prop in your exercise of validating your aggrieved younger self, while dismissing the possibility of actual real kids' intelligence or interest in expanding their tastes or intellectual curiosity — a perspective where you can look down on everyone else, including those other kids who want more from class, as somehow being snobby villains in your life story or in the life story of an imagined self-insert high school version of yourself that you're projecting on some poor kids you identify with in class. i think this is something people who do this to their students need to sit with and be introspective about, because personal psychodrama shouldn’t be taken out on students.

you can’t dismiss the classic novel or literary canon like that. that dismissal is either a bad-faith argument or an unserious and ignorant one. there is so much literature that has so much to say about actual cultural evolution from gender repression in victorian times (jane austen, bronte sisters) or the force of tradition in 19th century russia (tolstoy) to the world wars (elie wiesel, erich maria remarque) to the despair of the lost generation after the world wars (fitzgerald, hemingway) to 60s counterculture (hunter thompson, kerouac, ginsberg) to life through postcolonial revolutions (achebe, rushdie, camus) to socialist republics and revolutions (kundera) and latin american corporatist coups (gabriel garcia marquez) and indian caste conflict (arundhati roy) and postmodern disillusionment and absurdism (david foster wallace, delillo, pynchon, etc) and warnings of futures like theocratic conservatism or authoritarianism or classifications (atwood, orwell, huxley, ishiguro, philip k dick)…

and i do think calling the overall literary canon of classic novels "straight white male" (notably, a claim often made by straight white people) is often just a crutch to moralize their own personal dislike of something for aesthetic reasons. and i often find that just fundamentally dishonest, because its not like they're replacing hemingway with chinua achebe or james baldwin or allen ginsberg or ralph ellison or toni morrison or edith wharton or arundhati roy or gabriel garcia marquez or salman rushdie or kazuo ishiguro or ursula k le guin or margaret atwood, all of whom are either people of color or gay or women or some combination of the three. they're dumping all of those out too as distaste of classic novels and replacing it with diverse YA novels.

the real truth is that it’s not about straight white maleness at all. there’s plenty of novels universally considered ‘great novels’, ranked in lists of the great novels, available for teaching in schools, subject of plenty of critical praise, with huge legacies in the development of the medium and of culture as a whole. it’s not about that. its about genre and about the idea that literature should just be a rollicking read that is nice for the imagination and feels fun, and this continued idea that any art being challenging is bad.

and thing is, ironically enough, this is actually erasing the contributions of those famous and respected and influential non-white/straight/male literary figures, and the art that they created engaging with and in reaction to their circumstances, while doing so. because discarding the classic novel or literary fiction or whatever you want to call it, swapping out influential classic novels for ya, is just throwing out all of their work and their legacies. you can’t pretend that that recognizing diversity is your actual justification when you're throwing out the study of classic novels alongside their historical and cultural context, which includes a ton of the contributions of non-white/straight/male people.

and the charitable interpretation of that for me is that it’s just a bullshit excuse and lying to themselves. that a lot of it is just people working out their own personal insecurities about not being taken seriously, by digging in the trenches real pre-emptively and casting themselves in the role of righteous rebels overturning an establishment that propped up bad things while suppressing the good things they liked. none of this is to be dismissive of either the young adult genre or fanfiction, which i’m fully sympathetic to as genres that have put out a lot of great art that shouldn’t be summarily dismissed but often have been. but at this point, all of it begins to feels like a whole psychological mess that's making childhood resentments and aggrieved persecution complex about not having your tastes be universally praised no matter how mainstream or popular or successful they become.

i compared it to maga boomers or marvel fans before. to paraphrase dril, i’m not going to “hand it to” maga boomers and have no reason to. but at least marvel fans who act like that have much less weird psychodrama going on, because most of them don’t go on to become filmmakers or film studies teachers themselves and aren’t producing art where they imagine themselves in the position of the superhero. they're just occasionally annoying fans, who don’t really have much negative impact beyond their dollars dictating what gets made. which i don’t really blame ppl for because its individual tastes driving their individual ticket purchases that adds up to a lot of money and makes it profitable. but your average marvel fan doesn’t themselves either teach or create content where they can perpetuate it within culture. and at least marvel fans just call themselves marvel fans, they don’t insist they're the true actual film fans while shitting on the godfather and proudly announcing how they won’t watch anything from before 2008. many “book lovers” and “literature fans” who actually hate pretty much most literature and great novels could do with that level of specificity, without trying to take on the mantle of being so in love with books and the english language and the written word. it’s not true. it’s denial. it’s a cope.

and that’s the charitable interpretation. because the alternative is just being too ignorant of the presence of all those writers and their contributions within the canon in the first place. in which case, why do people talk so confidently disparaging classic novels if they don’t actually know anything about them beyond recognizing maybe the great gatsby and moby dick, and don’t actually know enough to even know about all these non-straight/white/male writers of classic novels and their role in the evolution of the novel as a medium? it’s just a fully unjustified level of confidence in that situation. and neither one of ignorance about their subject or uninformed confidence, let alone both, paints a great picture of people who've supposedly made a career out of writing or literature or the english language.

i don’t love getting into neat little psychological explanations for things but then again, fuck it. all the “essays” on here are just ruminations on culture and whatever psychology it feels like is driving that culture, after all. it’s not like that’s out of the overall scope of what’s going on here so why not. the reason i hesitate here is because there’s a lot of reflexive thin-skinned defensiveness that seems to be part and parcel with this attitude, given that i think a lot of it is birthed in a sort of understandable insecurity anyway — and i don’t say insecurity as an insult, i think insecurity is a very understandable and pretty universal aspect of being human — but the rest of this is going to be pretty harsh. and maybe that harshness isn’t the right approach to persuade people who i’d hope would be persuaded, but i don’t know, honestly i think we’re long overdue to start being harsh about it and i’m going to give that a little nudge. at this point, my visceral reaction to seeing this is just thinking “grow up”, and that they've been indulged and welcomed and catered to enough already now.

that’s my screed. me to classic novels, the most dickish love letter in the world

update, now that people have discovered this post and are actually reading it: i don't mind any of this being shared or reprinted anywhere if it's with attribution. whatever gets people to read it to change the conversation works for me. i hope it reaches enough of an audience to make the right people mad, to be honest.

if you liked this, feel free to check out my other 'essays' on internet/pop culture stuff on my homepage. here's a selection:

· humanity is worth loving, humans are worth saving

· there are things we owe to each other

· i trained a neural net on 10,000 irony-poisoned tweets and it just gave me cringe?

· what makes someone good, bad, cancelled, or redeemed? i don't know either!

· please tell me if you have a definitive answer on what makes someone a bad person

· ok, fine, my social justice politics feel a bit like religion sometimes and that’s ok

· after the deluge (short story) (dispatch from an island state post climate apocalypse)

#literature #books #novels #english #teaching #fiction #literary fiction #writing #lit #booktok #booktwt #god every time there's discourse about #the catcher in the rye #catcher in the rye #holden caulfield #its always the same lazy as fuck take thats been brought up every week for the past 12 years #that people pretend is a bold brave thing to say when they got it from the internet and already know the internet will agree

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perfeqt · 2 months

Quote

I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it.

J.D. Salinger // The Catcher in the Rye

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thehopefulquotes · 7 months

Quote

I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it.

J.D. Salinger // The Catcher in the Rye

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perfectfeelings · 7 months

Quote

I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it.

J.D. Salinger // The Catcher in the Rye

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this-big-field-of-rye-and-all · 16 days

Text

Depression is over or am I repressing myself as usually?

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rileys-battlecats · 4 months

Text

More worldbuilding stuff for Minare and Vaitus's story :D

Monsters, and other such evils:

Monsters are creatures that have become fully inundated with stagnant magic.

In places where there are/were mass deaths, the magic of the victims tends to stick around and become stagnant. Natural magic is a moving, flowing thing, but stagnant magic takes on the traits of the decay that it lingers around.

Creatures that spend too long around stagnant magic can become cursed. A cursed creature is capable of spreading their curse through magical attacks, and if they stay in a limited territory for a long time, this can create cursed grounds, where the land itself begins to leech the life out of those who wander onto them.

One can recognize a cursed creature through its behavior. Cursed creatures are incautious, bold, and move in unnervingly jerky patterns. They have a dark, unnerving aura about them that instills a feeling of disturbance in those nearby. On occasion, rabid animals have been mistaken for cursed creatures, due to their similar behaviors.

A cursed creature left unchecked will eventually develop into a monster; while a cursed creature will usually stay in its cursed grounds, a monster will actively seek out victims to attack and kill. Monsters are visually distinct from cursed creatures; they mutate from the over abundance of stagnant magic, and usually develop characteristics like extra eyes, more joints in their limbs, multiple heads, altered antlers or horns, larger/sharper teeth, and/or a dark surrounding aura.

It is possible for a human to become a cursed creature, and, eventually, a monster. This is exceedingly rare; it requires a human to spend extended periods of time saturated in stagnant magic, and then to be left in it to become cursed. A cursed human can be purified with enough sunlight or light magic/potions, but a human that becomes a monster cannot be saved. Their corpse must be purified before burial/cremation, to prevent the spreading of cursed grounds

Curses and monsters are most effectively fought by using light magic.

While some rare individuals are able to use light magic, it is far more accessible to fight these creatures by splashing potions that have been specially brewed using ingredients with light magic properties. Fireflies, star lilies, sunflowers, and moon jellies are historically used in brews to counter curses; light potions will almost certainly be found in the cautious traveler's pack.

Monsters can be killed through mundane means (swords, bows, axes, etc), but the carcass must be purified, lest a new cursed ground form around the corpse. If the monster is small, it may be enough to move the carcass to a bright, sunlit area, with no shade nearby. A full day, from dawn to dusk, of uninterrupted sunlight is enough to purify a small monster carcass. For larger beasts, light potions must be brewed and poured over the body, and direct sunlight is needed to counter the creation of a new cursed ground. For the largest of monsters, only concentrated light magic is enough to purify them.

Cursed grounds can only be purified through either light magic or time. Sunlight will slowly eat away at the curse with no cursed creature to maintain the grounds, but this requires that no new cursed creature moves into the area. Concentrated light magic can purify cursed grounds directly, though this takes an immense amount of magic.

In the current day, the kingdom has had several generations with no light magic user on the throne to protect the people from such evils.

Cursed grounds have cropped up all over the land, and monsters are not uncommon. Maps have been drawn with paths weaving around cursed grounds, but travelers still run the risk of being attacked while on the road, especially at night. To travel alone, one must be either incredibly skilled or an idiot.

People living in protected cities their whole lives may doubt the stories of creatures in the night, but those who have traveled the lands know better. There is a saying amongst adventurers, "you're either a superstitious traveler, or you're a dead traveler". Caution is paramount to survival when moving near cursed lands.

When a light magic user is on the throne and using the crown to amplify their magic, cursed grounds cannot develop in the kingdom's borders, and cursed creatures can be very easily purified. Monsters are incredibly rare, and can be dealt with quickly via the ruler's light magic. Before the current royal line took power, no one had had to deal with monsters or cursed creatures/grounds in centuries. When those evils began rearing their heads again, people had to adapt quickly to taking care of things themselves. Brewers dug up dusty tomes with recipes for light potions, while priests and priestesses scoured ancient texts to learn how to cleanse a monster carcass of its dark magics.

In recent decades, it seems that monsters have grown more and more common, and cursed grounds are ever expanding, inch by inch. The situation is untenable; in 10 more years? 20? The land will be nearly unlivable. This fact is ignored by the people in power; they are safe in their walled cities with their many guards to protect them. However, the common people fear for their lives, and for their futures. This is another cause for urgency for the rebellion; Minare must become queen within the next few years. If she doesn't, the damage to the land could become irreversible.

Illustrations of some monsters under the cut; tw for some slight body-horror, blood, extra eyes, etc

#rye's art #MaVst #MaVst worldbuilding #HI i am so normal about developing this magic system #worldbuilding is one of my favorite activities so this has been so much fun to write about #deer monster lookin like it's about to say ''BE NOT AFRAID''

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devnmon · 1 year

Note

daryl smut set in season 9 during winter and he gives gender neutral/femme reader his jacket and blanket because they are really cold and frail. the reader thanks him endlessly and goes to bed and daryl checks on them and they wake up and then smooch and that leads to other things. ALSO PRAISE KINK PLS? and loving physical touches.

So Good for Me

hi anon! thank u for your request <3 i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

Warnings: smut, praise kink, oral (f!receiving), doggy style

word count: 6.8k (my longest fic/request yet oop)

The only sound heard amongst the wind were horses footsteps on pavement, as they pulled a cart carrying supplies from the kingdom. They were being brought to the Alexandria, in thanks to the sheriff for taking in the group as winter began. You walked along a paved road with the company of Daryl and many others, as you all set out on foot to the gated suburbia. Everyone had packed up and hauled out as soon as winter began to set in. The state of kingdom meant no one could stay in its walls, at least not while the colder weather made its appearance.

The current forecast suggested a bad storm was coming, which the group had found out from Jerry, watching as his barometer dropped with every minute that passed. Soon enough, every warm breath you exhaled was visible, constricting against the frigid air. The oxygen felt fresh and sharp in your lungs as your eyes darted around the group of people that accompanied you. They were mostly citizens of the kingdom, along with the king himself and his companions.

Your view focused past them, scouting the surrounding trees for any impending danger. The heightened state of peril was thanks to the Whisperers, a group of people that used walker skins to blend in and walk among the dead.

Though, you were with aid of a certain archer and other skilled individuals that could take out walkers with no problem. Even then, you had to keep a close eye, especially these days.

The weight of your backpack lingered against your body, as you shivered under the clothing you wore to keep warm. Looking over at Daryl, he trailed slightly behind you with his hands wrapped around the strap of his crossbow. The poncho he wore rested over his shoulders, covering his leather jacket and vest.

As if it couldn't get any colder, it began to snow, slightly at first, just flurries that fell unannounced. You didn't notice them when it started, but one particularly large flake landed on your nose, drawing your attention towards the white sky.

A couple minutes had passed, and the snowfall increased tenfold, pouring from the sky. It began to cover the world before your eyes.

You admired Daryl, who'd also been looking up at the sky, as the snowflakes fell on his hair and eyelashes. He continued walking, but felt the coldness stir him inside.

"Ain't that somethin'." Daryl's drawl startled you amongst the quiet, which pulled you from your train of thought.

"The snow? Yeah, it's pretty amazing." Daryl’s eyes glazed over to you, meeting him with a soft smile.

"That, and I’m experiencin' it with you." Your cheeks felt hot now as Daryl's words warmed your face. His steps picked up as he walked next to you now, slotting his gloved fingers between yours. The action made your heart swell a bit, seeing as the feeling of his hand was warming you now more than any clothing you wore. Not even the constant movement of your body was enough to warm you.

Apparently though, Daryl was enough to keep you warm.

He was definitely more than enough for you, in every way possible. Not only did his hair remind you of waves and his eyes the ocean, but there was something about the archer that made him irresistible to you. In everything he did there was love, compassion, and strength. Daryl was the kind of man to put everyone before himself. In the time that you'd known him, he never had anyone in his life put him first. Until he met you. you changed everything about his world.

it wasn’t just with the way you saw him for more than his image suggested. You knew deep down he was a good man, ever since the quarry. Daryl didn't believe he was, not until you showed him. Every night you spent together was in order to prove to him that he too deserved good things.

You proved to him that he was something good.

One day, Daryl realized that he wasn't thinking as low of himself, like he once had. Seeing himself in a new light coincidentally made his view on life better. He had something worth fighting for: his family, and you.

You had been mesmerized with him, reasoning behind the infatuation escaping you. He was so much different than any man you'd met, even before the world fell. Perhaps it was because he’d been the first man in a long time that didn’t look at you with the intention of getting you in bed. You’d gotten plenty of that from the world before, not to mention from other assholes at Alexandria. Daryl saw you as you were, a survivor, like him, with a heart of gold and loyalty like no other. He’d been there during the times you'd dealt with some real tough shit, his enamor for you growing with every day around you.

As the both of you grew older, the love you shared with him grew with you.

It didn’t take long for the falling snow to become a couple inches thick on the ground, the horses to pulling their carts with a bit of a struggle. There was no telling how much longer they could keep up in these conditions.

“Crap. If this storm keeps up, we’re gonna have to stop before the roads get too bad.” Jerry spoke loud enough for the king and others around him to hear. As you turned a listening ear, he continued. “We should stop here, or at least try to pull off the main road so we can’t be seen. A couple of us can split off into smaller groups to try and see if there’s shelter up ahead.”

Judging by the state of the horses and everyone’s general exhaustion, the group decided that stopping to wait out the storm was a better idea than trying to advance any further while it barreled on.

"Hey Jer, Daryl and I can walk ahead on the road to look for some place to stay. It’s freezing out here." You called out to him, wanting to help find some place for the group to stay.

"I dunno, dude. Maybe we should stick together while we’re out here. you know, benefit of a group and all that." He knew you and Daryl could handle yourselves if anything happened, but he didn't want to risk it, even with the weather.

"You know we can handle ourselves. Trust me! We'll be fine. If anything happens, we’ll shout. Okay?” he nodded in agreement as you shared a look with Daryl and started walking ahead. The group became smaller as you walked ahead, watching from afar as they pulled off the road into the surrounding forest.

The snow crunched under your boots as the both of you trekked further up the road. Your body began shivering more intensely, your jaw chittering against your teeth due to the temperature drop, whilst your fingers began to lose feeling. In attempt to warm your body up, you rubbed your hands against your arms to create any heat possible.

“Are ya warm enough out here?” Daryl’s eyes were filled with concern as he walked a bit closer to you. Frankly, he didn’t look warm either, seeing how the archer only wore the clothes he’d been wearing since the fall.

“When is anyone warm in this type of weather?” Daryl’s fingers interlocked with yours, warming you despite the freezing snow.

“We’re gonna find a place, and when we do, I promise to warm ya up. No matter what it takes, alright?” He brought your clasped hand up to his lips, leaving a kiss on the top of your hand.

“I mean, other people deserve to be warm too, you know? We can’t all stay out here forever. I doubt there's gonna be room for everyone even if we do find shelter.”

Daryl listened intently as you went on to talk about the safety and wellness of the group. He was lovestruck with the way you cared for people, mostly everyone around you. It showed him how big your heart was, and how he could not find himself anywhere else except with you. These days, he felt his heart beating for no one else except for you. You were no stranger to everyone in the adjoining communities, familiarizing yourself with each one and how they worked.

“Listen to me. I ain’t gonna just let ya freeze. ‘Sides, all those people got each other to keep warm. I think we’ll be jus’ fine keepin’ the both of us from frostbite. If ya need rest, we can tell the group to go ahead. I ain't leavin' you, ‘specially not now.”

You giggled at his sweet words and glanced to the road before looking back up at him. You scrunched your nose, the way you do when you get shy, one of the things Daryl picked up about you.

"Well I'm not leaving you either. You can bet on that." you moved closer to Daryl, wanting to steal any of his body heat for yourself. He could always warm you up, and there were more than a few ways he went about doing so.

"Damn straight." The corner of Daryl's mouth nudged up at the fact, perfectly proud to be the one who holds your heart.

The two of you walked quietly for a few minutes, contempt with the comfort it brought each of you. Peering off to the right side of the road and into the trees, you noticed something hidden among the trees. The snowfall didn't help you see it any clearer, but what you thought you saw, was definitely there.

"Hey, tell me you're seein' that.." Your gloved hand tugged on Daryl's arm, pulling the both of you from walking.

"What is that, a-" Daryl's sharp eyesight made it easy for him to spot what you were looking at right away.

"It's a cabin." You smiled at him as the both of you started off into the forest.

"Stay quiet, an' behind me." Daryl lifted his crossbow off his back, and to his shoulder. His eyes darted around to check for any unfriendly faces, dead or living.

"Yeah, okay. We got this." The both of you nodded, determined to keep one another safe.

After Daryl scouted the outside and crept up to the front door, he beckoned you over with a single motion. He opened the door slowly, entering with his weapon ready, you following. The whole house looked vacant, but Daryl checked and then double checked if everything was as it seemed.

Upon entering, the first thing that caught your eye was a huge fireplace, one that looked big enough to sit in. Your shivering returned at the mere thought of a warm fire; the two of you hadn't been able to keep one lit since the late autumn dried everything out.

"Dare, look at all this stuff. Wow, it even has a fireplace. Hey, do you think there's enough room for us all here?" You shut and locked the door behind you as Daryl checked windows and looked for any food to heat up.

"I dunno, looks like the typ'a place rich kids come on the weekends to throw parties."

"True, or hook up with their boyfriends." You looked at Daryl and he scoffed, although the idea didn’t leave his mind.

"Yeah, right." Daryl scoffed, but turned to you and noticed your trembling. "Sunshine, hey, sit down. Yer exhausted an' freezin' cold. I want ya to rest a little. Here..."

Daryl placed his bow on the kitchen table, shrugging his poncho and jacket off and draped them over your shoulders. You were shocked at the action, because when does Daryl ever take off his precious jacket and vest in one go?

There was only one time you could recall before that, in which the main idea was to seduce him that night. Of course, Daryl almost fell to his knees in your enamor. He would have done anything you'd asked that night. Other times, he just couldn't see you wearing it, to keep himself composed in public. Otherwise there would have been way more hickeys on your neck. One thing about Daryl, he was fond of making it clear who you were taken by.

"Daryl- but won't you get cold? It's not exactly the warmest in h-here." The heat of your breath was visible in front of your nose, which was turning red with the temperature.

"Trust me, I'm fine. Just worried about ya, is all. Can ya try to get some rest? F'me?"

You were about to defend yourself and say you weren't exhausted to your core, but it would be a lie... and Daryl would see right through it. A yawn escaped you the minute you'd opened your mouth, cutting off your rebuttal to him. The slight twinge in his voice as the words for me fell from his lips broke you a little. It also slightly turned you on.

"Mhm, that's what I thought. I'll keep watch an' start a fire up in here so that we both get warm. Alrigh'?"

You nodded, laying down on the couch, lifting your feet off of the ground for the first time in what felt like ages. The wave of fatigue washed over you, as your eyelids began to feel about ten pounds heavier than usual. You heard Daryl moving things around before you'd dozed off for rest you had no idea was needed.

"Daryl.." You spoke, eyes still closed as the tiredness began catching up with you.

"Mhm?"

"Thank you.. for your nice, warm, big jacket, and your nice, warm big heart. I love you so much."

Daryl's heart tinged at your words, worn from your exhausted state.

"I love ya too, sunshine." His words reverberated in your head as you dozed off.

Daryl gazed over your figure as you drifted off to sleep, your chest rising and falling with each breath.

Peaceful, he thought. Ya look so peaceful.

Daryl darted around the room quietly, looking for a quilt or blanket to cover you with. There was no doubt in his mind your whole body was frigid. Daryl had this thing about you where his need to make you comfortable was a main priority. It was one of the things that made him realize he loved you. that, and the help of his brother, Rick.

With no blanket in sight, Daryl pondered down the hall to try and find one for you. He opened one of the doors to the bedroom he'd cleared earlier.

"Jackpot." he muttered to himself, spotting a couple laying on the bed. He lifted one, a split second decision causing him to take another in his arms. Daryl wished that it was his body keeping you warm, and not the cloth he held in his arms. If he tried to sink onto the couch with you already asleep, there would be no room for both of you, and you'd likely roll right off. Daryl also didn't want to wake you, since your fragile figure needed all the rest you were getting at the moment.

He carried the blankets back down the hall, where you'd been sound asleep on the couch. He placed one over your legs, before he untied your boots and covered your feet with the rest of the blanket. Daryl draped the other one over your torso and arms.

He stepped back for a moment to take in the sight of you resting, content with the comfort Daryl knew he'd brought you. Smiling to himself at your soft features, he watched your breath steady.

If Daryl was honest with himself, he's pretty sure he would go blind just to see you like this, and it's the only place he wants to be. He's perched himself somewhere in your heart, somewhere he felt was guaranteed for him.

Daryl let himself sit and rest for a little while, after making the cabin as if there was nobody home. It was the extra step of safety he took to make sure you were really safe. After a while of scavenging the place, Daryl came across some cans of chicken noodle soup. He put the cans away in his pack and gazed over to your figure once more.

Daryl looked over to the fireplace thinking about what wonders the warmth of a fire would do for his frigid hands.

It's practically the same thing as a campfire, how hard could it be?

He made his way over to the tools and logs that lay around the fireplace, placing a few into the divot as he searched for matches and some paper. He ended up ripping more than a few pages out of a random book he'd found laying about. With one light of a match, the fire was lit. Daryl warmed his hands against the heat of the fire as warmth flooded the room. He picked up the long iron tools nearby to move some of the logs around, oblivious to you waking behind him.

You shifted slowly, rubbing sleep from your eyes as they opened to a familiar figure hunched over the now blazing fireplace. The blankets around you fell from your shoulders; you sat up, causing you to notice you'd been covered with a soft wool blanket.

Daryl must have done that. so sweet of him, you thought. Your socked feet hit the floor softly, the realization of your boots gone from your feet. Daryl again, I presume.

Your eyes lift from your figure to see Daryl sitting on the carpet in front of the fire, his arms reaching out to warm his hands. He looked pleasant, his legs crossed in a boyish way as his poncho lay on the floor. Daryl was fond of keeping you safe, watching over you with a hawk's eye while you slept, never growing tired of your ways of thanking him for doing so.

You stood up, the creak of the wooden floor catching Daryl's attention. His head turned around, bangs falling in front of his eyes a bit, visibly relaxing as he saw you.

"Oh, sorry. did I wake ya? Jus' wanted to make it warmer in here."

"You didn't wake me. Besides, I always sleep better with you."

Daryl did know that, despite his determination to keep you safe preventing him from just crawling next to you on that couch. Of course he wanted to feel your body weight laying next to him, he wanted to feel it every day of his life. He pined for the rare moments, ones where he could watch your chest rise steadily as you slept. He wanted to be the one waking you in the mornings, on the mattress you called home. The next time he got to sleep with you by his side, he would savor the moment as if it was his last.

He watched as you stood up, leaving the blankets on the couch you were resting on. Your socked steps were quiet as you made you way over to Daryl by the fire. Daryl's body absorbed the heat blazing throughout the room as your arm wrapped around his back. crossing your legs, you sat down on the carpet, perched next to him. His jacket still over your shoulders, you shifted closer to him, the two of you a few inches away from the fire.

"Ya look real good in my jacket." Daryl let the compliment fall from his lips the minute he noticed you still had it on. The words almost spilled out, like he couldn't hold back what he had to say about how you looked. Something possessive in him triggered when Daryl saw you in his familiar leather, the light of the fire illuminating your features.

"Oh do I?" An eyebrow raised at Daryl's confession, his eyes trailing down your body, and back up again.

"Mhm." Daryl's lip caught between his teeth, his arm sneaking around your waist to pull you into his lap. He leaned in to place a kiss on your cheek, the hairs on his chin rubbing against your skin softly. Your hands rested on his firm chest, one lifting to swipe his chestnut bangs from his face.

"There. Now I can see those pretty eyes." Giddy hands traveled up Daryl's chest, latching around the nape of his neck. You felt his breath hitch as the space between you became less. Closing the distance between your lips and his, you felt his flush against yours like it was the only thing in the world.

"Did ya sleep any good? Y'were out like a light over there.. an' yer real cute when ya sleep." The sight of you asleep was one of Daryl's favorite things, other things being the sight of you on top of him late at night.

"I did, thanks to you. Where'd you find those blankets anyway?" Your bottom lip caught between your teeth as Daryl looked over at you. The heat from your kiss radiated across his face, his cheeks becoming toned pink.

"There's a bedroom down the hall, had some extras. What, ya thought I was jus' gonna let ya sleep without one?" Daryl's tongue peeked out between his teeth, licking his lips, his ever so innocent action pushing you to kiss him again.

"Not in a million years." Daryl's lips pressed against yours excitedly, moaning slightly into the kiss. Daryl's familiar hands explored your waist, pulling you in impossibly closer. The warmth of you in his lap gave way to other feelings. Heat from the fire was overwhelming now, as you shrugged off Daryl's jacket to free yourself from the heavy leather. Your hands locked in his hair, fingers twirling around his wavy strands as you pulled on it out of reflex. Daryl groaned at the sensation, welcoming it as you rolled your hips slightly.

Daryl pulled back from the kiss, his right hand cupping your face, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. Daryl's blue eyes met yours with a gaze that was mischievous and covered in lust. Tension radiated from the silence in the room, and all Daryl could think about were your hands in his hair, tugging ever-so-needily at your demand.

"That felt good, darlin'. Do it again." Daryl's voice dripped with eagerness, waiting for you to pull mindlessly as your lips traveled the path of his skin.

"Do what again, this?" You pulled his hair a bit harder now, his chin raising into the air. The access to more of his skin allowed you to attach your lips to his neck, his fingertips brushing under the cloth of your shirt, one that was technically his. You moaned as your lips latched onto his skin, consumed with his scent and the fondness of his growing erection underneath you.

Rolling your hips once more, Daryl felt his jeans tighten against the friction you brought.

"Yeah, that."

He groaned, holding your waist with a grip that guaranteed you weren't going anywhere else. Your legs wrapped around his torso, scooting impossibly closer to him. Daryl took the opportunity you presented and lifted you in his arms as he began to stand up from the floor.

A squeal fell from you as his sudden movement, your reflexes grasping his strong figure tighter. He walked down the hall carrying you in his arms, your lips leaving kisses on his handsome face. You could feel Daryl chuckle in his chest as you did so, every part of you beaming with contempt for him.

Your kisses were sultry and sweet as they trailed down Daryl's neck, lingering on his collarbone and chest, where wiry chest hairs poked out from the top of his shirt. Your fingertips began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, almost fully undoing one before losing your grip on the plastic as you suddenly fell backwards out of his arms.

You landed on the soft comforter of the bed, Daryl standing above you. Daryl took a few steps back from the bed, teasing you in your chase for his gratification and yours. You'd been itching to help him take off that stupidly stubborn flannel of his, your hands eagerly buzzing with demand to feel him against you.

"Doll- just wait." You paused your movements, and nodded slowly, eyes not leaving the archer's figure as he unbuttoned his shirt. The nickname made your stomach flutter, tingles shooting like sparks across your skin.

"So good for me, ain't ya.." Daryl drawled, roughly undoing the buttons of his shirt. each one falling apart from the other piece of material slightly, revealing more of his strong chest. The curve of his pecs flexing under his shirt made you clench around nothing, your underwear pooling with desire.

Any coherent thoughts you had fled your mind as Daryl finally got down to the last button, the 'v' shape of his shirt itching to be thrown apart and off of his body. A low gasp exited you as he pulled his shirt off, bulky arms and tattooed chest on display.

Your eyes trailed from his neck, where your marks started to show, to the tattoo on his left pec, down to the birthmarks littering his torso like stars, to the happy trail that led to where you wanted him most. Daryl's pants were uncomfortably tight in the moment, your essence around him intoxicating him like a few dozen shots of whiskey.

He threw his shirt aimlessly behind him and looked towards you, shifting almost timidly as you realized Daryl had caught you staring. Your cheeks pink with blush, he treaded towards you, his fingers tipping your chin up to look at him.

"What'dya want me to do, hm? Want ya so bad, tell me what to do, an' I'll do it." He leaned down to your face, ghosting his lips over yours. His suggestiveness made your brain fuzzy. There were so many things you wanted from Daryl, despite the tension in the air preventing you from speaking a word.

"C'mon, sunshine. Use your words." Daryl started undoing his belt slowly, knowing his teasing would break down your will to hold back.

A radiant glow beamed from Daryl's face as he realized the visible intimidation washing over your figure. The mere sight of him made your lips part, Daryl's eyes dragging over your body.

"I- fuck, Daryl. You make it pretty fucking hard to think when you're looking at me like that-"

"Sunshine, ya know yer drivin' me crazy." His hands returned to the belt around his waist, the band of his boxers peeking out from the top of his jeans.

"Let me." Daryl looked at you with a smirk, walking over to the edge of the bed. Your hands shot towards him, undoing his belt as the clinking of the leather filled the room. You unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down. A low groan leaves Daryl at the friction, your hands darting to his sides, ridding his legs of the constricting fabric.

"My good girl." The unexpected praise from Daryl made you whimper, just slightly, not knowing whether he’d heard you or not.

“Hm? What was that? Don’t hold back, darlin’.” The tension caused you to whimper an octave louder. Daryl stood in only his boxers now, struck with the constant desire radiating from you.

"Shit, look at what ya do to me." You went to grab at him, your wrist being met with a hand around it.

"Please, Daryl. I want you so bad." You pouted as the he stood so close to you, yet he was still so far away.

"tTell me what you want, sunshine." Daryl's persistence drove you to unbearable heights, the pool in your underwear flowing with impulse and need.

"Want you... between my thighs.. want you to taste me, shit. I want-"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of ya."

You scooted back to the headboard of the bed as Daryl crawled towards you on the mattress. The tension in the air consumed you, as he stole a kiss that took your breath away. It lingered as he trailed his kisses down your neck, sensitive and soft, spreading goosebumps like wildfire. He kissed your collarbones, continuing down your torso, the breath in your chest quickening. Daryl watched almost methodically at your heaving breasts under the cloth of your bra.

His lips returned his path down your skin, finding his way to the waistband of your jeans. Daryl's nimble fingers undid the button and zipper with no trouble, continuing to pull the material down your legs.

He felt dirty, realizing that the first thing he'd noticed as he removed your pants was the visible wet spot on your underwear.

"Shit, doll. This all for me?" Daryl looked up at you, his icy blue eyes peeking through the bangs falling over his eyes.

"All of it.. cause of you."

You whimpered at the sight of Daryl over your pelvis. You couldn't even say his name without a grin breaking out onto your face. Daryl's hands attached to your waist, rubbing up and down your sides. You felt his hands move from your waist, up your back to the clasp of your bra. he let out a satisfied breath as the clasp loosened.

Cupping your breasts in his hands, his thumbs teased your already sensitive buds. His palms were warm, yet rough, calloused even, and somehow still soft against your chest. They were your favorite hands in the whole world.

"Feels good, hun? Tell me."

Whispering in your ear, his lips ghosted over your cheek leaving a gentle kiss, knee made its way between your legs unknowingly, pressing up against your underwear.

"Daryl, you make me feel so.. good. Fuck-" His hands moved from your breasts as they heaved with every heavy breath. Fingertips slid down your torso to your dripping panties. Daryl's hands pulled them up a little, increasing the pressure where your most sensitive part was. As you looked down to see him tugging on your panties, he let go of the waistband and moved one of his hands down further to the apex of your thighs. A finger pressed against the wet spot, growing a bit harder against his boxers as he watched the spot spread.

As if Daryl couldn't be any more of a tease, his head dipped down to kiss the wet spot on your panties before his fingers hooked under the waistband, slowly pulling the now ruined cloth down your legs. Daryl's hands opened your thighs, his palms warm against your skin.

Your bare mound against the cool air made a slight shock run up your spine. Slick dripped from you as you clenched around nothing. if Daryl didn't make a move right now, you swore you'd-

His lips attached to your clit then, a loud moan of your lovers name fell from you as his face lay between your thighs. His tongue swirled hungrily, trying his best to devour all of your sweetness. Your thighs twitched slightly at his contact, feeling his beard hairs between your legs when you did so. It swirled through your sensitive folds, pulling away to leave a kiss on your clit. Your thighs shook now, with Daryl spreading you out using the skill of his tongue.

"You-you're so good at that. Please don't stop.."

The words fell rom your mouth as one hand gripped his hair, the other running through your own. Daryl's lips were swollen and from being between your legs. your arousal heightened as he looked up at you with lust driven eyes.

Daryl never wanted to stop doing this, never saw himself wanting to stop loving you down like this. It brought him pleasure to make you feel like this, as he did repeatedly for you.

"Ya taste good, so damn sweet."

"Daryl..."

You breathed heavily, the stimulation of him above you life ruining.

"Jus' a little more, darlin'."

Daryl returned his tongue to your heat as a jolt ran through your spine. his tongue swirled relentlessly over your clit, wanting to bring you to satisfaction the way only he could. He sped up his tongue now, making your chest rise with quicker breaths as your high started to build. You cried out Daryl's name with a plethora of curses, groaning at the sound of you moaning in pleasure. The vibration of his gravel voice sent your hips grinding up into his mouth, pushed closer to your release.

"F-fuck, I'm- I'm-"

"Come for me, hun. C'mon, give it to me." Daryl edged you closer as his tongue pulled you towards your release. Your thighs clenched and shook around Daryl's head as your released washed over you.

"Oh- oh god-"

You rode Daryl's tongue as you came, the overstimulation of his tongue helping you ride out your high. Filthy sounds left your mouth as you cursed, the feeling washing over you.

"Ya did so good for me darlin'..." Daryl said, cleaning up the mess you'd made on his stubble. You tried to close after the multitude of pleasure you'd just experienced, until you spotted the tent in his boxers as he eyed your naked body in his bed.

Daryl pulled his boxers down in one swift movement, his length hitting his stomach at the release of the cloth, closing his eyes in relief as he finally rid himself of the confines of his boxers. The whole sight of him like this made you clench around the tension in the air.

"Daryl.. I want.. wanna feel you. Please... you're the only one who can get me like that."

You whimpered at the sight of the man in front of you, wanting him to take possession over your body and use it to his demand. He crawled over your body, sliding his tip between your folds as your hands latched onto his strong arms.

"Say please again, and I'll let you ride me." Daryl's drawl reverberated in your head, making you desperate enough to say anything to just be able to feel him like that again.

"Please, Daryl, I've wanted you for so long.." Daryl puts his hands on either side of your waist, entrapping you under his grasp and flipping you on top of him. His hand reaches to the nightstand before you went further, handing you a condom as a groan leaves his mouth, caused by the pressure of your body on top of him.

"Come here, I need you." Daryl beckons you towards his lips, begging for another kiss as your hand goes to his cock. Tou slip his tip between your folds the minute you kiss him, letting the slick between your thighs drip down his length. These days, you never caught times like this with Daryl, but the view before you was so sensual that you'd stay here forever if you could.

You pulled away from the kiss as you let his tip enter your hole, the enthralling sensation overtaking you. Your hands fell onto Daryl's chest as his steady grip lowered you further onto his cock. Moans paired with his name echoed in his head as your walls twitched around him. You sat down on him, rutting against his mound as you adjusted to how full Daryl made you feel.

"Ya okay? Feelin' alrigh'?" Daryl's hands still on your waist, knowing you need a minute to adjust to his size.

"Mhm, you're just.. big, almost forgot-" Daryl chuckled, not ignoring the way his length throbbed inside of you. He ran his large hands up your chest, hands cupping your breasts as he rolled your nipples between his fingertips. The sensation caused you to rut upwards, lifting from sitting with his cock in you for a moment.

"Like that?"

Your eyes glanced down at his face, now smothered in a boyish grin. Nodding, he pinched a bit harder at your sensitive buds as you began to lift yourself on his length. Your slick made his movement inside your hole easier for Daryl to move inside you. You rode him with ease now, picking up speed as you held onto Daryl's shoulders for balance.

"Feels so good, Dar.. love what you do to me."

Your brain couldn't comprehend the words you were saying, only how you felt. you had become overpowered by the pleasure Daryl brought you. His tip kissed the deepest parts of you, sensing you spasming around him.

"We both know no one else could fuck you this good. Ya take me so well, like my cock was made for ya." Daryl grunted as you continued to ride him, the constant friction you brought only made him crave release more. Your walls felt like velvet around him, squishing him into the deepest part of you.

"I am, Daryl, all yours." You hadn't realized till you looked down that he'd began thrusting up under you as you rode him. You heard a whimper escape Daryl, a sound rarely heard from the archer.

Each time Daryl gave himself to you like this, he wanted you to know that no one else could give you the same feelings he did. He needed you to know that every time he was away from you, it became more difficult for him to hold back how much he wanted to take you behind a closed door and have his way with you.

"Sunshine, I'm gettin close... Are ya.." Daryl panted, the heat of your walls around him catching up to his stamina.

"Y-Yea, almost..."

you moaned as daryl's hips rutted against the weight of your thrusts. He removed his left hand from your waist as he swirled his thumb at your clit, clenching around him again, rubbing your sensitive bud a bit faster now.

"Jus' lemme help ya.. Lemme take over, doll."

he thrusted into you now, letting you fall relaxed into his arms. the sensation of Daryl entering you repeatedly made your thighs twitch.

He buried himself deep inside you, your high building as he worked on your sweet spot with his thumb. The sensations all made you melt under Daryl's touch then, moaning his name as your walls clenched and jolted around his cock, his hands firmly holding you down on his length.

The clenching of your heat around him was enough to bring Daryl to his release. His hips bucked up into you as the tightness of your entrance milked his orgasm from him, one final thrust came from him as he filled the condom. You moaned loudly at the feeling of Daryl's hips jolting against your body.

"Sh-shit sunshine, ya did so good for me, my perfect girl, ain't ya?" Daryl rambled in his afterglow, his enamor beaming in his chest for you. He'd brought you to satisfaction many times before, but each time was more than just making love to him. The two of you shared a bond like no other.

"Daryl, that was perfect, yo -you're perfect." you panted, pulling yourself off his length as he came down from his high. The emptiness you felt as he pulled back left you remembering how he felt.

You collapsed on top of his chest, heartbeats slowing as the skin to skin contact calmed your headspaces. Your fingers darted across Daryl's chest, your fingers lightly tracing the tattoos there.

"Pretty sure tha's all you, sunshine." Daryl kissed the top of your head, your heartbeats synching together.

"Mhm, I love you, Daryl. Thank you.." You said, looking up at Daryl, his afterglow beaming from his chest like a bright light.

"For what, darlin'?" Daryl's hand traced up and down your back, the contact an extension of his affection for you.

"For everything... Your jacket.. taking care of me, just- everything."

"Why wouldn't I wanna do all that? I'd do that an' more all over again jus' to keep ya comfortable. Ya deserve the world."

"No, I'm pretty sure you do, Daryl Dixon." You sat up, still laying on top of his chest to just feel your bodies slow down together after the friction you'd released.

You rolled over onto the bed, sighing with content as you looked over at the man next to you. His eyes were closed, as if he was taking in the peaceful moment. The beads of sweat on his chest made him look even more breathtaking, as he turned to you. He swiped the hair from your face, a boyish smile sneaking its way onto his.

"We should probably get back..." Daryl's eyes were focused on you, his hand coming to your side, moving softly up and down.

"Yeah, we should.." Daryl didn't want to go back to the freezing outside temperatures and snowy terrain, but the group might have gotten worried about their late return.

"Maybe just a few more minutes?" Your eyebrows raised and smiled at Daryl, nodding in agreement.

"Sure, jus' a few more." Daryl’s hands cupped your face, bringing you in for another kiss. You laid content in his arms, his body heat finally warming you the way he’d always wanted.

a/n: likes + reblogs are appreciated!! it lets me know how much everyone enjoys my writing & sharing to others is a generous thing to do. much love & thanks :)

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