Sickening Desire — Chapter One
Daryl didn’t know softness until you came into his life, like a warm breeze in the middle of spring, bringing the scent of violets and apple pie along with you. Intoxicating his scents. Overwhelming his consciousness. Dragging out something buried deep beneath his tough surface.
Author's note:
Welcome back, my beautiful people <3 I'm sorry for such long period of silence but I've got a lot on my plate right now. However, I was able to write and post for you the first chapter. I know I was supposed to post it on Valentine’s Day but this Friday 13th is so fucked up I need to cheer myself up. And maybe some of you as well. So… there you go, enjoy!
It may seem chaotic but that's okay. It's on purpose.
╰⪼ Daryl Dixon x fem!reader / Alexandria ╰⪼ Word Count: 3,8 k ╰⪼ Warnings: intruisive and obsessive thoughts; masturbation ╰⪼ Masterlist / Sickening Desire / Prolog
"Oh, Father, please, please forgive all my sins. The water is way too deep, the deep end is where I live."
— Runrunrun by Dutch Melrose
Your smile evokes something in him that, until now, he though he’s not even able to feel. His heart has never beaten so fast when there was no danger. Adrenaline has never flowed through his veins so quickly, unless he was running for his life, killing walkers and bad guys. But there is no danger here. Not within these walls. His body doesn't need to remain in a state of readiness to fight or flee, but every time he catches himself looking in your direction, his insides do a backflip and the blood hums louder in his ears. The curve of your cherry lips catches his attention whenever you stretch them into that soft smile of yours, which suddenly makes him question his entire belief system, and all he wants is to get one step closer to you each time. Because you are different and you pique his curiosity. You caught his interest as soon as you walked into his shared home this morning, with your honeyed voice full of joy and laughter, carrying with you the scent of apple pie and violets. The scent enveloped him like a cozy scarf, and he's not even sure he ever wants to take it off.
It all started with a gentle knock on the front door, mixed with the distinctive smell of something sweet and warm, like freshly baked cake, so out of place in the world of the apocalypse. But the smell was there, it was real, and it distracted him from whatever it was that he was doing with his crossbow. Perhaps he was polishing it.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
Daryl's calloused fingers grasped his favourite weapon with surprising delicacy, as if it were not a deadly thing, but rather a delicate instrument on which he intended to play the sweetest melody. He got up from his chair and walked slowly, step by step, but not toward the door. He left that to Carol and even Rick—people much more reliable in social situations. His attention was drawn to the open window in the living room. The thin curtains moved slightly in the gentle morning breeze, and as he got closer, his nose detected the same sweet smell he had sensed a few seconds ago. It penetrated the fabric easily, as if it were no obstacle, and spread throughout the living room, settling on every surface in its path. He frowned, leaning his shoulder against the window frame and looking outside, his hunter's eyes carefully scanning the surroundings. From this perspective, the porch was barely visible, he couldn't make out the silhouette of the person standing there, but he could definitely smell a mix of apples, cake, and violets. This made him cautious, but also somewhat curious. He wanted to lean out further, but at that moment Carol approached the door and opened it, forcing the morning intruder to speak up. A moment later, your honeyed voice reached him for the first time, creeping over his body and enveloping him like a heavy blanket that stuck to his skin. One second he was himself, and the next something inside him flipped. An unfamiliar feeling. Warmth spread across his face, and he pricked up his ears, listening. He told himself it was just self-preservation, that he was being cautious, as always, protecting his friends and family. Because he didn't know you. Definitely. He had never heard your sweet voice before. He knew he would have remembered it. Maybe he had seen you somewhere in the last few days, he would have had to look at your face to be sure, but that melodious tone... No, he definitely didn't recognize it.
“I don't want to bother you, I just wanted to welcome you to the town,” you said, and normally such openness and enthusiasm from a stranger would annoy him, but he couldn't help feeling that it was... nice. Just... nice.
A spark of curiosity appeared in his brain, stimulating his nervous system, which he should have suppressed immediately, but since you had already entered his home, he should at least see your face, right? To know who you were. To recognize you in case of an emergency. He didn't know your intentions. Maybe this nice and sweet facade was just a game, a mask that would eventually fall. Because Daryl's instincts were never wrong, and when he heard you admit that you lived only two houses away, he knew something was wrong with you. Who shares such details with strangers? What if they were not good people? You're putting yourself in danger.
He felt anxiety wash over him, goosebumps appearing on his skin with every word you spoke. He could feel it in the air, filled with a mix of so many scents that it began to irritate him, he could practically taste the apple and vanilla on his tongue. It was sweet. It was tempting. It could be addictive. And most likely, it was fake. No, it definitely wasn't nice. He changed his mind. It was fake. It had to be.
Fake, fake, fake, fake.
He took a slow, deliberate breath and moved from the window toward the hall but stopped just around the corner where no one could see him. He knew that if he dared to take even one step outside the room, Carol would drag him into the kitchen for some big and unnecessary introductions, and he wasn't ready for that. In fact, he didn't want to meet any of the people who lived here. This town, this community... It was all supposed to be a dream, but somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped. Locked in a cage. Like an animal in a fucking zoo. Meeting all these people wouldn't help him. Leaning against the wall, he listened to the conversation between you and his friend. There was a broad smile in your voice. You must be a very cheerful person. He frowned. He doesn't like cheerful people. They annoy him. Usually. But there was something in your voice that made him want to keep listening, even though you hadn't said anything important. It was just a normal neighbourly conversation. You wanted to welcome them not only in the town, but also in the neighbourhood. You brought them homemade apple pie — he recognized the smell, which made his mouth water. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten cake, and that thought almost made him take a step to reveal his presence, but he stopped himself. He certainly wasn't going to join anyone in the kitchen yet. Not while you were still at home. He doesn’t like strangers, and unknown women scare him even more. That's why he just listened, telling himself that he wasn't interested in you at all. He just wanted to know when you would leave, so he stood still, leaning on the wall with one hand, his ears pricked so as not to miss the door closing. But there was something... strange. He felt strange. Different. The sound of your voice was somehow hypnotic, delicate, but at the same time strong, soft as a feather touch. It made him want to listen carefully to your every word.
When you approached the door, he discreetly peeked out from behind the corner and saw your silhouette disappear on the porch. He couldn't see much, but enough to recognize you later when Carol forced him to attend a small gathering at Deanna’s house. He didn't want to go. He didn't like that kind of thing. He felt uncomfortable under all those curious glances, but he promised he would at least try a little for the group. For his family.
He heard you before he had a chance to get a good look at you. Your sweet, melodious voice made him turn his head in your direction as soon as it reached his ears, and when his gaze fell on you, he was sure that you were the morning intruder who had disturbed his peace.
And now he stands here like an idiot, feeling completely out of place and trying not to look. Don't stare. Why would he do that? He doesn't know you and knows nothing about you, except maybe that when you smile, little wrinkles appear at the corners of your eyes. He can't help but notice this small detail, even from across the room. You're talking to a few people, radiating warmth and kindness like rays of sunshine on a cloudy day. He notices it by accident, only because he happens to look at you right at the moment your mouth stretches into one of the brightest smiles he's ever seen. Nothing more.
He follows Carol like a lost puppy, relying on her to strike up a conversation while he stands quietly beside her, but wherever he goes, your presence somehow follows him. Are you some kind of a witch or something? It's not normal, it's not good, and it makes him shift his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He doesn't feel like himself. Why are his eyes trying to find you in a crowd of unfamiliar faces? Why are his hands suddenly itchy and sweaty? He wants to leave badly, but he will never break a promise he made. Rick is counting on him, and besides, Carol would track him down and drag him back home by his hair if he set foot outside the door.
“Hi, I'm glad you came.”
He almost spills his water when he sees you approaching. There's something about the way you move, so effortless, as if you're floating above the floor. Your hips sway with every step. Not that he's looking at your hips. He just glanced over, like he would at any other woman, right? Except... Daryl has never looked at any other woman that way. He never pays attention to the curves of their hips or thighs.
He lets out a grunt, looking away as if the sight of you burns him, and Carol nudges him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Don't mind him,” she says, trying not to scold him openly in front of you, but you can tell she really wants to. “He's just grumpy.”
He expects you to roll your eyes or comment that he should relax and talk to people. Or maybe ignore his existence completely, which would be the best solution in this situation, but you don't. No, instead, you almost give him a heart attack by giggling quietly. The sound seems to reach his soul and gently brush against it with your fingertips. Now he can see the wrinkles in the corners of your eyes up close. Damn, very beautiful eyes. Sparkling.
He holds his breath. Damn, since when can he see someone's eyes sparkle?
“It would be boring if we were all equally excited about everything, right?” you say, sending him a gentle smile. Him, not Carol. Not to both of them. Just him.
His heart does a spontaneous jump in his chest, and he feels the tips of his ears getting hot. He keeps reminding himself that this is probably all fake, but... You seem so genuinely nice. And kind. And pretty. He's never noticed a woman like this before. He's never paid attention to how their lips curve into a gentle smile, how their eyes sparkle in the warm light. Or how their hair looks so soft and shiny.
Damn, it suddenly hits him how much he wants to wrap that hair around his fingers and tilt your head back, exposing your long neck. It's a beautiful neck. He can see the outline of your collarbones and a single freckle in the hollow of your neck. He wants to press his lips against that spot.
“I hope you're having fun,” you say, distracting him from his thoughts, completely unaware of all the inappropriate scenarios playing out in his head right now. “Try the cheesecake, I baked it.”
He doesn't say a word, doesn't even open his mouth, and you're already gone. He's afraid he'll say something wrong if he opens his mouth. Damn, he's terrified. It's as if he regained his senses after you left and almost hit himself in the face. What the hell? He must be sick. Maybe he has a fever. He could already feel his face getting red and hot. Yes, it must be a fever.
“He could have at least said something,” Carol sighs, looking at him with genuine disappointment. If only she knew what was going on inside him, she would be glad he didn't speak to you. It wouldn't have ended well.
He watches you walk away and swallows hard. He sees your round ass perfectly exposed in tight black jeans and almost moans. What's wrong with him? He's never felt this way before. He's never paid so much attention to any woman before. He's never felt such a rush of adrenaline at the sight of anyone before.
Has he fallen in love with you? In just one day? After seeing you only once?
No fucking way. Daryl Dixon doesn't fall in love with anyone. His destiny is to remain alone for the rest of his life. He doesn't flirt, he doesn't get involved in relationships, and he doesn't deal with any of that intimacy nonsense. He hunts, kills walkers, and is always dirty. His hands are always covered in blood and zombie guts.
And you're so clean and delicate, so pretty and innocent. If he got close to you, he would destroy you. He would ruin you. He would...
Touch you. Lick you. Kiss you.
He would hunt you like a sweet little prey.
Fuck. He has to get out of here. He has to make an excuse and leave, because the situation is getting out of control. He feels like someone has poisoned him, put all these filthy, dirty thoughts in his head, and now is torturing him to see how far he can go. This isn't him. This isn't the man he is. The only things he hunts are animals in the forest. Maybe walkers. But not people. Not women. Not you.
“Are you okay?”
He looks at Carol with a vacant stare and nods, mumbling something about another glass of water, and heads for the furthest table he can find. He needs water, but in the form of an ice-cold shower to wash the madness from his head. If his friend knew what was going through his mind right now, she would throw him out of here. That would be a good solution, but he's not going to tell her anything.
As he reaches for the glass, a smaller hand appears in his field of vision, almost brushing against his. Almost in slow motion, he watches the slender fingers wrap around the wine bottle. Red nails, a gold ring. He knows. He recognizes you by your scent alone. Violets and something else, something sweeter. Maybe the cake you baked earlier. Or maybe it's the way your body teases him, inviting him to take a bite.
He clenches his jaw and grabs the glass. He has to leave, but his legs are paralyzed. Glued to the floor. All he can do is look to the side, meeting your eyes. And that will be his undoing, because that damn smile is still there, stuck on your face like a neon sign leading him to hell.
“It can be overwhelming,” you say, but he's too mesmerized by the movement of your lips, too mesmerized by your Cupid's bow to understand what you're saying. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands. You're so close to him and smiling so radiantly that he can't stop thinking about how perfect the shape of your mouth is. When you speak, he doesn't even hear the words. The sound suddenly becomes muffled, as if he were underwater, and he knows people are talking, but he doesn't understand a word. And to be honest, he's not even trying. He can't bring himself to be interested in anything other than you. He tells himself he's just being observant, as always, but for the first time, he sees things. Things he shouldn’t see.
“Huh?” he asks after what seems like an eternity. His face flushes.
“People,” you say, nodding toward the crowd, not discouraged at all. Even though you see the blush appearing on his cheeks, you are polite enough not to pay attention to it. No, you don't even look at him for more than a second. “The noise. It's strange to hear all these conversations after being outside for so long, isn't it?”
You turn away, leaning your back against the table, staring at the gathered people with an expression as if you were thinking intensely about something. Your lower lip is pulled between your teeth. You hold a bottle of wine in your hands, supporting it from below with one hand and grasping the neck with the other. For the first time in his life, Daryl Dixon begins to wonder what it would feel like to have someone's fingers wrapped around his dick. Your fingers.
“I guess so,” he mutters, trying to stay calm as his head is flooded with all these dirty thoughts and images with you in the middle. Chaos. Total chaos. His hands are shaking, he has to clench them into fists.
“Don't feel bad if you don't like it.”
Why are you being so nice to him? Why are you trying to strike up a conversation? Why are you messing with his head so much?
One last smile, one last look full of warmth and kindness, and then you walk away, leaving him alone. You don't intend to bother him. You're just trying... What exactly are you trying to do? Strike up a conversation? With him? Why?
And why can't he stop staring at you as you walk away, like some kind of weirdo? Something has happened to him today, and he doesn't like it. His senses are heightened, but at the same time dulled. He is conscious, but he feels as if his mind is floating somewhere above his head, refusing to accept any meaning. There must be something in the air. Some kind of toxin or something. Maybe the whole damn city is filled with it. It's the only explanation for his behaviour. The only one.
He lasts an hour, then apologizes to Carol and runs outside, not even wanting to see her rolling eyes. He wants to smoke. He wants to clear his mind. He wants to escape from you and your magnetic presence. As far away as possible. Maybe he should go outside the gate and spend the night alone in the woods, that would probably help.
He groans loudly as he takes a cigarette out of the crumpled pack, lights it, and inhales the smoke. His lungs fill with nicotine, but it doesn't bring him any relief, as he would expect. It doesn't calm his nerves or stop his hands from shaking. It does nothing good, only frustrates him even more.
Daryl was never the type of man who yearn over girls. Even as a teenager, when his hormones were at their peak, he didn't make a big deal out of looking at boobs or anything like that. He's not a virgin probably only because his older brother forced his girl at the time to have sex with him. Until now, he suspected he was asexual. He doesn't even masturbate that often, disgusted by the touch of his own hand. He never imagined what it would be like to have a warm body beneath him, someone moaning his name in his ear.
Before you, there was no desire. There was no greed.
Before you, he never felt his dick harden in his pants at the mere thought of someone's mouth. Someone's fingers.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. It's not just his imagination. His pants are getting tighter, and his semi-erect cock is pressing against the inner seam, making him hiss.
He throws his cigarette on the ground, extinguishes it with the heel of his heavy boot, and practically runs toward the house. A cold shower. He needs a cold shower immediately to wash this damn feeling off his skin. He feels dirty. He feels poisoned.
Something is wrong with him, and he desperately wants it to end.
When he reaches the bathroom and closes the door, he takes off his clothes in seconds, jumps into the shower, and turns on the water. The coldest it can go.
“Fuck,” he curses, punching the wall with his fist. The low temperature hurts his heated skin, but that's okay. It's refreshing. It wakes him up. It's exactly what he needs—a distraction. A distraction from you and the memory of your lips stretching into the most beautiful smile he has ever seen; your fingers wrapped around that bottle with such a gentle but firm grip; your swaying hips.
“No, no,” he mutters, clenching his teeth. His cock is now fully erect, ready and eager. “Stop it.”
He's gone mad, talking to his fucking dick. But of course, it's not listening. Not when his mind is still showing him all these images that have no right to exist. He tries to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. It doesn't help. Nothing fucking helps. No, Daryl Dixon is absurdly and so incredibly horny that he doesn't even know how to deal with it. Well, there is one way that would work, but he doesn't want to do that. Not with you in mind. Not like some pervert who masturbates thinking about a girl he doesn't even know.
But he has to get rid of this erection, and fast.
“Damn...”
He grabs the first bottle of shower gel he can reach, opens the cap, and pours some into his open palm. He shouldn't do this. He knows he shouldn't, and he knows it's wrong, but when his calloused fingers wrap around his length and start pumping, there's no turning back. A loud moan escapes his lips as he rests his hand on the tiles, supporting his weight. He's never been so needy before. He's never been so horny. His own hand has never given him as much pleasure as it does right now, when all he can think about is how much more pleasant your skin would be.
It doesn't take him long to come in his hand, accompanied by a throaty growl muffled by his clenched lips. It doesn't take him long to feel that burning sensation, a mixture of shame and guilt, in his chest.
You old pervert, he thinks as he cleans himself up. You're sick in the head.
But this evening is just the beginning. The beginning of a much longer story that Daryl has yet to live, full of conflicting emotions, shame, and more sleepless nights with his hand in his pants, silently screaming your name in the darkness of his room.
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