- breeding kink (if he worked through his trauma and ever got you pregnant then definitely pregnancy/lactation kink)
- crying kink (you crying)
- praise kink (you praising him)
- blood kink (you on your period)
- primal kink (though I feel this would just happen with him)
- after muuuuuuuch convincing from you - cnc - in the context of somnophilia. Also light choking/impact kink (it would be soooo hard for him to be okay with harming his pretty baby even if it’s what you want)
a/n: I've been dying to write feral/creepy!Daryl and enemies to lovers. my brain supplied the idea of combining the two. it's indulgent and gratuitous as fuuuuuck, so enjoy. 🖤
tags: Alexandria AU, enemies to lovers, stalking/eavesdropping/peeping(Daryl), manipulation/gaslighting(Daryl), home intrusion(Daryl), panty stealing, masturbation (Reader), fucked into submission(Reader), verbal and physical fighting, sexual tension, hate sex, power struggle, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (both receiving), pussy spanking, impact play, face spitting, hair pulling, squirting, loss of consciousness
From the second you stagger through Alexandria’s gates, half-starved and asking for shelter, his attention latches onto you and doesn’t let go. It isn’t a passing glance, or even curiosity. It’s steady.
Intent.
The kind of stare that feels less like looking and more like measuring, like he’s trying to figure out what you are and hasn’t decided yet.
At first, it almost makes you smile. There’s something about the way his eyes narrow, the way his shoulders stay locked tight, like he’s braced for something that hasn’t happened. So you humor it. You lift a hand, offer a small wave, an easy gesture meant to smooth over whatever tension he’s carrying.
He watches you do it, then turns away like you weren’t worth acknowledging.
Alright. Message received.
You chalk it up to attitude, to whatever brand of personality he’s got, and by the time Maggie’s tour of Alexandria starts to blur into a string of houses and unfamiliar faces, you assume that’s the end of it. First impressions made, filed away, done.
It isn’t.
Because you keep catching him.
Across the yard while you’re talking to someone else. Leaning against a post like he just happens to be there. Standing off to the side during introductions, quiet and still, doing nothing except watching. He’s never close enough to interrupt, never far enough to miss anything, always somewhere in that middle space where you can’t quite ignore him.
And every time you look, he’s already looking back.
You try to make sense of it. Alexandria’s small. People overlap. You’re new, and someone keeping an eye on you isn’t exactly strange.
But this doesn’t feel like someone checking in.
It feels like being tracked.
Over the next week, that feeling settles in instead of fading.
No matter where you go, there’s this quiet awareness trailing behind you, a shadow with a crossbow. You’ll be mid-conversation, half-listening, and something in your gut will tighten just enough to pull your attention away, to make you glance up or over your shoulder.
He’s always there when you do.
The same expression, or lack of one. Mouth set, eyes narrowed just enough that everything about him reads a little too close to irritation, even when he’s doing nothing at all.
Maybe that’s just how his face rests, but it doesn’t make the weight of it any easier to ignore.
Especially since he still hasn’t said a word to you.
Not a greeting, not a warning, nothing that gives any shape to whatever this is.
Rick had told everyone to give you space while you settled in, and you’re grateful for it. After everything, the quiet helps.
You just wish someone had told Daryl.
You stay with Maggie and Glenn at first, drifting through those first few days in a strange, cautious haze, until ten days later you’re handed a place of your own.
It’s far more than you expected. Far more than what you’re used to, and you’re stepping through the front door for the first time when that familiar prickle crawls up your spine again.
You turn before you can stop yourself.
He’s across the street, sitting on the front steps of the house opposite yours like he’s always been there. Chin propped in his hands, elbows on his knees.
You flip him off and go inside.
Another day passes, and you’re coming back from the infirmary after helping Denise.
When he does look up, it’s subtle. Only his eyes move, flicking up until they land on you without hesitation.
Your neck prickles when they stay there, heavy.
The blade stills in his hand.
For a second, nothing moves. Not him. Not you. Just that stretch of space between you, pulled tight like a wire.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts the knife.
Slow.
Deliberate.
The tip angles toward you, not quite level, not quite careless either, like he hasn’t decided what it is yet. A gesture that could be nothing. Could be everything.
Your stomach drops anyway.
He tilts it slightly, inspecting the edge, turning his wrist just enough that the light catches along the blade. It flashes once, quick and clean, and for a split second it lines up with you again.
Like he’s sighting down it.
He drags his thumb across the edge, not enough to cut, just enough to feel it, then nods like it meets whatever standard he had in mind.
Only then does he look back down, returning the blade to the stone.
Shhk.
Shhk.
The sound picks up again like nothing happened.
Like you didn’t just feel the distance between you measured in inches instead of yards.
Like that wasn’t meant for you.
You retreat inside and lock the door.
You stay there longer than you mean to, back pressed to the door.
After some deep breaths, you start moving through the house under the pretense of getting settled.
The kitchen alone feels surreal, stocked in a way that almost doesn’t make sense after everything you’ve gotten used to, and you end up making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just to prove to yourself it’s real.
Still, even as the afternoon slips toward evening, you’re still being watched.
You notice him through the windows more than once. Sometimes he’s working, sometimes he’s just adjusting his crossbow, but his attention drifts back to your house again and again, like it’s tethered there.
It starts to get under your skin in a way that doesn’t dull with time. If anything, it gets more acute.
By the time you finish collecting all of your laundry in the back bedroom, your nerves feel worn thin enough that you decide to shower before dealing with any of it, just to reset.
It’s been too long, longer than you like to think about. You’ve bathed in rivers when you could find them, used rainwater when you were lucky, and you haven’t had anything close to proper soap for well over a year.
You cleaned up at Maggie and Glenn’s, but you didn’t feel safe enough for a full shower.
Standing in a real bathroom again feels unreal. Clean tile beneath your feet, thick towels within reach, even a razor sitting on the edge of the sink.
You hesitate longer than you should before finally giving in.
It should feel safe.
For a moment, it does.
Then you notice the window.
Bare glass, wide open to the outside, with nothing covering it. No blinds, no curtains, not even the hardware left behind. Just an unobstructed view straight out into the side yard and the street beyond.
The detail sits wrong immediately.
Not because it’s missing, but because it was removed.
The holes where something used to be secured are too clean for anything else.
A quiet tension tightens in your chest as you step out into the hallway, checking the rest of the house with a growing sense of certainty. The living room is the same. The kitchen too. Every window stripped down to nothing but glass and frame, like the ability to block the outside world was taken out on purpose.
You don’t react right away. You just take it in, filing it away the same way you’ve learned to do with anything that doesn’t quite fit.
By the time you reach the back bedroom, you already know what you’ll find.
Still, you check.
Still bare.
You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself as your thoughts start to align instead of scatter. You’ve trusted people before. Taken things at face value. It never ended well, not out there where trust had a way of turning into something sharp if you weren’t careful.
The house isn’t offering you privacy. It’s offering you visibility.
Your attention drifts, inevitably, back to him. To the way he’s always outside, always within range, always watching without ever saying a word. You’ve known men like that before, even if the faces were different. The pattern isn’t new. Watch first. Decide later. Act when it suits them.
When you check outside again and find the stoop empty, your stomach drops before you can stop it.
You never see him move. He’s either there or he isn’t, and the absence feels worse than the presence because it leaves you guessing.
Leaves you exposed.
Of course he moved.
You did.
You head back to the bathroom, your knives already in your hands before you consciously decide to grab them, and press a towel up against the wall where the window sits. It takes a few quick motions to pin it in place, blade biting into drywall until the fabric holds well enough to block the view.
It isn’t perfect, but it’s enough.
You shut the door, undress, and step into the shower, letting the water hit you in a way that almost feels overwhelming. It’s hot and steady and endless, and for a few brief minutes, it’s enough to pull you out of your own head as the last two years start to wash away in pieces.
You linger longer than you should.
Long enough for your guard to soften.
Long enough for the quiet to feel almost safe again.
Daryl slips back into your thoughts, and that alone is enough to pull you out of it.
You shut the water off and step out, reaching for your towel—
Then stop.
The bathroom door is open.
Not by much. Just enough to break the line you remember leaving it in.
You stare at it, your mind catching on the detail with a sharp, immediate certainty.
You closed it.
You know you did.
For a second, that old unease tries to creep back in, that cold, distant sense of being watched from somewhere you can’t see.
But it doesn’t settle the same way this time.
It burns.
Because now there’s context. The missing blinds, the open lines of sight, the way he’s positioned himself day after day like he’s waiting for something. You blocked the only clear view he had, and the timing lines up too neatly to ignore.
Your grip tightens around the towel as something sharper pushes past the unease.
If he wanted a different angle, then he came inside to get it.
The thought lands hard, and instead of fear, it sparks something hotter, angrier, cutting clean through whatever hesitation you might have had before.
Fine.
You dress quickly, dragging your last clean outfit from the basket without caring that it isn’t actually clean anymore. When you realize your panties are missing, the same pair you know you tossed in there earlier, you don’t waste time searching.
It only feeds the same conclusion.
You pull your jeans on anyway and head straight for the front of the house, your focus narrowing with each step until there’s nothing left but the need to confirm it.
The windows come into view.
And so does he.
Back on the stoop.
Like he never left.
He’s on the same steps, same posture, easy and rooted, a bucket settled near his boots.
Walnuts this time.
He cracks them open with a knife in quick, practiced motions, dropping the meat of them into a container at his side. Busy hands. Relaxed body. Like he has all the time in the world.
Of course he’s back.
Now that you’re dressed.
Now that there’s nothing left to see.
That thought hits, and something in you just… goes.
You don’t stop to think it through. The door swings open hard enough to smack the wall, then slams behind you as you cross the street in a straight line, gravel crunching under your boots, loud and unfiltered.
Daryl looks up.
His head tilts slightly as you approach, his gaze dragging once down your legs, your hips, then back up again.
It lands.
And lingers.
There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, caught between a smirk and restraint, like he almost lets it show and then reins it in.
You stop a few feet in front of him, breath sharp, anger sitting just beneath your skin like it’s looking for a way out.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” you demand, low but cutting. “You get off on this or something? Watching people through their windows like a fucking creep?”
The shift in him is immediate.
Whatever that almost-smile was, it vanishes, replaced by defensive anger so quickly you get whiplash.
“What?” he snaps, sitting up straight. “The hell you talkin’ about?”
Oh.
His voice is nice.
This is the first time you’ve heard it.
It only pisses you off more.
“Don’t play dumb,” you fire back. “You think I haven’t noticed that every window in that house is bare?” A humorless laugh slips out. “I finally block your view, so you break in and find another angle?”
Color climbs up his neck, fast and hot. “What are you—”
“You’re a fuckin’ pervert, aren’t you?” The conclusion lands all at once, too clean to ignore. “My panties are gone.”
That hits.
His shoulders go rigid, jaw locking so tight it ticks. For a split second, something flashes across his face, too fast to name—surprise, maybe, or something closer to oh, shit.
“I ain’t a—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
Not because he doesn’t have the words.
Because he’s looking past you.
His head turns slightly, eyes flicking toward the rest of the community, scanning the conversations happening in streets, the houses, like he’s checking who might be listening.
Your stomach drops.
And then he steps in, closer than before, hand coming up in a quick, sharp motion, pointing in your face.
“Hey—” His voice drops, urgent now. “Keep it down.”
A hush.
A warning.
Like you’ve just said something you weren’t supposed to say out in the open.
Your pulse spikes.
“Oh my god,” you laugh, louder if anything, the words cracking with disbelief. “You are a perv—”
“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you now, still scanning, still tense in a way that doesn’t match the argument. “Ain’t somethin’ you go yellin’—”
That’s it.
That’s the moment it locks.
Because he’s not confused.
He’s not denying it.
He’s trying to contain it.
“Are you serious right now?” you laugh, sharp and incredulous, taking a step back just to look at him properly. “You’re worried about people hearing that?”
His eyes cut back to you, something dark flashing there, but it doesn’t matter.
You’ve already decided what that look means.
“You didn’t even deny it,” you push, voice rising again despite the way he tries to rein it in. “You just told me to be quiet.”
“‘Cause it goes without sayin’. You’re being—” he starts, frustrated now, but you don’t let him finish.
“No, no, I just find that really interesting,” you cut in, shaking your head, the anger coming back twice as hot. “All this time, and that’s what you’re worried about? Not that I’m wrong, just that I’m loud?”
He exhales hard through his nose, jaw flexing, clearly trying to get a handle, but the damage is done.
Because from where you’re standing, it doesn’t look like denial.
It looks like guilt trying not to get caught.
“No, that’s it, isn’t it?” you press, stepping closer, the edge in your voice turning sharp with something almost triumphant. “You like peepin’ on girls. Sniffin’ their underwear—”
“Enough,” he growls. “You got somethin’ wrong with you—”
“I’ve got something wrong?” you echo, incredulous now, your voice still rising despite yourself. “You’ve been following me since I got here, like—”
“Like what?” he snaps, pushing to his feet, the bucket tipping as he moves at you. “Ain’t my fault you keep lookin’ my way.”
“Yeah, because I caught you,” you shoot back.
His jaw works, fingers tightening around the knife still in his hand.
You feel it then.
The shift.
Conversations around you falter, voices dipping, attention turning like a slow ripple. Somewhere behind you, Rick’s voice carries in that low, steady way of his, not words yet, just presence closing in.
You don’t look.
Your focus stays locked on Daryl.
He’s glaring now, breathing heavier, tension pulled tight through him.
But he’s also clearly humiliated. His eyes scan over your shoulders, then land on someone.
“Nah, I’m done with this,” he mutters, rough and cutting, turning like he’s already checked out. Eyes locked on someone.
Then he adds, nonchalantly and distracted. “You’re bein’ a bitch.”
It lands like a spark in dry grass.
Your hand moves before you think better of it.
The crack is sharp across the street as your palm connects with his cheek, snapping his head to the side with a curse.
For a second, everything stills.
Your hand tingles. His fingers come up slow to his face, pressing there like he’s holding the sting in place.
Then he looks back at you with a glare that doesn't waver.
“And you’re stupid too,” he grinds out, voice low. “Slappin’ a guy with a blade in his hand.”
He steps in, closing the space, eyes narrowing down at you.
“Go ahead,” he adds, quieter, more dangerous for it. “Try that one more time.”
Your fists curl at your sides, anger coiling tight.
“That a threat?”
“Is if you swing again.”
You step forward anyway, and so does he. Your bodies are close. And now you can smell him. Cigarettes and sweat and leather.
You hate how pretty his eyes are.
So much that you do move to swing again.
Movement cuts in from your periphery, fast and solid, and then Rick’s between you before you get the chance. One hand lands firm on your shoulder, the other planted against Daryl’s chest.
“Easy,” he says, steady but commanding. “Both of you, take it down a notch.”
Daryl bristles immediately, pacing behind him like something caged, but Rick doesn’t give him an inch.
“I don’t care what he did,” Rick adds, glancing back at you. “You calm down. I’ll handle him.”
“She came at me with this crazy shit,” Daryl snaps, trying to push forward again, his focus still locked on you. “You off your wacko meds or somethin’?”
“Daryl.”
He keeps leaning forward until he’s back in your face, nudging Rick off balance. “Maybe you’re on the fuckin’ rag—”
“Daryl!” Rick turns and shoves him back harder this time.
You drag in a breath, the tremor in it betraying how tightly wound you are.
“Rick,” you start, forcing it steady, “there are no blinds in that house. And he hasn’t stayed more than a hundred feet away from me since I got here. And—”
Deanna steps in then, calm and composed, taking in the scene like she’s reading smoke before it turns to fire.
“The blinds were taken down years ago,” she says gently. “The previous owners were renovating before the outbreak. I never had the means, or the time to replace them. No one’s been inside that house since.”
The words settle.
Slow.
Heavy.
Behind Rick, Daryl stills, then tilts his head slightly, something sharp and amused flickering at the corner of his mouth.
“Guess all that bitchin’ was for nothin’, huh?” he says, low, almost conversational, but edged enough to make your blood hum.
“Daryl, if you don’t stop I’ll hit you myself,” Rick warns.
You feel it then, the anger draining out and leaving something hotter in its wake.
Embarrassment.
You don’t stay.
You turn and walk back to your home without another word, the weight of it pressing in as the adrenaline burns off.
An hour later, there’s a knock.
Gabriel, Glenn, and Maggie stand there with an armful of curtains between them, soft colors and heavy fabric, something solid to put between you and the outside. They help you hang them, filling the house in piece by piece until the windows stop feeling like open eyes.
They stay for dinner.
You ask them all what Daryl’s deal is, and while they admit that his apparent fixation seems a little odd, they claim he just... does that sometimes.
Zones out.
Which is so completely valid. You do the same.
But he is not zoning out.
He's zoning in.
On you.
You tell them that.
But they spend a long time assuring you that Daryl isn’t the creep you think he is. That he’s definitely an acquired taste in terms of personality.
First and foremost, all of them go on to stress his loyalty to this group.
Which also confirms your first theory about him: that he’s likely just sussing you out.
He’s not quick to trust.
Neither are you.
And you just made a fool of yourself in front of half the community. The rest have likely heard about it by proxy.
The next day at the infirmary, confirms your suspicions.
But everyone subverts your expectations. Mostly the women.
Rosita gives you knuckles and calls you a badass, Denise praises the fact that you got a hit in, and Tara says that she’s wanted to do that before, but didn’t have the balls.
Another month goes by, and you still have a shadow with a crossbow.
You start spotting him without meaning to, like your brain learned the shape of him and now pulls it from the background automatically.
You test it.
Throw a middle finger over your shoulder without even looking.
Wait a beat.
When you glance back, he’s already got two fingers raised right back at you.
“What’s your fuckin’ problem with me?” you ask him once.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nothin’.”
Like the word’s worn smooth from overuse. Like it’s the only one he’s willing to give you.
By the third time you ask him for an explanation, you’re grinding your teeth. By the fifth, you’re imagining creative ways to shut him up indefinitely. You linger on the thought of his throat under your hand, the heat of his carotid pumping.
You swear to all that’s holy, if you hear that word one more time, you might actually try it.
He’d probably just smile at you while you did it. Just to piss you off some more.
And the worst part is, you can see it. Clear as anything. The way his mouth would pull, just barely, like he’s in on something you’re not.
Another month bleeds into the next, days folding over each other in that quiet, relentless way Alexandria has.
Routine settles in, but he never quite becomes part of the background. Not fully.
If anything, he becomes a bigger focus for you.
You start noticing where he is without trying. Catching the shape of him in your peripheral before you even look. Listening for the soft creak of those steps, the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice when he bothers to use it.
It’s irritating.
You tell yourself that, every time.
Still, your attention keeps circling back, like a tongue worrying a sore spot.
Three months in, you start noticing something new.
At first, you think you’re imagining it. That same prickle at the back of your neck, that instinct that tells you when he’s looking, except now when you turn, his gaze isn’t where it used to be.
It’s lower.
You catch it once. Brush it off.
Twice. Coincidence.
By the fifth time, you know exactly what you’re seeing. You’re on a supply run with Rick, Abe, and unfortunately…
Daryl.
And he’s staring at your ass.
Just fixed there, like he forgot himself for a second and didn’t bother correcting it. Hell, maybe he’s been doing it since you arrived, and he just doesn’t care if you notice anymore.
Your chest twists, sharp and immediate. Not quite anger. Not quite anything you want to examine too closely.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath the next time it happens, not even bothering to hide it as you turn fully, catching him in it.
He doesn’t turn away.
Doesn’t even look embarrassed.
His eyes merely lift, slow, dragging back up to meet yours like he meant to do it.
Like he’s daring you to say something, head tilted back, looking at you down his nose.
The frustration is familiar now, but not entirely unwelcome. You latch onto the sharp edge of it before it can turn into anything else.
“You serious?” you snap, hands braced on your hips. “You gonna keep staring, or you wanna explain yourself for once?”
His shoulders shift in a half-shrug, casual as anything. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
Rick groans in annoyance beside you guys. “Guys, seriously. What part of stealth is hard to understand?”
Abe shrugs. “Ain’t your fault your mama blessed you with that ass, sweetheart.”
You know what? It actually feels like a compliment coming from Abe. The fact that Daryl refuses to practice any introspection is what really infuriates you, because that just makes it all the more obvious that he’s trying to fuck with your head.
The arguments come easier after the ogling starts.
Small things at first. Sharp words tossed back and forth when you cross paths, irritation snapping quick and hot before either of you bother cooling it. Then bigger ones, louder, edged with threats.
You call him out. He deflects. You push harder. He pushes back just enough to keep it going.
It never resolves.
It just resets.
Over and over.
You have to be separated at council meetings so often that they stop inviting both of you for a few weeks at a time.
He’s contrarian, patronizing, and just a general jackass.
Like he’s made it his life’s purpose to test you.
The worst part is that he usually lets up, pulling back from the argument only once he’s got a rise out of you. Like that was all he wanted in the first place. To piss you off and make you burn red.
Dammit.
Your panties start going missing again.
At first, it’s easy to brush off. You’ve been on your own for a long time, living out of scraps and half-systems that only made sense to you. Things get misplaced. Left behind. Forgotten.
It happens.
Maybe your washing machine has a thing for eating black lace.
Except it keeps happening.
And it’s always the same pattern.
Always when they’re dirty.
You notice it the third time. Not right away, not in some dramatic flash, but in that slow, creeping way where your brain starts pulling threads together without asking permission.
You remember putting them in the basket.
You remember it clearly.
And then they’re just… not there.
You stand in the doorway of your bedroom longer than you mean to, staring at the half-filled basket like it’s going to explain itself if you give it enough time.
It doesn’t.
You check the bathroom. The floor. The corners. Under the bed. In the sheets. Hell, even under the rugs. Anywhere they could’ve slipped or gotten caught.
Nothing.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand over your face. “Fine.”
You tell yourself you dropped them somewhere else. That you’re tired. That your memory’s playing tricks after everything you’ve been through.
It’s a decent explanation.
Until it happens again.
And again.
By the fifth time, it’s not an accident anymore.
It’s a pattern.
So you adjust.
You stop using the basket. Start setting them aside somewhere else, somewhere more deliberate. A drawer. Then under your pillow. Then tucked into the back of your closet behind a stack of folded clothes like you’re hiding something from yourself.
Each time, you make a point of remembering.
You place them down. You look at them. You tell yourself, they’re here.
You leave.
You come back.
Gone.
Not shifted. Not misplaced.
Gone.
The first time it happens from the new spot, something cold slips down your spine.
The second time, you don’t even feel surprised.
Just… tired.
Frustrated in a way that doesn’t have anywhere to go.
Because there’s no proof. No sound. No sign that anything’s been touched. The house stays exactly the way you leave it, neat and still and quiet.
You start checking the windows again. The locks. The doors. You take your time with it, methodical, hands steady even when your thoughts aren’t.
Everything is exactly how it should be.
Every time.
And that’s the part that gets to you.
Because if nothing’s wrong—
Then what the hell is happening?
You catch yourself standing in the middle of your bedroom one night, staring at the empty space where you know your pack used to be, and for a second, something ugly curls in your chest.
Doubt.
Not about the situation.
About yourself.
You press your lips together, hard, like you can force that thought back down where it came from.
No.
You’ve survived too much to start second-guessing your own head now.
You know what you saw. Where you put it. What you remember.
Which leaves only one option.
Him.
Your jaw tightens as something sharp and restless settles under your skin.
You’re not crazy.
A few nights later the air in your home is thick with silence. You’re alone in your bed, or at least you presume to be, but the absence of proof isn’t proof of absence. You know that now.
The thought coils in your stomach, hot and restless, as you press your thighs together under the thin sheet.
Daryl’s been gone for three days on a supply run, and the relief should be palpable. Instead, it’s just… hollow. Like the space he leaves behind is somehow louder than his presence ever was.
You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers twitch against the mattress, restless, like they’re waiting for permission you refuse to give.
But tonight, you’re done waiting.
You slide your hand down your stomach, slow, just to prove you can. The fabric of your shirt skips under your palm and you bite your lip.
It’s not about him. It’s not. It’s about the tension in your muscles, the ache between your legs, the way your body craves what your mind keeps trying to forget.
You press your palm flat against your underwear, exhaling sharply through your nose when you feel how wet you already are.
Pathetic. You’d laugh if you weren’t so fucking frustrated.
The first touch is clinical. Testing. Like you’re still convincing yourself this is allowed. But then your fingers dip beneath the elastic, and the gasp that punches out of you is anything but detached.
You arch off the mattress, hips lifting instinctively, chasing the pressure.
Fuck. It’s been too long.
Your thoughts stutter. Images flashing behind your eyelids: rough hands pinning your wrists, hot breath against your neck that smells of cigarettes, the sharp sting of teeth.
You squeeze your thighs together, trapping your own fingers. The friction burns just right.
Your shirt rides higher as you palm your breast, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple. Not teasing, not exploring, just needing. The pressure sends a jolt straight down to where your other hand is already working in tight, impatient circles.
You don’t have the patience for slow tonight. Not when every press of your fingers feels like scratching an itch you’ve ignored for years.
With a frustrated groan, you kick your pants and panties off in one sharp motion, letting them land in a heap on the floor.
The air feels like frost spreading along your bare skin, clinging to the sweat you’ve worked up already. You drag your fingers through your slick, hissing at the contact, and then you’re pushing two inside your cunt without hesitation.
The stretch burns so good, and you turn your head into the pillow with a whimper as you curl your fingers, searching.
Legs spreading wider, you hook a knee over your elbow, pulling yourself open as you fuck into your fingers into your cunt with fast motions.
It’s not enough.
You add a third finger, biting back a whine when your muscles clench around them.
Fuck, you’re so wet. It’s stupid and embarrassing, like your body’s been waiting for this even when your brain refuses to admit it.
And then—because you’re weak, because you’re angry, because you must hate yourself—your mind flashes to him.
Daryl.
You imagine his calloused hands replacing yours, his rough grip yanking your thighs apart, his voice growling something filthy. Insulting you. Degrading you.
His cock ruining you.
The thought makes your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and yearning.
You press your heel into the mattress, lifting your hips higher, fucking your fingers harder—like if you just push, just take, you can chase that feeling out of your system.
But of fucking course it’s no use.
The more you touch yourself, the clearer the images become: Daryl’s teeth sinking into your neck, his hands holding your breasts, his cock filling you up so much better than your hand ever could.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the betrayal of your own pulse turns into a sharp ache between your legs.
A whimper claws its way up your throat as your fingers speed up.
"Fuck you," you grit out between clenched teeth, your fingers working faster now, slick and desperate. "Fuck you, fuck you—" The words come out whiny, choked, like a mantra you don’t even realize you’re saying until your own voice echoes back at you.
Your thighs tremble, your hips angling as you chase that crest, so close you can taste it.
Just a little more—just a little—
The sound splits through the air like a gunshot.
Floorboard.
Hallway.
You recognize it instantly, the way your body knows hunger or thirst or the sting of a fresh wound. Your fingers go still inside you, muscles locking so fast it hurts. The wet sound of your own touch hangs in the air, obscene in the sudden silence.
Your door is open.
Wide.
You didn’t think you needed to close it.
Daryl’s not supposed to be here.
Breath trapped in your throat, you don’t move.
Don’t blink.
All at once, the dark of your bedroom feels alive, pressing in from all sides. Your pulse hammers against your ribs, loud and fast like it’s trying to punch itself out.
Then, another sound. A shift of air.
Slowly.
So slowly your muscles protest, you turn your head toward the doorway.
The hall is darker than your room, a void where the weak moonlight doesn’t reach.
Instinct takes over before thought can catch up.
You wrench the blanket around yourself and bolt upright, moving before your brain registers the command. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you dash across the bedroom and flick the bedroom light on, the sudden brightness stinging your eyes.
The room is empty. Exactly as it should be.
Then—
Thump.
Upstairs.
A sound so deliberate it doesn’t even pretend to be accidental.
You know it’s stupid. You know running toward danger instead of away is the kind of shit that gets people killed in this world. Half naked, no less. But you don’t care.
You’re wired, adrenaline singing through your veins like a live current as you take the stairs two at a time, bare feet slapping against the wood.
The upstairs hallway stretches before you, shadows clinging to the corners. You never come up here. The air is thick with the scent of dust and—
Cigarettes.
You whirl into the first room, then the next, checking corners, behind doors, under the bed like some frantic animal.
Nothing. No one.
The house is still. Too still.
Then you see it.
The curtain in the bedroom sways, just slightly, like someone brushed past it seconds ago.
Maybe you did.
Maybe you’re imagining things again.
Your throat goes dry.
You step closer, every muscle in your body coiled tight.
The window is cracked open—just enough for a hand to slip through, to lift from the outside. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides.
You slam the window shut and lock it.
You should feel relieved that you didn’t find anything other than a cracked window. You should sag against the wall, laugh at your own paranoia, chalk it up to the wind or your own fucked-up imagination. But the heat under your skin doesn’t fade.
You storm back downstairs, your breath coming fast, your thighs and fingers still sticky with your own mess. You step back into your bedroom, then promptly freeze.
Your panties.
The ones you’d kicked off in a frenzy—
Gone.
A laugh claws its way up your throat, jagged and wild.
Of course.
Of fucking course they are.
Hours crawl by in a slow bleed of shadows, your fingers clenched around the knife under your pillow until dawn streaks the sky in grays and blues.
You don’t sleep. You don’t even think you blink.
Every creak of the house feels like a taunt, every rustle of wind a whisper against your skin. By the time the sun finally lifts over Alexandria’s walls, you’re already dressed, already moving, your body thrumming with a restless energy that demands action.
You leave Alexandria under the guise of going on a solo hunt, claiming you didn't sleep well. You also ask tersely about Daryl and when he’s returned.
Rosita’s quick to tell you that he’s still not back.
Which you’re still pretty confident is utter bullshit.
She pulls the gate open for you without asking any questions, and you make a beeline for the forest. The spot isn’t far, a mile or two beyond the eastern tree line, where the land dips into a shallow cliffside.
You found it months ago, back when you still bothered mapping escape routes, back when trust was a currency you hadn’t yet wasted.
The alcove is quiet, sheltered by a natural curve of rock that funnels walkers away like water around a stone. Today, though, luck’s run dry. A single walker stumbles between the trees nearby.
Your fingers flex around your knife. Fine.
The walker's milky eyes lock onto you, its jaw working like it can already taste your flesh. You roll your shoulders back, flipping your knife in your palm—a quick, practiced motion that should feel satisfying but just leaves your fingers twitchy.
Whatever. At least this is something you can fix.
You take two steps forward—
Thwip.
An arrow—no—a crossbow bolt hits dead-center between its eyes with a wet crunch, sending the walker crumpling to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Your breath stutters in your chest as your pulse rushes and thumps in your ears so loudly that you go half-deaf.
No way.
There's no fucking way in hell that he actually followed you out here.
You whip around to see, who?
Daryl Goddamned Dixon, stepping out from between the trees, crossbow still raised.
That’s it.
Enough.
You snap.
The moss underfoot muffles your steps, but your rage isn't quiet. You stomp toward him, snapping twigs under your boots like they're his bones.
His smirk is infuriating, like he’s won. When his mouth opens, you already know what’s coming before he says it.
"You're welcome," he drawls. The crossbow dips lazily in his grip, like this is nothing.
Like you're nothing.
Your fist connects with his jaw before you even consider the repercussions. The impact jars up your arm with sharp, satisfying pain as his head is thrown to the side, and for one glorious fucking second, you think he might actually take the hint.
But then his hand shoots out, fingers digging into your chin hard enough to grind your teeth into the inside of your cheek. You taste the tang of your own blood when he yanks you forward.
His mouth crashes into yours—no softness, no asking. Just heat and teeth and the taste of contrasting iron on his split his lip.
You bite back, literally, sinking your teeth into the affliction until he grunts, but he doesn’t let go. His other hand fists in your hair, pulling just shy of painful, and you growl as you arch, because fuck him, you won’t be the one to break first.
His crossbow hits the ground somewhere beside him, forgotten. You shove at his chest, and the kiss breaks as he stumbles backward.
His eyes lock onto yours.
Dark, feral.
God, it makes your pulse kick harder.
You barely have time to react before he’s surging forward again, closing the distance between you like a predator cornering its prey.
You swing again, fist aimed for his ribs this time, but he catches your wrist.
"Let go—" you snarl.
He yanks you forward so hard your shoulder protests and you collide against his chest. The heat of him burns through your clothes.
He leans forward, breath rasping against your ear.
"Have a little fun without me last night?" His voice is low, taunting, rough with something that isn’t just anger.
“Damn you!” You feel a scream building up in your throat. “I knew you were—”
Daryl slaps you across the face, and your scream comes out gritted.
You don’t dignify it with words. Instead, you jerk your knee up—aiming for his gut, his balls, anywhere that’ll wipe that smug look off his face—but he twists, taking the hit on his thigh with a grunt.
His hands move fast to your shoulders, where they grab fistfuls of your jacket, fingers digging into the lapels before he dips his thumbs beneath and shoves down.
Daryl gets your jacket off, and you only realize it’s off when you see him toss it aside. The fabric drapes over a log before crumpling to the ground.
For half a second, you both just stare. Chests heaving, lips parted around ragged breaths.
You can see the exact moment his gaze drops to your mouth.
Your neck.
Ultimately landing on your tits.
You shove at his chest again, but he prepares for it this time. He barely moves. Just rocks with it, steadies, and looks back at you like you’ve done something mildly interesting.
One hand finds your waist, pressing into the dips there.
“Pervert,” you spit, but the word lacks venom when his thumb brushes the strip of bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’re foul—”
His mouth crashes into yours before you can twist away, and fuck, it’s infuriating how good it feels. How your body curls into him, how your fingers claw at his vest just like he did with your jacket.
Dammit, he growls against your lips, rough and possessive. It makes your stomach flip. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into your ass overtop your jeans. He yanks you forward against him.
You can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this when his hips nudge into you.
He's rock hard.
You don’t ask.
Neither does he.
Your fingers push at his vest, fumbling in the heat of it all. He shrugs it off for you instead.
The shirt beneath is a button up flannel, and you don't bother taking it off the nice way. You just slide your fingers into the closure, grasp, and rip apart.
Daryl grunts as he looks down. He doesn’t help this time, just watches you literally tear his shirt open with that infuriating half-smile of his, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.
The fabric splits with sharp, satisfying pops, exposing his scarred skin beneath.
Your brain short circuits.
Long enough that Daryl has a chance to hook his fingers into the neckline of your tank top, finger burying in your cleavage.
Then he yanks down, rough and impatient. The fabric stretches, then splits down the middle with a sharp rip.
Before you know it, your bra is exposed and Daryl’s gaze drags over it.
It makes your skin burn. You don’t know whether to cover yourself or punch him.
You quickly decide to go with the latter.
Your fist connects with the side of his ribs hard enough to make him curse and cough. Daryl staggers, one hand clutching his side, but his grip on your tank top doesn’t loosen—instead, he uses it to yank you forward, off-balance.
He just manhandles you.
You stumble forward, and before you can right yourself, he shoves you back now. Hard.
Your calves hit something solid.
His fucking crossbow.
And then you’re going down.
Your elbows slam into the dirt first. The impact jolts up your arms, then your shoulders hit next, then your spine. The breath punches out of your lungs in a sharp wheeze.
Above you, Daryl’s shadow blocks out the sun. His shirt is gone.
One of his knees lands between your thighs, his weight pressing down into you before you can twist away. You buck around under him, snarling, pushing on his chest, slapping his face, nails scraping over his shoulders.
You put a hand in his face and push up.
“Get the hell off’a me,” you snap, twisting sharply to the side.
It works—sort of.
Daryl thrashes to get your hand off his jaw, but he takes long enough for you to roll over. You crawl out from under him, and scramble to get up, but he grabs your ankle.
You topple with your forward momentum just as he drags you back toward him. You hook your fingers into the soil and drag, but it’s useless.
You spin and try to land a kick on his nose. He leans back and avoids it, like he knew you’d try.
You start kicking the fingers wrapped around your ankle instead. He lets go then with a grunt. You stand up and run for your jacket, but he’s on you again so fast that you yelp.
Then, ostensibly, you’re both rolling across the dirt, grappling like feral cats. You manage to land another punch on his cheek, but it doesn’t land right.
His knee catches you in the ribs, and you cough.
But then you’re on top, straddling his waist with your thighs locked tight around him. You raise your fist—
And he catches it again, dammit, fingers clamping down like a bear trap.
You snarl, trying to wrench free, but he uses the momentum to flip you again. Leaves and sticks splinter beneath your back, and Daryl’s already wedging himself between your thighs.
His free hand slides up your side impatiently, then his palm closes over your breast, squeezing and kneading you.
“Asshole,” you spit, arching into the touch despite yourself.
His mouth curls into that infuriating smirk again.
You try to push him up, but he catches both wrists and pins them high above your head while his hips press down. The firm line of his cock rubs between your spread legs.
Deliberate, taunting.
Hell, maybe even a fucking warning. Because he stops and just pushes against you and stays there.
Your traitorous body responds instantly, heat pooling low in your belly. Grinding back and forth, rubbing your clit wetly on the seam of your jeans. You hate him for it.
So you spit in his face.
Daryl whips his head away, then he turns, lip curled in anger.
Then he does the same right back.
Spit lands hot and wet on your cheek. You shrug your shoulder up to try and wipe it off, but you don’t get far because he’s leaning down to capture your mouth in a kiss again.
Messy. Rough.
All teeth and tongue.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Just his tongue shoving into your mouth like he’s trying to choke you with it. You suck, then drag your teeth along it while he retreats.
You’ve never heard someone actually growl before, but he certainly does. The sound rumbles against your lips, his fingers tightening around your wrists until your skin burns, but you don’t pull them away.
Mostly because you can’t.
Instead, you arch up and lock your legs around his waist. You grind and rub on his cock, because two can play at that game.
You’ll take what you want from this, too.
Daryl groans, pulling back to start kissing down your neck. Then he’s biting a line down your chest, teeth dragging until he reaches your exposed breast.
His free hand yanks at your bra, rough and impatient, the cup snapping down and curling under the swell of you. His palm is calloused, hot against your bare breast, and then he gives you a punishing squeeze.
A moan stumbles out of you once he leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth.
“Fuck you,” you grit.
Now you knee him in the ribs—same spot as your punch—and he grunts, his body buckling just enough for you to twist your arms out of his grip.
Your thighs clamp around his waist as you flip the both of you until he’s flat on his back in the moss and dirt.
His belt is thick, worn leather, and you don’t bother with finesse. You jerk the buckle loose, knuckles brushing the soft swell of his stomach, and he slaps you, open-handed while you work his jeans open, sharp enough to make your head snap to the side.
Your cheek stings, but you don’t pause. You just punch him in the gut in retaliation. A quick, brutal jab.
Another slap lands on your face and you don’t react to it.
But God, it hurts. He does it again, then another smack lands on your tit.
Aside from the impacts, he’s not resisting you. Not really.
You pull the zipper next, and Daryl’s breath hitches when your fingers brush lower.
Then he puts up a fight again.
One hand fists in your hair, yanking you down and wrestling you onto your side. One of his arms is already under you and circles around your waist. He drags you on top of him this time, your spine to his chest and staring up at the canopy overhead.
“Let go of me,” you snap. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
His hips grind up against your ass. "Winnin'." His voice is so fucking deep it rumbles from his chest and right into yours.
Fuck.
His free hand slides down your stomach and digs into the button of your jeans like he's trying to crush it.
You writhe against him, twisting your hips sharply to get his hand to stop its assault, but Daryl just grunts at the friction and holds you tighter. His forearm is like a steel band around your ribs.
You gasp when the button of your jeans pops free. The zipper rasps down next before you can do much else.
His fingers dive into your jeans with no fucking courtesy.
“I hate you,” you grit. You start thrashing around, but his arm is steadfast, holding you in place with so much force it's hard to take a full breath.
You hiss, thighs snapping together instinctively, trapping his wrist between them.
He’s already there though.
“No panties today, huh?” he chuckles.
God.
“Gee, I sure wonder why—”
“Slut.”
“I hate you.”
"Fuckin’ liar," Daryl growls against your ear, breath hot and ragged. His fingers curl, pressing harder, dragging through the wetness he finds there like he’s proving a point. "Tellin’ me you hate me when your cunt’s drippin’."
His finger drags along the seam of you regardless of the space you give him, rubbing rough and torturous.
You choke on your own breath. "I do hate you," you spit, but the words crack when he presses lower, and your legs part, because fighting him just hurts more.
You whine and immediately despise yourself for it. The callouses on his palm grind against your clit like cat’s tongue while his fingers properly glide around through your slick heat.
It feels so much better than you thought it would.
You can feel how wet you are. He slips and slides around in it, and you really hate giving him the satisfaction.
So you grab his wrist and pull on it.
Doesn’t stop him though, he's too strong.
You realize with a sinking feeling that you’re fighting a losing battle when you try to pull again, because he doesn’t flinch.
He’s rigid, immovable.
He lifts his knees and spreads them. The movement forces your thighs to separate wide just as two fingers plunge into your cunt.
"Shit," you hiss. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"
His teeth graze your shoulder, sucking and marking you, and God, your hips jerk into his touch like some desperate little thing. You keep fighting him, even as his fingers piston inside you.
"That why you’re grindin’ on my hand?" Daryl's breath hitches, like he's just as affected by the touch.
His fingers curl, dragging out a slow, filthy stroke that punches a ragged noise from your throat. You buck against him, nails scraping skin from his forearm, but he just tightens his grip around your ribs with a grunt.
Your scratch makes him bleed.
He doesn’t care.
You feel helpless.
So for a short while, you just let his fingers fuck into you, let his breath sear the back of your neck, let the weight of his arm hold you atop him like you’ve surrendered.
Daryl’s grip on you gradually loosens just a fraction, his rhythm slowing like he’s caught off guard by your fawning.
And that’s all you need.
You twist violently, wrenching your hips sideways, and his fingers slip free. Just when Daryl thinks he has you pinned again, you throw your head back against his.
The back of your head collides with a rough crack—bone meeting bone. It sends white-hot pain spiderwebbing through your skull.
"Shit–!" he shouts.
His hold on you drops away, and you scramble free, rolling onto your knees beside him in the dirt.
Daryl's groan is muffled behind his hands—fingers pressed to his forehead where you'd cracked into him. He sounds pissed.
Good.
Pride flares just like the pain in your skull as you kick your boots off in quick, jerky motions, the laces creaking under the force. Your jeans follow, shucked down your thighs with rough impatience, then you kick them aside entirely.
Daryl's hands drop from his face just as you swing one leg over his shoulders, knees bracketing his head. His pupils dilate when your thighs come together around his cheeks. Confusion flickers, then his pupils flare.
His lips part before you even settle down fully, tongue already dragging wet and heavy over his bottom lip like he's starved of you.
Your thumb digs into the swollen red spot on Daryl’s forehead, just because. He grunts in pain, turning his head sharply to dislodge the pressure.
His arms snap up and surprise you, circling around your thighs with a grip like iron.
You panic, because you’re caught again, and he pulls you. You wanted some semblance of control, but he keeps taking it from you.
As much as you try to fight him and gravity, you know it’s a losing battle.
Your body drops abruptly toward his face, and he tilts his head up to meet you.
The first hot swipe of his tongue against your clit is a shock—wet, deliberate, and filthy. You try to jerk back up instinctively, but his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, securing you there.
His mouth seals over you, tongue dragging slow and rough from your entrance to your clit in one merciless stroke.
Daryl’s laps at you, messy and drooling and moaning like you’re some fucking delicacy. You stare down at him, and you really hope he can’t tell how much his enthusiasm turns you on.
He chuckles deep in his throat the second it crosses your mind.
You tremble involuntarily, spine bowing. “God, you’re a jackass.”
You suck in a shaky breath and it comes back out as an equally shaky moan. His nose presses into your clit with every rough drag. You hiss through your teeth, fingers twisting tighter in his hair—not guiding, just taking, grinding down against his face like you want to suffocate him with it.
Drown him in your cunt.
Daryl’s groan vibrates against your skin, hot and ragged. You dig your thumb into the bruise on his forehead again, pressing hard enough to make him growl.
Not in pain apparently.
His eyes roll white and flutter shut, and the bastard still doesn’t stop. If anything, his tongue works harder, slides up and flicks against your clit like he’s trying to spell his name on you.
You whimper his name without meaning to, and his eyes fly open again, brow scrunching in concentration as he looks up at you.
His hands slide up your thighs, callouses catching on your skin. They skim over your hips, one palm sliding around to smack your ass. You jerk forward with a gasp, your thighs tightening around his head reflexively.
His hands don’t stop traveling. They continue upward, fingers digging into the dip of your waist. Then higher, clumsy and bumping over the cups of your bra.
One hand squeezes roughly over the fabric, fingers pinching your nipple overtop it until you hiss. The other cup flipped back up over your breast, and he tears it down again like he’s reclaiming the lost territory.
You don’t bother fumbling with the clasp. Instead, you yank the whole damn thing off, bra and the torn remains of your tank top being flung somewhere beside you into the dirt.
Cool air ghosts over your bare skin, but the heat of Daryl’s gaze burns you hot again.
His eyes move between your face and your tits, dark and hungry. And the sound he makes.
Fuck.
A low, throaty moan muffled against your clit.
You grind down harder, riding his face like you’re trying to discipline him. Daryl disciplines you right back, hands engulfing your breasts, squeezing, and pinching your nipples.
That’s how you play with them—
You gasp and can’t your hips down along his tongue.
“Ohh, oh fuck—” Your voice cracks when his tongue slides upward, lapping at your clit with insistent licks in the off-tempo of your grinding.
What the fuck. This is how you touch yourself.
And that little slip up just gave you away.
Daryl's tongue works you over with brutal precision—like he's studied you, memorized the exact way you touch yourself in the dark… when no one's watching…
You gulp and shiver when you remember.
He did.
The realization makes your skin prickle with fury even as your thighs tremble around his head. You yank his hair hard enough to make him grunt, then the bastard laughs—mouth still pressed wet against your cunt. The vibration sends a jolt up your spine.
His hands keep palming your tits like he owns them, then he pulls your nipples.
You jerk forward with a gasp.
Oh.
His lips seal around your clit, then he’s sucking, and your focus wobbles. A broken noise punches from your throat, your body jolting as bliss surges through you.
You try to get his head away, palm shoving at his forehead, the other hand clawing at his scalp, but he holds firm. His tongue flicks against the spot he just sucked, relentless, and your thighs quake around his skull.
“You c-can’t make me—come—” Your words dissolve into a ragged moan, your hips stuttering against his face as the heat in your belly coils tighter.
Shit.
Maybe he can.
His fingers twist your nipples sharply, and the pain-pleasure of it makes your cunt clench. You snarl and twist your hips to get away, but Daryl growls, his grip lowering quickly to circle around your thighs again.
His grip on your thighs locks you in place. And his tongue returns to its assault on you, faster, rougher, trying to ruin you with it.
You’re close. Too close.
And he knows.
He leans his head up into you, eyes locked on your face.
“Daryl, I’m—“ You jerk backward with a snarl, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad, fingers digging bruises into your skin.
The bastard laughs again.
And that’s what does it.
The coil in your belly snaps, and you're coming on his mouth with a gritted, angry groan. Once that familiar warmth floods in, you forget the fighting and just chase it, grinding your hips down against his face in wild, jerky movements.
Daryl doesn't let up.
Not even a little. He takes it. You look down at him and he stares right back up at you.
His tongue works you through it, dragging your pleasure out until it borders on painful. Until your thighs shake and your fingers twitch out of his hair to brace on the ground beside it instead.
Only when you start to slump forward, breathless and trembling, does he finally pull his mouth away, but not far. His breath puffs hot and wet against your oversensitive skin, his chest heaving.
You sit upright overtop him again, panting. Tiredly, you look over your shoulder to see Daryl’s… cock.
Oh, shit.
It’s out of his pants now. Your pulse scatters when you see the full length of him. Red and thick, throbbing in strong flexes off his stomach. Precum glistens and drips from the head.
You feel him moving.
You lag behind.
He grabs your forearms and simply moves you. You blame your afterglow when he’s already got you flat on your back, crawling over you like a big cat. His knees slot between your thighs before you can snap them shut.
One elbow braces beside your head, caging you in, while his free hand arrives on your cunt with a rough spank.
You yelp. Loudly.
“Girl, shut up,” he grumbles. He presses a hand over your mouth, then spreads your thighs with his knees. “You want this shit.”
He goes right back to spanking your cunt, fingers meeting your clit in snaps, searing through your nerves like fire.
There’s no rhythm. No warning between.
You wail into his palm and thrash, hands finding his shoulders and shoving, futile.
It’s so cruel. You just came and now he’s slapping your cunt like he’s mad at you for it.
You crack your eyes open to see him squinting down at you, pleased with himself. Like he’s triumphed. Like he’s got you all figured out and he knows just how to break you.
All at once, he stops slapping and starts rubbing, rough and wild, fingers dragging through the sore, wet mess he’s made of you.
His hand slides off your mouth and you suck in a breath.
“What’s wrong with you—” you snarl, but the words die when his fingers plunge inside your cunt.
Your hips jerk off the ground, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat.
"Fuck—F-Fuck you—" you whine, twisting violently beneath him, but Daryl hooks your knee in his elbow and he bends you in half, like he’s trying to bury you into the soil.
His fingers curl inside you, rough, relentless, dragging up against your walls so good your thighs tremble.
You feel your stomach coil again.
Unhelpfully, your mind supplies the image of his cock fucking in and out of you instead. You fucking moan, and his taunting smile is what gets you to slap him across the face.
The crack echoing through the trees, but the bastard just groans, shaking his head like a dog with a bone. His fingers don’t slow. Every time you land a hit on him or catch him off guard, it makes him double down.
Your thighs try to clamp shut, but it’s useless. Daryl’s fingers plunge deeper, curling just right, and your vision flickers.
Pulse stutters.
Heat blooms.
No.
But then you get the sudden urge that you need to piss.
No, no, no.
You’re gonna squirt. Holy shit, you always struggle to get there on your own, but he’s about to pull it out of you like it’s child’s play.
You writhe violently, snarling curses into the dirt, but he’s too strong. Too heavy.
The sound gets so obscene. You always get wetter when you’re about to cum, god, it’s humiliating.
You panic.
You buck.
You arch and squirm. Nails gouging his arms and wrists, but he doesn’t relent.
So your hands fly up to cover your face instead, goddammit. You shake and tremble without control of it, then his fingers push up inside you one last time, pressing deep, and your body seizes.
Your second orgasm hits you like a fucking brick.
He makes you squirt, the bastard. The hot rush floods between your thighs and up into his stomach. His palm slips.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes. He yanks his fingers free and rubs your clit back and forth, splashing in it like it’s fucking fun.
You go rigid.
It’s torture. It’s too much.
You might say something, but who cares?
You’ve never felt pleasure like this.
You drop your hands from your face to see him sucking two fingers in his mouth, cleaning them with deliberate, filthy drags of his tongue, like some starved animal.
You scowl at him through your haze and—
The sharp crack of his palm against your cheek snaps your head to the side, the sting blooming hot and sudden.
Before you can even recollect your thoughts, Daryl grinds the thick head of his cock against your clit.
You gasp. "Don't even think about—"
Another slap cuts you off, harder this time. Your vision turns to static, and when it clears, he’s already sinking into your cunt, seating himself to the hilt in one solid push of his hips.
Daryl leans forward and grabs your chin. "You gonna shut up now, or do I need to keep smackin’ you around?”
"Just fuck me," you snap.
He thrusts like he’s pissed. Each thrust punches the air from your lungs. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin and marking you up, ruining you, ensuring everyone knows exactly whose fault this is.
Then his hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your hands and knees before you can even think to protest. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head back.
“Doesn’t look like you hate me that much,” he taunts.
But you do hate him.
You do.
You promise.
His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp burn, and you just go willingly. One particularly rough snap of his hips knocks you forward and your elbows buckle.
Daryl shoves your cheek into the dirt, then he’s spitting in your face again.
You don’t try to wipe it away. You just wear it.
"That’s real pretty," he growls.
He spits on you again. Smears his thumb through it on your cheek.
You find that you’re too dazed to even bite back anymore.
You just don't have the energy left.
Face down, ass up.
Cunt used and filled.
You simply take it.
He must feel the shift, because he redoubles.
You blink—once, twice—and suddenly you’re upright on your knees in the dirt, your hands limp at your sides. You don’t remember moving. Him moving you?
You dunno.
Don’t care.
Daryl’s grip is iron on your chin, tilting your head up, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, and your mouth opens on its own.
Your tongue lolls out, heavy and stupid, like some trained fucking mutt waiting for a treat.
Daryl doesn’t give you one.
He spits in your mouth instead, thick and warm, right onto your tongue.
You swallow like it’s second nature.
You blink again—and his cock is in your mouth, dragging against your tongue.
Daryl’s fingers tight in your hair, pulling you forward.
You don’t fight it. You don’t even gag. Your throat opens for him like it’s been trained to, swallowing him down until your nose presses into coarse hair.
His hips jerk forward once, twice—sharp, punishing little thrusts that make your eyes roll back.
Then he groans, low and ragged, and spills hot down your throat. You swallow instinctively, the bitterness of him lost under the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.
When he pulls out, you don’t move. Your lips stay parted, slack and wet, your tongue heavy behind your teeth.
You don’t taste him.
You don’t taste anything.
Daryl’s breath is uneven above you, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hands are still tangled in your hair, holding you in place. You blink up at him, your vision swimming at the edges, and for a second—just a second—he looks concerned for you.
Then your vision just dips to black.
The world comes back in slow, aching pulses.
First, the dull throb between your legs, then the sharp sting where his teeth marked your neck, and finally, the bone-deep exhaustion that weighs your limbs down like lead.
You groan, eyelids fluttering, and the sound scrapes raw against your throat. Everything hurts. Everything feels used.
Something scratchy and thick brushes against your bare skin—his poncho, maybe, wrapped haphazardly around your shoulders. The wool smells like Daryl, that bitter edge of leather and pine that clings to him.
Daryl.
Arms tighten around you. “Quit squirmin’,” he grunts. There’s no bite in his voice. No anger. It’s rough, sleep-thick, like he’s been dozing upright with you slumped against his chest.
The realization makes your stomach twist. How long has he been sitting here, holding you while you were out cold?
The thought should piss you off.
But, God, you have never been so tired in your life.
So you just forget it.
The next thing you recognize is the quiet. No birds, no wind, just the slow, steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing against the crown of your head. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek, a muted but insistent pulse beneath his ribs.
It’s nice. Soothing.
His fingers twitch against your side, pressing lightly into the bruises he left earlier, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.
Never mind.
Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. Useless, aching, tender in places you didn’t know could ache.
The wool draped over you scratches at your bare skin, but it’s warm, and it smells like him, and right now, that’s the closest thing to comfort you’ve got. You swallow again, wincing at the soreness in your throat.
"Easy," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. His thumb swipes over your hipbone, rough but careful, like he’s mapping the damage.
You want to bite him.
You want to lean into it.
Instead, you just exhale shakily, your breath ghosting over his collarbone.
"Fuck you," you mumble, but there’s no heat behind it. Just exhaustion.
Daryl huffs, and for a second, you think he might actually laugh. He doesn’t. But his chest vibrates under you, just a little, like he’s holding it back.
The canteen presses against your lips before you even register it. You blink up at the canopy overhead, and his grip on the back of your neck tightens just enough to make you swallow.
It's possessive and annoying.
Normally, you'd wrench away—spit the water back at him, maybe—but right now, the weight of his hand feels good. Grounding. The water soothes the raw ache in your throat, and for once, you don't fight him. You just drink until the canteen tilts back, dribbling a cold line down your chin.
It tracks down your neck and into your cleavage. That feels good, too.
"I hate you," you mumble drowsily, curling into the curve of his shoulder.
"Yeah, whatever," he answers, pulling the poncho higher on your shoulders.
You drift.
If you made it to the end, bless your freaky little heart. thanks for reading, friend. comments are very appreciated! 🖤
fem!reader , outdoor sex , kinda rough , kinda dark ? daryl licks you , just unhygienic lol. ۶ৎ
this shit is so ridiculous, all of it. these people just strolling the streets, walking dogs, caring about what they’re wearing. daryl can’t say yes to that, yet. he’s not like you, who surrendered immediately to the relief of that normalcy.
you were one of the first in the group to shower. you jumped for joy wriggling into fresh clothes. you probably brushed your teeth for forty five minutes. contrasting your lover who spent his first few hours gutting a possum on a freshly cleaned porch.
it doesn’t bother you. you’re obviously not above possum at this point. but you notice how it bothers him, the pressure to conform again to the remnants of society. you go out there with him as much as he needs until he’s ready. the community takes notice, and then you’re recruiting, going outside for a purpose.
you've been out here searching together five days, essentially stranded and about fiftyish? miles from home. you thought you'd lose a bit of your touch after the pause in chaos, softened or pampered from the safety of the walls — but none of this is unfamiliar. the sun blaring down on you without mercy, fresh blood drying sticky on your skin, daryl huffing in your ear from behind, pressing you roughly into the side of a tree.
"dar—hmmrph! fuck, daryl— so rough!”
daryl smooths your hair to the side, pushing your face into the bark while he’s at it. the rotting walkers on the road a few steps away catch your view, familiar. almost welcoming. you close your eyes and arch into him, swallowing the vague taste of iron.
“so fuckin’ nice, look so fuckin’ good,” he makes sure you feel how hard he is, groaning extra long when your ass rubs against him from your squirming. “need you right here. now.”
this is exactly where he needs to be. this is what he knows. it’s like being home in some backwards way and you understand that exactly how he needs. seeing you energized from your kills has him antsy. not to mention, you’re absolutely glistening under the heat. and your natural musk is on ten. daryl cannot help himself.
he breathes into your neck hungrily, trading your skin for his oxygen. his free hand ungracefully feels under your tank, squeezing hard like he’s molding you into something only for him. you whine like he’s succeeded.
“know you’re drippin’, baby. can fuckin’ smell it… shit.”
that makes you clench and daryl knows. he’s ripping your jeans down before you can help. your exposed slick wafts to his nose and fuck, he has to focus or he’s gonna pass out. whatever lust and exhaustion fueled delirium he’s under is only enhanced by your scent. he’s throbbing so hard you feel every beat of his pulse as he slides his cock between your lips.
“nngh! this how it’s s’posed to be. haah— out here fightin’… not holed up with ‘dem pricks,” he hisses, nudging your thigh while he bullies his cock into you. your greedy pussy takes every inch, burning stretch and all. his big, dirty hand crawls up to wrap around your throat.
“you smell so good… hnn- fuck, i’m fuckin’ crazy…”
daryl licks a long stripe from the crook of your neck to your ear, really savoring the mix of your sweat and days worth of caked on dirt. your taste is like a reward. the saltiness dances along his tongue and he’s so grateful for you; his hips stutter. he almost cums. jesus, he’s such a dog. yours, cause you’re fucking back onto him just as crazed, back and forth on his dick like it’s your lifeline.
“you like that? my dirty girl, yeah? tired of you smellin’ like roses.”
wetness seeps down your thighs, your cunt gushing around him. you’re both just sloppy. daryl drools into your neck, sucking and biting like he’d take a chunk outta you if he could. you wish he would. devour you until his appetite is settled, let you stay with him until it’s his turn to decompose on the roadside. you moan at the thought and his fingers press harder into the sides of your neck, stifling your whimpers and cutting off your air.
“p-pleaase— more. i can… i need…” you’re not sure what you’re asking for, only sure that you need it. “mmmph!! please, daryl—”
he roughly shoves his middle and ring finger past your lips, shutting you up. spit bubbles under your chin while he makes you suck, mirroring the mess he’s made of your neck. daryl growls, holding everything back seeing you devolve for him. it’s so hot. it’s so gross.
“shhhh. so nasty ‘n you love it… fuck, princess, you fuckin’ love it. i know. y’gonna let me cum inside, dirty girl? ‘course you are.”
— authors note. bello :p fighting my forever writers block by randomly finishing drafts lololol also so nervy about my daryl dialogue….. gulp……. is fucking in front of the walkers you just killed dark? this is nasty and im not sorry 🥰 also me vs ending with dialogue so i dont have to write more uuughhhhh
warnings: Run and Hide scenario. He's kind of a dominant asshole (I know, his polar opposite) Knife play. Hair pulling, fingering and oral. (F Recieving) Unprotected PnV. He gives the reader pet names. Daryl has a pregnancy kink ⤶
He's a horny, freaky man but the fluff meter is still a little high, folks <3
"Dogs ought' to stay where they're fed" Daryl yells from across someone's front lawn, some guy walking with him, stopping to look in my direction then trying to calm him down and walking with him around the corner. You're talking to one of the new guys that was just picked up a few days ago in some sorry little run, it's not that you aren't grateful to see a new face.. But it was getting harder to supply everyone with what they needed and Daryl was being an asshole everytime someone talked to him. You didn't even get as far to get the man's name and he was already throwing loud, public fits. Since you told him you just wanted to be friends then he's been making it everyone's problem. "Who's that?" The guy asks, folding up the towels he came by to ask for and making his way down the steps. "Dixon." You sound just as annoyed as you look. "He's a dick, don't ask him for anything" He nods, you wave the guy off and go back into your house. You definitely didn't want to be "just friends" with the motorcyclist but he sealed that deal last week.
The two of you were okay before, but that was the problem; 'okay ' wasn't cutting it, anymore. Sneaking around to get hot and heavy, making up reasons to work together.. One night, you were sitting on his lap, begging him to fuck you, he froze. "I don't want to." What he said would play in your head like the devil was whispering in your ear to fuck with you. You just got up and walked back to your house, feeling stupid for wasting your time and you weren't about to sit there and convince a man to have sex with you.
He'd been eyeing you for days like some dog you'd hit in a fight, a mix of anger with some hurt. You'd been ignoring him most of the time but you'd be lying if you weren't trying to mess with him subtly. "If he keeps bringing that piece of shit out, they'll be a horde out there any day waiting for his sorry ass" Daryl rolls the bike up the street and kicks the stand propping it up. "Damn, you don't think you're a little harsh?" Rosita laughs and hits your shoulder. Your attitude towards him had definitely changed, recently. You still thought he was a sweet guy at heart, but you guessed he just wasn't ready to take it further. "He can crash and burn for all I care"
Yikes, okay, maybe 'pissed' was the nicest word I could use cause he really made me mad.
He started to walk up to the sidewalk of your house and you and Rosita were sitting on the steps, chatting about days gone by. Eyeing him and lifting her eyebrows at you "I'll head out now" She hops up quickly and pats off her shorts. "No, please.. stay." I silently plead her. "I'll help you with anything"
"No, really. I have to go, someone always needs my help. Daryl might need yours." She ends it there with a wink and walks away; Tilting her cap up at him as they walk past each other.
He stands there for a second in silence, looking you up and down before exhaling and tilting his head towards the bike. "Need you t'go on a run with me"
"Rick hasn't said anything about needing help and why should I go with you?" His faced winced. I hoped those words stung.
"Did you not listen? I didn't ask if y'wanted to go" He snapped. You don't know why the hell he would ask you, maybe he was playing checkers, but you knew how to play chess. "Fine, but I want to stop at that souvenir shop on the way back" He nodded. "Fine by me." The two of you walking down the street, he whistled to Sasha to open the gate and he threw his leg over the bike. The gate rattled open and the engine of his bike revved up with a deep roar and finally settling into a low hum.
"Ya gonna ride or not?" The thin patience coming out in his voice. "I thought you didn't want me to." Trying to say it as innocently as you can and hopping onto the back. You put your hands on his hips, he shakes his head and skids off. Nearly lifting the front wheel off the ground, you wrap your arms around him and grip his shirt tightly. "I hate you!" burying your face into his leather wings and taking a deep breath to calm down.
Driving down the road, passing the pine trees and you're enjoying the rare sight outside. With your arms wrapped around him and the roar of the engine beneath you, this is almost enough to make everything feel like before. Driving over a rickety wooden bridge, he pulls into the yard of this abandoned shack and turns off the engine. "Where the hell are we?" You get off and look around, the house is dilapidated, plants overtaking the yard and busting through the cracks in the deck. "You been pissin' me off" Propping the bike on the side of a tree and walking back and forth, talking to you sternly.
"Dunno what games you think you're playin', but I'm fed up" Biting back a laugh and putting your hands on your hips "You brought me out here.. For this!? You're so childish, Dixon"
"You think y'know everything but y'wouldn't know shit if it hit you in the face!" He's being irate, going on a tyrant and hurling insult after insult at you; now you know why he chose a secluded location. "I'm done talking to you, start this piece of shit up. I'm not walking back." You kick the wheel of the bike furiously. "You need to watch your mouth when you're out here wit'me"
"Or you'll what?" You know you're being antagonizing but he's firing you up right now, he was being indecisive as fuck and had dragged you out here, to what? Yell at you some more?
"You thinking about doing something to me in these woods? cause that would mean you'd actually want to fuck me." In seconds your back was shoved against the tree the bike was propped on, his hands on your shoulders and getting close enough to hear him whisper.
"If y'weren't such a needy fuckin' slut and listened to me, y'would've gotten what you wanted that night" "I wanted you to stop holding back!" You hit at his chest in frustration, he grabs you by your wrists to stop you, with his face inches away from yours, he makes everything stop when he kisses you. You lean into him, you missed this so much; you missed him.
You put your hands on his chest, he lingered for a moment before using both hands to cup your face and deepen the kiss. Softly biting at your bottom lip then pulling it into his mouth to suck on it. You whine into his mouth and this makes him pull away and step back. "This! I'm so tired of this sh-" He reaches down to get the knife he has holstered on his jeans and you pause "Nah, keep bitchin'." Waving the end up and down at you "Strip." Your body is frozen, but your mind is racing. Wondering if he's serious, should you run? No. You knew he wouldn't hurt you, that wasn't in his heart;
If he wanted to, he would have done it back in Alexandria and then leave in the middle of the night.
This was the next level in the game you two were playing, you had been waiting for him to take his turn for so long, you forgot you still hadn't won.
"It's a little late to come up with my stripper name, now." You tease, rolling your eyes. You take off your boots, one, then the other and throw them both in his direction. Slowly lifting your shirt, playing with the ends of it in a tantalizing gesture then lifting it over your head, revealing a dark green bra with black straps. His expression is unchanged but it remains focused on you, waiting for you to finish.
Fine, then.
You unbutton your jeans and spin around, sliding them down to your feet and kicking them off, you're left in your bra and a pair of black panties. You bend over the back of the bike while sliding them down to expose your ass. Looking over your shoulder and into his eyes, you give him a little wiggle, shame doesnt exist to you right now; He presented the opportunity, and you seized it.
He stepped closer to you and you feel his fingertips brush your hip softly, like he was having a dream and had to make sure you were real. "Mhm, so soft" You feel the sharp tip of the knife poking into your side and you wince; not from pain but shock. He drags it down your hip, to your ass and you feel him press the cool, flat side of the blade against your cheek, tapping the skin teasingly. "Daryl, please..." You grind into him and he reacts intensely, using his elbow to press you flat onto the bike, it still being warm from the ride earlier. He grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head back "Little girl, y'don't even know." Pulling you back further and leaning down so you two were side by side.
"I don't wanna fuck you 'cause I'll fuckin' break you"
His tone was harsh. "I don't give a shit" You weren't going back, he could see that. Your voice was painfully whiny when you spoke, mixed with want and need. "Don't move." Letting go of your hair and getting on one knee behind you. "You know how long it's been since I seen an ass this nice?" His hand rubbing and kneading the pillowy flesh, taking a moment to appreciate it, then using two fingers to part your lips wide open. You gasp, feeling the cool air hit you soaking cunt.
That's it, you're completely exposed to him now.
"Never seen a pussy this pretty before, neither" His voice is low. With his other hand, he gently drags the knife over your ass, not hard but pressing down enough to have red trails form. Feeling the sting and heat rush throughout your body, you're frozen in place and unable to keep up with the thoughts in your head. He teases circles around your hole with the two fingers, spreading your arousal around to his content.
Leaving hungry, open-mouthed kisses on your hip and then dipping down to nip at the back of your thigh. It was all coaxing you, In a moment, you feel the cold, hard handle of the knife at your entrance then slowly sink in. "Daryl- Fuck!" Whines mixed with whimpers are spilling from your mouth. You know your cheeks are flushed and you're somewhat relieved you aren't making eye contact with him in such a state. He only goes a certain depth then pulls it back out, using his other hand to keep you spread open so he can watch how you take it. You're whining for more, you feel so pathetic.. In a desperate attempt, you start rocking back and forth onto the knife to get any sort of relief and he snaps.
"So goddamn needy." Taking the handle out has you clenching around nothing, pleading and apologizing to him. Standing up to holster the knife, he slaps your ass hard, leaving a red handprint along with the lines from the blade. "Get up" He sounds demanading but his voice is back to how it always was.
You raise off the bike and pull your panties up, the skin tingling from the marks. Turning to face him and you somehow feel more vulnerable now than before. "You still want me?" He's being sincere, a tinge of sadness to his words. "I don't wanna hurt you but I don'think I could stop." He's staring into your dazed eyes, searching for a sign, or anything that will answer him. You could understand him in ways;
If you were on the road. Alone. For a long time. Its hard to get close to someone. When you do, you'll do everything to be 'normal' again and they'll still be afraid of you.
"If you don't hold back, I won't want you to ever stop" That had two meanings, that both applied, but you hoped he would think about it later. He nodded, looking down to smirk then shifting his gaze back up to get the full picture. "I want you t'do something fer'me" His whole demeanor had changed again, there was a playful gleam in his eye you hadn't seen before in him, you felt like you were about to be hunted.
You nod, a little nervous by the mystery that surrounded the favor, he's pulling a cigarette out of a dirty, crumbled up pack, probably a reused one he keeps refilling. He's puffing on it while taking off his vest, you're watching the muscles in his arm flex, very intently. "I want you to run" You zone back in, not fully comprehending what you hear, so you laugh. "When I finish this, I'm gonna come look for ya" He's being so fucking cryptic but also dead serious, leaning against the tree, propped on his foot. "What do I do if you find me?" Your teasing might just be your death. He cuts his eyes at you. "Run." Deeply inhaling the cigarette, making the end spark up, it begins to burn down quickly. He smiles then turns his back to you and you don't waste time in running behind the abandoned shack.
The back door was attached to the frame by one measly hinge, it hung crooked with enough space to slide through and so, being careful not to get cut on anything, you creep into the opening and start looking around. It was silent and not many places to hide, everything that wasn't too heavy to move, had been shoved against the front door. Some cabinets in the kitchen area, a brick fireplace and a large area rug to fill out the space. There were two other doors in the shack but you didn't have time to look in there;
The last thing you wanted was to be face to face with a walker, in your underwear.
Two windows were enough to light up the room, one by the back of the house and one by the front door, you could look out the front and see Daryl. He was sitting under the tree, he took one last puff then he shoves the butt into the ground and stands up. Shit. Shit. Shit. You swear you feel your heart rate spike, backing to the edge of the room and trying to open one of the doors but its caught on the rug. You're panicking, closing the door and trying to fix the rug then you see a thick line cut out on the floor boards.
Fucking geniuses.
You lift it up, just poking your head in for a look then getting in and closing it as quietly as you can. This was definitely made as an escape route. You heard footsteps on the gravel outside, stomping up the steps then stopping. You jump when you hear a loud noise and then the back door is snapped to pieces, everything scatters over the floor. He fucking kicked it down. His boots thud across the floor, the noise creeping closer as he walks around. You crawl around under the floor, getting to the edge of porch steps, everything under the porch is exposed and your nerves are keeping you from running. You think if you get away and outlast him, then you would get some kind of 'grand prize'
You hear one of the back room doors open from in the house, thats your cue. You bolt for it. hopping out from under the porch and into the grass. Strong arms wrap around your waist and stop you in your tracks, he lifts you into the air and carries you back in, kicking and cursing. "How the fuck!" "You cheated!"
He carries you to that back room where he had opened the door, throwing you down on a thin mattress, the springs from the metal bed cried out when you bounced on it. Ripping his shirt over his head and parting your legs to force himself in-between them, he dives down to you roughly, biting your bottom lip then sliding his tongue into your mouth. Your legs are wrapped around his waist and you're pulling him closer to you, feeling his erection through his pants and grinding your pussy against him. You whine into the kiss and you feel him smile against your lips. "Need me so bad, don't you?" Ending with a kiss and hovering over you on his hands, he reaches down to get his knife and brings it to your face. Waving it slowly infront of you and your eyes follow it from side to side. "Smart girl"
Dragging it down your cheek and to your collarbone, gives you goosebumps immediately, he goes under the strap of your bra and lifts it up, making it snap back against your skin. "Fuck. Please, I ca-" He covers your mouth, pressing firmly against it to muffle your begging. "Shh, Shh" Using the knife to cut through the middle of your bra and expose your breasts to him, your eyes widen. "Don't say anything but my name" You nod and he removes his hand, moving down to your panties, he drags the knife up your thigh and you fight yourself not to move. Sliding the blade underneath black cloth, he cuts through each side. Ripping the panties off and grabbing your hips to pull you to the end of the bed, you're laughing and kicking playfully as he gets on his knees and spreads your legs wide open, he's taking in a surreal sight.
"You look t'good like this.." He gets close enough for you to feel his lips on your center, he takes a deep inhale, then starts devouring you.
Curses and moans were spilling out of you, gripping the sheets while he fucked his tongue into your hole. He was pressed against your pussy, sloppily making out with it, when he slid up to suck on your clit, all you could see were stars. "Daryl, p-please, don't stop" Your whines were enough to have him explode right then and there, but he wanted to play with you for as long as he could. He has his index and middle finger around your entrance, getting it covered in the wetness then slowly starting to pump them in and out of you.
Fuck.
No one eats pussy like a man starved.
His mouth focusing on the sensitive bud and his fingers hit as deep as they can, finding that spot in you that has you squirming away. Your crying out his name and moaning, he pulls his fingers out to wrap his arms around your legs, burying his face into your pussy and closing them around his head. You arch your back and pull on his hair, your peak was building fast and your body was overheating. "Please, I'm so fucking close" Tears are building in the corner of your eyes. He lifts your legs up to lick one long stripe over your slit before he pulls away, the feeling slips away as fast as it was rolling in, you groan.
"I know, I know.. I want t'feel you when you cum" He's unbuckling his pants and getting up to slide them off, his lengthy cock springing out when he strips. "Turn over." He orders, doing a circular motion with his finger. You do as your told, flipping over flat and arching your ass up for him to get a better view. "Like that?" He kneels into the bed and digs his fingers into your hips, pulling you higher to him and sliding his cock up and down your drenched opening. "Just like that, doin' such a good job, babydoll" The name has you clenching before he even enters you. He sinks in deep, barely giving you any time to adjust, he hisses when he's fully in you. "Fuckk" He groans, throwing his head back.
It's been too long since you've been filled like this.
His hands still gripped to you tightly, he's going at an unforgiving pace, slapping and moans could definitely be heard from outside, but who gave a shit, It's not like the owner was gonna come back to life and wonder what you two were doing in their house. You're bouncing back on it to match his rythm, he grabs your wrists and pins your arms behind your back, fucking you brutally into the mattress. Any thoughts you have in your head are coming out as whimpers and cries, you're drooling and your legs are shaking. "Fuck, I need t'see you" He flips you over in one fluid motion and throws your legs onto his shoulders; never leaving you empty for a second.
He's not going as hard as before but deep strokes, you swear his tip would bruise you. "Do I feel good?" You ask softly. "Mhm" He nods. kissing one of your legs then letting them go to get as close to you as possible. "Y'look pretty, too" His voice was husky, his hands cupping your face to kiss you, biting on your bottom lip. You whine into his mouth and he bucks up into your pussy, you cry out and grip his biceps. "I'll cum If y'keep makin' noises like that." He leans back and pushes your legs up to your chest, making you wrap your arms around them. "What if I wanted you to fill me up?" You were serious, you really wanted that, but when the words left your lips, you felt like you shouldn't have said it. "I was gonna" His bluntness surprised you, pulling out to slam back into you was making you lose your train of thought. "Pump you full, make your belly get all big"
He was losing it. That's the only explanation. Your pussy was giving him a fucking breakdown.
He reaches up to push your legs back further, drilling into your pussy, balls deep. You're crying out his name and tears are falling down your cheeks. "Would ya like that? Me makin' you a mommy?" You're not thinking straight, his words had your orgasm approaching like a bullet train and you're nodding and whining like some cock drunk slut. "You gonna take care of me?" Your breasts are bouncing as he pounds into you. "Everyday, doll. I'd be so good t'you" Looking at your face, your eyes closed and you biting your lip till it turned red, he can tell how close you were.
A few more strokes and it crashes over you, rippling throughout your body. You grab onto his wrist, trying to balance yourself in any way, moaning into his palm while your core spasmed around him. He almost choked out, feeling the way your hole was sucking him in deeper was going to put him in a trance. He dove as deep as he could, his body shuddering as he filled you to the brim, letting out a deep, broken moan. He stays there a moment. "Damn" He rested his head against your legs, rubbing his thumb over your cheek and leaving soft, lazy kisses on your leg. You were out of breath and your cheeks were on fire. "Daryl.. You okay?" He nods, taking some deep breaths before pulling out and laying down beside you.
"See, you didn't break me" Your pussy was still aching from him, you try to sound more energetic but you're fucked out, right now. You look up at him, his eyes were watery and he's biting his lip. He lets out a 'pfft'. "Y'weren't even alive for half of it" You smack his chest and he kisses the top of your head then gets up to put his clothes on. "We leaving, already?" You prop on your elbows to stare at him. "Yeah, I'm gettin' your clothes" He leaves the room putting his shirt on, seeing the scars on his back as he walks out.
They all look healed, but he's someone who had been to hell and back; You can still eat fruit that fell of a tree.
The two of you leave, stopping at that store on the way back.
A dingy sign in red letters read: ins N' outs
More signs would be posted on every pump saying that they were "out of gas" but you didn't come for that. The door was unlocked, Daryl walked in first; crossbow in hand. You're already walking in and straight where you need to go.
Do you even need a body guard? Not really, but this one fucked really, really good.
"Shit yeah, they're still here" You grab the last few packs of cookies you had stashed the last time you had ran through here months ago. Daryl makes his way through a few towers of stuffed animals and to where you are. "You wanted t'come out here fer'some old lady cookies?"
Low. Just low.
Shaking your head in disapproval, already eating one. "Don't rain on my parade."
Sugar was a luxury and these "old lady" cookies, had the magic ability to never taste stale. A win in my book
"Kay, sorry. Let's head back" He apologizes and walks outside. On your way out behind him, on the left side of the door, is a rack fill with discounted clothes. One catches your eye, a white shirt with a skunk on it.
Daryl is sitting on the bike, already started and he's looking over at you. "Find something t'carry your things in, grandma?"
"That's not what you wanted to call me, remember?" You laugh at him, throwing your leg over the back and reaching around to hand him the cloth. He unfolds it, a baby onesie that reads "So stinkin' cute" His mouth drops open in shock then he laughs outloud. Shaking his head, smiling. He tucks it into a pocket on the inside of his vest. "I can call you mommy now If y'want"
You wouldn't mind if he did it more often.
Oh man, I've had this idea for so long and posted a brief synopsis of it back in September but could never finish or settle on a name. I was writing and listening to my Jeff Buckley record on repeat and it hit me,
SEVERAL of the songs hit hard for him and my theme 😭🙌
I really fw it when an author puts a song down in a book, real recognize real
Summary: Baking with your boyfriends, Daryl and Rick. What could go wrong?
Warnings/Tags: tooth-rotting fluff, 100% a crackfic, rickyl x reader, polyamorous dynamics, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, female reader(she/her), season six, no use of y/n
Word count: 790 words
A/N: This was originally written as a Stucky x reader fic and is posted on my other account (@bees-library3). I decided to rework it for two of our favorite post-apocalyptic men. I don't see enough Rickyl fics on here, and I definitely don't see many Rickyl x reader fluff pieces. Some of the dialogue was inspired by a post on this account @creativepromptsforwriting. Enjoy watching these boyfriends be dumb and terrorize the reader.
This is for Bee's Winter Wonderland - day 09: Baking.
Masterlist | D.D. fluff masterlist
Standing inside the kitchen, you were double-checking the recipe while your two boyfriends argued about who was beating the eggs correctly. Spoiler: Rick was right, and Daryl had been whisking like a madman. You looked up and saw the mess that was already taking over the kitchen. The two of them did look very determined, and it brought a smile to your face. They were acting like making Christmas cookies was the equivalent of fighting off a herd of walkers. You had to interrupt before things got too out of hand, though.
“Daryl, honey, that is not how you beat an egg. Be gentle.”
“Fine. Grimes can do it.”
Rolling his eyes, Daryl pushed the bowl over to Rick and crossed his arms. He was doing his best to act grumpy, but the slight smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth said otherwise. Rick, on the other hand, had been itching to take over. He used a fork and slowly beat the eggs.
“See, Dixon? That's how you do it.”
“It's not my fault that I'm ain't a damn house-husband like you.”
Daryl always had creative insults to throw around, and it never failed to make you laugh. Covering your mouth, you turned and giggled. Of course, the slight shake of your shoulders gave you away. Your laughter only encouraged the two men, and they continued ragging on each other.
Finished with the eggs, Rick started grabbing the ingredients needed for the frosting and mumbled something akin to “should've left you back in Atlanta”. That comment earned a dramatic gasp from Daryl, and he feigned shock.
“Bullshit. Y'all couldn't live without me, and you know it.”
Even though you knew Daryl was only kidding, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and reassured him. His messy dark hair was pulled back from his face, and it brought a smile to your face.
“Neither of us could, Daryl.”
“Damn straight.”
Despite his confident tone, Daryl was blushing like a schoolboy, and he suddenly couldn't meet your gaze. He shifted on his feet and busied his hands with mixing the dry ingredients. Unfortunately, he hadn't mastered the art of being careful in the kitchen, and he was adding to the mess. You didn't point it out, though.
Seeing the look on his other partner's face, Rick strode over and kissed the top of Daryl's head. This only made his face flame hotter, and he whined pitifully.
“You guys ain't bein' fair.”
Smiling a little, you began picking up some of the mess and nudged Rick with your hip. You turned towards him and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, before gently chiding him.
“Let the man focus, baby.”
“He's just bein' overly sensitive.”
“I am not!”
Their bickering made you roll your eyes for the umpteenth time, and you shook your head. It was like herding cats with these two. You decided to let them hash it out while you finished mixing the batter and pouring it into a loaf pan. While you were distracted and Rick was on some monologue about working together in the kitchen, Daryl decided to help out again.
“If we do it at a higher temperature, it's goin' to be done a lot faster, right?”
“Daryl, do not touch the oven.”
Your tone was soft, but firm. The last thing anyone needed was for the house to be set on fire. Daryl groaned softly and perched himself on the countertop. There wasn't much more left to do, and he was getting impatient. Rick picked up on this and ruffled his hair slightly.
“Don't pout. The kitchen is almost clean, and then we can turn on a Christmas movie or somethin'.”
“I ain't poutin'. Just a little bored. Does it have to be a Christmas movie?”
Realizing his boyfriend had gotten flour in his hair, Daryl grumbled and shook his head like a dog. His poor attempt at getting it out yielded no result. His brow furrowed, and he turned towards you for back up.
“Baby, look what he did to my hair.”
“Rick, we just washed it.”
Rick's response was to streak flour on your shirt, which earned him a glare. Something about being in a kitchen turned these grown men into toddlers. You let out yet another groan and pulled Rick closer. He could tell by the look on your face that you weren't playing around anymore.
“Wipe up the counter and help Daryl load the dishwasher. You two are out of control today.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Being eager listeners, the two men quickly nodded and got to work. It took a little while before the kitchen was clean and the bread was out of the oven. Now, you could deal with their bratty behavior.
what about daryl and rick loving on the reader, and like a huge cuddle sesh where she’s just sandwiched in between them and they’re reassuring her that they both love her and they aren’t using her for sex or anything? i’m desperate for some fluff with these two 🙏
Dedicated to @minervadashwood. I think they need it.
Cuddle Pile
Candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows on the walls. Rick lay on his side, facing Y/N, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. Daryl spooned her from behind, his hand resting gently on her hip. Nestled between the two men in the center of the large bed, Y/N felt a sense of warmth and security. Their bodies radiated heat, a comforting counterpoint to the chill of the night. The familiar scents of soap, gun oil, and a faint musk filled the air, a strangely soothing aroma that grounded her.
Y/N was exhausted. The weight of the world, the constant threat of walkers, and the uncertainty of the future had taken a toll. The added burden of the Alexandrians' judgmental stares had worn her down. Whispers and pointed glances followed her every move, their eyes filled with assumptions about her relationship with Rick and Daryl. It was as if she were merely a prize to be fought over, rather than a person with her own thoughts and feelings. Yet, despite their cruelty, she was grateful for the safety the walls provided, if only for the sake of Carl and baby Judith.
"You okay, darlin’?" Daryl's voice was soft, a stark contrast to his usual gruff demeanor.
Y/N managed a weak smile. "Yeah, I’m just tired. It’s been a long time since I could without one eye open."
A sob escaped Y/N's lips. She felt herself trembling, the fear and exhaustion finally overwhelming her. Daryl tightened his grip, pulling her closer. Rick kissed the top of her head.
"Hey, it’s okay," Rick murmured, his voice filled with reassurance. "We’re here. We’re safe."
Daryl hummed in agreement, his thumb rubbing circles on Y/N's shoulder.
"I’m scared," Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible.
"We know," Rick replied softly. "But we’re together, and we’ll face it together."
Y/N closed her eyes, trying to focus on their words. Their love for her was a tangible thing, a warm blanket wrapped tightly around her. It was a sanctuary from the cold judgment of the world outside their small haven.
"We love ya," Daryl said, his voice thick with emotion.
Rick echoed his words, "We love you more than words can say."
Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her. Their words were like balm to her soul. She looked up at them, her eyes filled with tears.
"I love you both too," she whispered.
Daryl leaned down and kissed her forehead. Rick pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her.
"We’re not using you," Rick said, his voice gentle. "Never. You’re our everything."
Daryl nodded, his eyes held her as they confirmed the words that Rick had just declared.
Y/N snuggled deeper into their embrace, feeling safe and loved. She felt truly at peace for the first time in a long time. The judgmental stares and whispers faded into the background, replaced by the warmth of their love.
A comfortable silence settled between them. The weight of their bodies, warm and reassuring, was a physical manifestation of the safety she felt. She could feel the steady rise and fall of their chests, a rhythm that mirrored the calming beat of her own heart. Daryl shifted slightly, his head finding a resting place on top of hers. The soft scratch of his scruff against her skin was oddly comforting. His arm tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. She could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and sweat on him, a familiar and grounding aroma. Rick's hand moved from her shoulder to gently stroke her hair, his touch as comforting as a warm summer breeze. She found herself relaxing deeper into his embrace, the tension in her muscles melting away.
Their love, a silent language spoken through touch and shared glances, was a sanctuary in the chaos of their world. It was a promise, a vow, unspoken yet deeply understood. At this moment, with these two men, Y/N was more than safe; she was home.
Thanks to @littlegodzilla for reading it over for me. I appreciate it.
Summary: While on a road trip, you get the opportunity to mess around with your boyfriends
Warnings/Tags: 18+ mdni, smut with no plot, threesome, poly dynamics, female reader (she/her) with female anatomy, age gap isn't specified, but reader is in her late 20s, soft dom!rick, soft dom!daryl, oral (m and f receiving), face riding, p in v sex, Daryl calls Rick ‘baby’, no outbreak!au, aftercare included, pre-established relationship, no use of Y/N
Word count: 1.3k words
A/N: So happy that this request came from one of my fave moots, @death-in-a-tar0t-card!! I think I blacked out while writing this. I hope that you’re okay with Rick and Daryl also being intimate with each other lmao. Also, I know that I messaged you and said this would be scheduled to be posted in a few weeks. I got excited lmao
Masterlist | R.G. smut masterlist
The best part about this road trip is the fact that you are completely alone with your boyfriends. Your kids were at home with their grandmother, while you, Rick, and Daryl got to stay in a hotel. Obviously, the three of you were taking full advantage of the situation. Currently, Daryl was watching you and Rick fuck. One of your boyfriends was guiding you to move up and down on his cock, while the other stroked himself beside you. Rick’s raspy voice was instructing you as you worked.
“Go on. Fuck yourself on my cock.”
Obeying the command, you allowed Rick to continue moving your hips and rocked against him. Gasps and whimpers fell from your lips. On the mattress next to you, Daryl was gliding his hand up and down his shaft. Low grunts were escaping his throat. You quickly reached your peak and cried out Rick’s name.
Once he’d succeeded in making you fall apart, Rick redirected his attention to Daryl and met his lips with the other man’s. You watched the two of them kiss for a moment and your fingers wandered to your aching core. Already sensitive from your previous orgasm, you whined softly at your own touch. The sound instantly caught the attention of both men. Rick raised an eyebrow and called you out.
“Look at you. What are you wantin’, sweetheart?”
At his words, your face flushed and you averted your eyes. You took a moment to think. What did you want? The idea finally came to you, and you spoke up hesitantly.
“I want to watch Daryl suck your cock while I ride your face.”
Both of your men froze at that. It wasn’t that they didn’t like the idea, they just weren’t expecting that from you. You’d always been the shy one, so making this request was out of character. Daryl grinned and chuckled in surprise.
“Damn, darlin’. I ain’t know you had that in you. You’d like that, though?”
Despite your embarrassment, you nodded eagerly and spoke frantically. The desperation in your voice only made your face flame hotter.
“Yes. Please.”
Rick pretended to ponder your request, before nodding. He laid back on the bed and patted his chest. The mixture of amusement and arousal was evident in his voice.
“Get on up here, sweet girl. Let me see what you got.”
You did what you were told and straddled Rick’s chest. Since your back was to the headboard, your ass was right in his face. Obviously, he didn’t mind. Your thighs bracketed either side of his head, and you could feel his beard rubbing against your skin. Settling down onto his mouth, his tongue slipped through your folds and curled. From your seated position, you had a perfect view of what Daryl was doing.
Daryl had settled himself between Rick’s thighs, and he slowly took his partner’s hardened length into his mouth. He moved his head up and down. You mirrored the rhythm and began riding the ridge of Rick’s nose. The man’s cries of pleasure were muffled by your flesh. His tongue swirled circles around your clit and he sucked lightly. He mumbled stifled praises to both of you.
“Fuck. Feels so good.”
As Daryl worked, he rocked his hips against the mattress to gather some friction for his own relief. The three of you moved in tandem. Out of all of you, Rick was the most overstimulated and he was nearing that edge. He was resisting, though. Daryl noticed it immediately and freed his mouth enough to speak.
“Come for me, baby.”
Rick tried to stubbornly refuse, but his body betrayed him. Despite shaking his head in defiance, he couldn’t hold it together. He was continuing to lick at your cunt when his lower half trembled, and he filled Daryl’s mouth. His boyfriend’s eyes rolled back slightly when he took Rick deeper into his throat. He held it there for a moment before pulling back and beginning to touch himself.
Seeing the two men fall apart and watching Daryl swallow was enough to make you experience another earth-shattering orgasm. You continued to fuck Rick’s face as you rode out your release. As you did this, Rick had blindly reached over and started jerking Daryl off. The other man didn’t last long.
You climbed off of Rick’s face and collapsed on the other side of him. Everyone took their time recovering and you caught your breath. You were dizzy with fatigue and satisfaction. Shifting on the bed, you laughed softly at what had just taken place and spoke up.
“That was so fuckin’ hot.”
Daryl nodded in agreement and laughed breathlessly. Rick was also satisfied, and he started cleaning both of you with the blanket. You’d strip the bed later. Daryl was still smiling when he responded.
“Damn straight, it was. You need to use your words more often, sweetheart. That was an incredible idea.”
“I will.”
You looked sheepish at the praise and nodded shyly. Lately, you’d been getting more comfortable with this new dynamic, and you’d started advocating for your needs the men couldn’t be prouder.
The second that everyone had gathered themselves, Daryl took it upon himself to care for both of his partners. Rick had used his recent bonus to splurge on a hotel room with a jacuzzi tub. Thankfully, it was big enough for all three of you. Your boyfriends were fairly large, but they managed to squeeze in. Daryl had the most remaining energy, so it was his job to haul your exhausted bodies around.
Settled in the tub, Daryl grabbed a cloth and lathered it with soap. He took his time washing your upper half, lingering on your breasts. He pressed a soft kiss to your skin and praised you.
“You were fuckin’ incredible, darlin’. Bet you’re tired, huh?”
“I’m wiped out, honey.”
Rick adjusted in his seat and tried to get comfortable. He and Daryl had gone a round before the three of you did, so he was sore. Your boyfriend picked up on the slight discomfort and turned his attention onto the other man.
“You okay, baby?”
“Mhm. Just a little sore.”
“I ain’t hurt you, right?”
Even though the three of you had been together for months, Daryl constantly worried about hurting you and Rick. He ended every session checking you both over and asking for confirmation. It was part of the routine, now. Rick smiled reassuringly and reached out to stroke Daryl’s slightly damp hair.
“It’s a good kind of hurt, sweetheart. I promise.”
“Okay.”
Wanting to soothe Daryl, you shifted beneath his touch and kissed his bare chest. Unsurprisingly, that flustered him and he made a small scoffing sound. He couldn’t resist breaking the tension by teasing you.
“You tryna start somethin’ again?”
“Daryl, babe, I think that you are the only one here who has the strength to go again. It’s a miracle that I haven’t gone under, yet.”
Daryl could see the exhaustion etched into your features, so he knew that you weren’t being dramatic. He barked a laugh and shrugged. A stupid, cocky grin was plastered on his face when he spoke again.
“Figured it was worth a try. Rick, you also too tired?”
“If you want me to walk outta here tomorrow, we gotta be done for the night.”
He huffed and rolled his eyes. Daryl could be insatiable sometimes, and you always gave him hell for it. When he moved onto washing Rick’s back, you bumped his side with your foot and goaded him again.
“You can always fuck your fist again.”
“Oh, fuck off. I have done enough of that lately.”
When your trio’s laughter died down, you melted against the side of the jacuzzi tub and took a minute to rest. You didn’t even realize that you’d drifted off until you woke up in the bed. Hours had passed, but it was still dark out. In spite of the lack of light, you could see the faint outline of Rick and Daryl beside you. Daryl’s arm was wrapped around your waist while his right leg was splayed across Rick’s. The man had no sense of personal space when it came to sleeping. You leaned into his touch, and it wasn’t long before you were out again.
all images taken from pinterest but moodboard made by me*
stepdad!rick x fem!reader x sdbsf!daryl
MDNI || fingering || masturbation || slight degrading || slight free use || just filth
NOT PROOFREAD
18+ under the cut!
"rick!" you whined as he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "my final answer is no. quit bein' a brat." he took a chug of his beer. "rick, honey, just let her go. it's a party, i'm sure she'll be fine" your mother stroked his peck, you cringe at their affection, he sighed. "there's a curfew for a damn good reason, you're stayin' right here."
you scoffed, "this is so unfair! everyone is going and i'm a grown adult! hello?!" your mom chuckled.
she's finding this behavior from your step-father amusing. isn't that nice? "listen, i'm goin' to drop your mother off at deanna's and daryl's comin' over so get on upstairs"
he's always been a prick but something lately has made him extra annoying. maybe it was because he had to clear his throat and compose himself when you bent over in those little things you call shorts. or when your moms kisses with him get a little more heated, his mind wonders away from her and all the way to you. or maybe because when his came in his fist he groaned your name, saw your face and thought of your sweet pussy. god you were going to be the death of him.
you whined in defeat before heading upstairs to your room, plopping onto the bed and thinking about sneaking out, but you started to think, not about the party but about a certain archer and a certain sheriff.
your night dress flew off leaving you on your back on your bed just in panties. imagining their hands roaming all over your body. "fuck you" you breathed out, wanting to fuck away your irritation towards him. your hand now made it's way down your body, imagining it was your step-father's, while his best friend watched in awe, sliding your fingers inside the thin hem of your panties, you gasped at how wet you were. just at the thought of these men.
two finger's sliding and out you moaned, and squealed, kneading your own breast wishing it was daryl who was kneading it. your eyes snapped open as you gasp for air.
you heard a chuckle. a goddamn chuckle.
"keep going doll, we ain't gonna make ya stop" you turned your head to the side, your eyes widened seeing rick and daryl each leaning against a piece of furniture in your bedroom smirking. "uh i-" you stammered grabbing a blanket to cover your chest. "don't baby, show us what you want huh?" rick gently moved the blanket away, gasping at the sight of you.
you looked way better than what they had imagined.
you bit down on your lip, before nodding. your hand going back down to your panties, "nuh huh" daryl came up to you and pulled your panties down. "c'mon baby" rick mock whined. so you did.
your fingers fucked you as your step-father and his best friend watched.
but that's all they did.
watched.
_________________________________
it had been a few weeks since rick and daryl watched you cum all over your fingers like a little slut and god did the savour every single moment.
and they knew that they were torturing you by not touching you.
the next week your mother went to deanna's and that same night, rick and daryl found themselves fixated on you, watching you fuck yourself saying their name.
but you've had enough you wanted them, you wanted them to touch you, feel you, fuck you. until your sweet cunt was dripping with their cum.
on a run you found this cute little lingerie outfit, knowing exactly what you were going to do with it. you hid it in your backpack and acted as if you didn't find anything. that night rick dropped your mother off and waited for daryl to arrive knowing exactly what they were going to experience within the next hour.
the door creaked open and you were on your knees, pretty on the bed, that pink lacy outfit fitting perfectly on your skin. rick's eyes widened as daryl let out a chuckle. "well, what's this" rick breathed out feeling the flimsy material, "it's for you and daryl" you looked up innocently, "pretty lil thing ain't ya? right rick?" rick looked befuddled before looking over at daryl, "we're gonna fuck the life out of her, ain't we daryl?" daryl's eyes lit up as rick pushed you down onto the bed.
daryl got in between your legs, pulling down your panties as rick moved away, leaving you in the cute little top. daryl unbuckled his belt before cursing, jerking himself off while looking at your soaking exposed pussy, "oh god" he slapped his cock on your cunt before sliding in.
"d-daryl oh my god!" you screamed his name, your hands clawing into his bicep. you eyes snapped open to see daryl grunting and panting, pushing his way into your beautiful cunt. you looked to the side to see rick, his hand moving up and down his hard cock, watching daryl fuck you like a little slut. chuckling when you'd grip onto daryl harder as you came.
daryl pulled out, reaching his orgasm. he walked away as rick walked toward you, you didn't move an inch. daryl got into the bed, his hands on your clit making circles as rick put himself inside of you, "uh huh like that- ju- take it" rick grunted pushing harder into you, "yeah ya like that huh? being fucked?" daryl snickered mocking your whimpers and whines.
as you came over and over, rick finally stopped pulling out before walking to your closet, daryl then spitting on your pussy, rubbing it some more. rick threw some pjs onto you, "you better change before your mother gets home" he and daryl walked out.
somewhat obsessed with the idea of wearing rick’s boxers.
it’s like second nature to you. it has to be.
after every time you slid into bed, every time rick and daryl strip you of your own undergarments, every time they fuck you dumb, everytime rick maneuvers you into your position bundled against his chest, you’re wearing a pair of his boxers.
the two had been surprised at first when they found you face down on the bed after a long day in nothing but a tiny tank top and rick’s blue and white striped boxers.
it took everything in them not to pounce on you right then and there. but when you woke up, you were more than happy to fess up to stealing rick’s boxers to wear as shorts.
rick could barely contain himself one afternoon in alexandria. you were taking judith on a wholesome stroll but you were wearing a pair of pale blue boxer shorts with a soft, white long sleeve and one of rick’s white button ups thrown on. later, he had to explain to you that he wasn’t snubbing you when you caught sight of him and tried to wave him over, just trying to keep his zipper from busting.
you had just laughed and quipped that they were the perfect bottoms.
from then on, rick found his boxer shorts going missing; on runs, he’d found you in the men’s underwear section, stripping down to try on a pair of striped ralph lauren boxers. that’s how the two of you ended up sweating and shamelessly blushed out on the cramped car ride home.
the rose painting your countenance couldn’t cease because you knew you smelled like sex. rick too. from the creamy ring you’d left around his cock as he lifted you off of him and onto the mahogany sales table, you knew you two had overdone it. with the wide block of time you had today to secure supplies, rick felt free to fuck your pussy twice, filling you up enough to have you seen stars on the sales floor.
all because you’d styled his underwear as shorts.
daryl teases his friend about it.
“can’t even wake up without seein’ her in ‘em and gettin’ hard.”
daryl’s a hypocrite however.
even the woodsman isn’t immune to your figure in those boyish bottoms.
it’s twenty-five minutes into your small game hunt when daryl’s hands are in your boxers. you had actually wanted to catch a rabbit or some quail, but once your boyfriend’s fingers are between your folds, you can’t find the will to complain.
the two of you start with him holding you against a hemlock, arms wrapping around you while he fingers you nice and slow, boxers down around your ankles. as he massages your plush walls, daryl counts how casual you are about going commando as one of his blessings.
then it turns. then suddenly there’s a pine needle in your mouth. you spit the green thing out and try to brace yourself against the forest floor. it had happened so fast; his tongue tag teaming you with his fingers to crack you open like a safe in record time. then you were face down with nothing but a denim jacket quickly strewn beneath you.
you love when he or rick spring this kinda thing on you - it’s spontaneous, wild, a little risky in all the right ways. yes, most nights you’d prefer to be rolled up into a blanket burrito with your boys and a glass of wine but the adventures like this really do something for you.
pupils expanded, your chest is heavy when daryl’s the first to come out of your post-romp fog and collect your boxers. your legs are still shaking when the fabric touches your skin.
“daryl!”
you’d protested when the man began to pull up your boxer briefs. full of his cum, you want to clean up before you soil your bottoms but daryl disregards the swats to his hands. slightly annoyed, you hurried ahead of him through the tract of woods back towards alexandria. it’s fine. he just enjoyed the view of your ass.
complaints crawl out of your mouth as soon as you’re in the door and you’re haphazardly hanging your rifle on the wall. daryl brings in the rear behind you while you’re stomping up the stairs to rick.
your chocolate curled lover is taking off his watch, ready to drop it into the ceramic dish on the dresser when you appear next him, shimmying down your bottoms in a huff.
“hey, darlin’,” he greets, expecting more than a scowl from you.
“hey,” you reply curtly, face still in a pout.
“-make sure you don’t take off those boxers, baby-,” daryl stops dead in his tracks at the sight of your bared pussy in the bedroom lamplight. rick’s also taking it in, eyes trailing from your waist to the trimmed bush, and the puffy pink pussy peeking out, now leaking with daryl’s sticky cum.
you bend over to pick up the soiled shorts. “you’re not the only one who likes these,” you point out.
blue eyes narrow. but before he can give you any lip, you’re giving him not one, but both of yours. smashed against your mouth, rick’s tongue delves between those pillowy lips while walking you towards the bed where daryl’s waiting to situate you on his lap once more. daryl’s antics weren’t enough to turn off the blazing furnace between your legs. no, your temper can handle a few more rounds. it’s not hard when your mind paces back to the eye rolling, all consuming inferno that had cyclones through your core.
they trap you in a kiss. sandwiched between both of their hard ons, you’re shifting and grinding in each direction.
“thought you were pissed off with me,” daryl breathes into your ear, fingertips skimming your waist.
you snort, leaning back into him to grant full access to your bared neck. without hesitation, he’s licking a wicked pattern up the column of your neck. “dare’,” you sigh. gasp after gasp, you melt into his touch.
daryl’s hands are beneath the fat of your rear already and all of the sudden, one of rick’s fingers has snaked its way down to your clit. the fervid flicking against your ardor flush tissue culls any anger you could have towards the two men. you can’t even think about holding a grudge once rick gets a finger into you. at two fingers, daryl’s kissing you with the ferocity of a wildfire. three fingers inside of you and you’re babbling;
“rick, faster, please.”
“what was that?”
“please - faster, can you please?”
the grin on his face is as wide as the pacific. his lips turn upwards into a sly smile. “you want somethin’ a little faster, darlin’?” you shake your head as if it’s obvious. he hmmphs. “you oughta’ sit on daryl’s cock.”
you can’t imagine a world where that’s an unpopular idea.
back onto daryl you go.
those hands at your hips come in handy; daryl raises you a few inches once rick’s removed his fingers. eyes focused on rick and the way his mouth closes around one pruning finger. sucking it clean while daryl’s tip brushes your slick entrance. any yearning radiating off of you can’t be hidden. that kind of heat and wetness down between your thighs is no lie.
so a hiss is to be expected when the muscled man wiggles his way into you. rick is saving a mental image of you - adjusting to the familiar stretch of daryl. your blush doesn’t ease once daryl works another half inch inside.
one moment you’re trying to process daryl’s cock as it’s suddenly seated in you to the hilt. the next rick catches your gaze again. this time he’s doing more than teasing you, taking advantage of your parted lips to invade with his tongue.
“rick,” you mumble against his lips.
“you gettin’ close, angel?”
“should feel ‘er,” daryl rasps. with each thrust of his you’re clinging to rick. “so fuckin’ tight like you didn’t get this perfect pussy fucked in the woods.”
“that’s where you guys went?”
your mischevious grin is hidden in the crook of rick’s necks. the telltale tightening around daryl’s length is all consuming. your grin turns into an open “o” shape when daryl drags across your cervix. sensations from your convulsing core are consuming him too.
that same lust from the woods washes over daryl like the tide and you’re the moon, pulling him in and leading him to crash into you. usually this is rick’s wheelhouse, but one glance into daryl’s darkened pupils and you’re ripped from rick. on top of daryl’s lap, you’re wrapped in his arms, bouncing up and down on the rock hard cock beneath you. he sets the pace while you can only claw at his chest. he returns the favor and reaches forward to palm your tit, relishing in your sweet moans when he rolls a hardened bud between two fingers.
riding him on the bed is such a break for your knees compared to the forest floor. gyrating your hips activates not only the core that keeps you fit but the molten hot bundle of nerves at your core. daryl ruts against you deliciously to deliver just the perfect level of pressure.
rick can’t help but be bewitched at everything unfolding on the surface of the mattress. daryl’s length disappears inside out of you, reappearing with each erratic movement of your hips. there’s no reason to be jealous but if looks could kill, daryl’d be dead simply for the privilege of burying himself inside those heavenly walls.
meanwhile, heat bursts down below like a mini neutron star collision within you. forehead cast with sweat, the energy is fading from your movements as you messily move your pelvis to brush against daryl.
a “fuck, baby,” escapes from his lips and you’re done for. and so is he.
shooting into the sheets and collapsing by your side. you’re prepared to slide into daryl’s embrace when there’s suddenly a familiar feeling breaching your bared pussy.
nails dig into your hips and daryl’s back at it again - lapping his tongue up and down your slit. you were thinking that you two would at least catch your breaths but daryl’s taking no breaks. rick isn’t either.
in true rick fashion, he’s tapping your lips with his impressive cock. how can you say no to that?
you open your mouth and moan around his cock once you feel those devious fingers in your hair. it’s like that sense of overwhelm’s been replicated again. tongue against your clit and yours on the underside of rick, you never imagined your afternoon going this way. all this thanks to your little fashion trend.
“princess, your mouth feels amazing.”
you bob your head in appreciation. just like daryl’s taking care of you, you’re taking your time swallowing around the man in your mouth, treating him to the tight embrace of your throat.
“you like gettin’ a cock down your throat while daryl licks you stupid?”
“mhmmm!” you nod forward onto rick.
as soon as your moans reach daryl’s ears, his tongue’s kicking into hyperdrive. goaded by your delightful little whimpers, daryl begins swabbing a vicious pattern across your folds. the redneck alternates between racing over your sopping tissue to flattening that tongue and saddle you with a finger.
“ooommph,” is the only sound that comes out with rick’s steel hard cock down your throat.
spit slick, rick throbs in your mouth. that painful hardness he’s enduring is granted some sweet relief by your hollowed cheeks. you don’t stop there. driven by the lust addled, cock crazy part of your brain, you’re fully sending rick down your airway. breaths come briefly when he lets you up for air or to howl or cry, “dare’!”
right on time, your core is heating up again. the kiln inside of you scorches. neutralizing you, the ecstasy of another orgasm has you nearly folding into your leader. the blue eyed sheriff even leans back, tugging you up by the hair to keep you from actually choking on his cock. daryl’s diligent puckering around all of your important parts is overwhelming you against, a strategic hand on your clit as well.
as if you were all in sync, rick comes in your mouth first, fingers weaving through your gossamer locks while your thighs quake. you gag at first, before swirling your tongue under the twitching cock and swallowing it all. like a good girl.
once rick’s coming undone, daryl continues swirling his tongue around you. your pussy weeps for him. it contracts around his tongue until even rick’s raising his eyebrows at the vulgar slurping sounds filling the room.
“dare’,” you whine.
“gonna’ be a good girl and come all over dare’s tongue?” rick teases.
“yes, please!” you beg, banging a fist against the sheets.
“you gonna’ let daryl taste all of that perfect pussy?”
tears well in your eyes from the overstimulation but you nod as enthusiastically as possible. “pleeaase!”
you don’t have to ask again because you’re too busy arching into your third orgasm of the day. clenching and unclenching, your insides flutter. “ah!”
“so pretty when you come, baby.”
you’re dissolving into rick’s touch as your climax rings through your cunt. starry eyed and panting the pleasure out through your lungs.
you could fall asleep right there. and you do.
it ends as it always does.
following the flush and the lips leaving the surface of your skin, you feel a familiar fabric traveling up your thighs and double kisses mandating that nap that had been on your mind. the bed and the cozy comfort of sleep swallows you whole. rick too. he can never get close enough, not when you’re wearing his boxers.
My friends Katie and Alex have gifted me with another ER story to share with you all.
You see, they have these friends. A couple. And this couple has a tingly lube that they love. So one day they’re about to get down and realize they’re out of tingly lube. So they go…. What do we have at home that tingles?
Now reader, if you ever find yourself thinking along those lines, please remember the sacred mantra: Horny people make bad choices.
They explored their kitchen. They found something that they felt sure would make a pleasant genital tingling. When my friends told me I buried my face in a pillow and screamed because what they decided to use for a little sexy zest was a squeeze bottle of lemon juice.
Presumably they doused the guys penis in lemon juice and then he thrust into his partner.
But it turns out.
Your face isn’t the only thing that puckers on contact with lemon juice.
Her vaginal muscles clamped down onto his dick like a fucking bear trap, latching on like a reverse knot that inextricably bound their crotches together for the foreseeable future.
And this was a problem not just because it probably hurt as she had effectively become a cock ring, trapping the turgid blood in his penis so he couldn’t go flaccid which would have resulted in nerve damage if they didn’t go to the emergency room.
So they go to the emergency room.
Now at this point I had so many questions because the sheer logistics involved. How did two people who were welded together at the crotch operate a car?
Their roommate took them.
I was I hysterics. How do you tell your roommate you just slathered yourself with lemon juice and got stuck together and he needs to drive you to the ER? I know they must have been in pain but it’s such a funny image. Did they call the guy in to behold their fusion? Did they text him?
Then I was like. How did they get dressed? How did they get to the car? How did they sit in the car? Imagining the crab walk of two people fused together at the pelvis had me in stitches but I imagine it was substantially less funny to actually experience it. How did they lay on a stretcher?
These details are not to know. In the end, they were separated safely and no one got nerve damage and now they are immortalized as yet another cautionary tale to not make decisions while horny. If you don’t have the necessary paraphernalia before you begin sex, go without if possible or accept that there can always be sex later to avoid a trip to the ER.
jacobvanloon
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
germansingergirl
izzy806
baratheonpilled
dededos
