Hi everyone! I'm currently looking for new roleplay partners and would love to meet some fellow writers. I mainly do OC x CC double ups, so we both get to play a canon character for each other's OC.
I roleplay on Discord and prefer using servers to keep things organized.
I’m 19, and since I sometimes do more mature-themed roleplays, please do not interact if you are a minor.
I’m also open to GxB and GxG ships. As long as the writing and vibes are good, I’m happy!
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📚 Fandoms I’m currently looking for
The Walking Dead
• Daryl Dixon
My Hero Academia
• Katsuki Bakugo
• Izuku Midoriya
• Eijiro Kirishima (aged up)
Supernatural
• Sam Winchester
Criminal Minds
• Spencer Reid
Hunter x Hunter
• Killua (aged up)
Ouran High School Host Club
• Mori
• Hikaru or Kaoru Hitachiin
Marvel Universe
• Peter Parker (Tom Holland version)
• Bucky Barnes
• Peter Quill
Black Butler
• Ciel Phantomhive (aged up)
Demon Slayer
• Tanjiro Kamado
• Sanemi Shinazugawa
• Kyojuro Rengoku
The Last of Us
• Joel Miller
Fairy Tail
• Natsu Dragneel
• Gajeel Redfox
Avatar: The Last Airbender / Legend of Korra
• Zuko
• Bolin
Avatar (James Cameron)
• Jake Sully
Naruto Shippuden
• Naruto Uzumaki (aged up)
• Sasuke Uchiha (aged up)
• Kiba Inuzuka (aged up)
Jujutsu Kaisen
• Yuji Itadori
• Megumi Fushiguro
• Nanami Kento
Bee and PuppyCat
• Crispin
Saiki K
• Shun Kaido
DanDaDan
• Jin Enjoji
Inuyasha
• Inuyasha
Rick and Morty
• Rick Sanchez
BNA: Brand New Animal
• Shirou Ogami
…and honestly so many more. Feel free to ask!
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📝 RP Info
• OC x CC double ups
• Discord only (servers preferred)
• I'm open to almost any plot or AU
• Just come with a basic idea first before asking to RP
• Totally fine with doing multiple fandom RPs if we click
Rules:
Just ask me for my rules so we can both make sure we're comfortable!
Y’all I’m way happier with how this turned out. But I’m most excited for the final part of this series. Enjoy
TW: biting, marking, smut p in v, oral sex (fem receiving), fingering, pet names, blood, unprotected sex
“What crawled up your ass?” Maggie’s voice cuts through the haze of anger clouding your brain. You normally were pretty good at keeping a straight face but not today. You had been walking towards the main cell block when you noticed it. Out by the fence there was a new crew from Woodbury training with Rick and Daryl. Basic self defense, showing them how to keep the fence clear with a little bit of gun safety mixed in. That wasn’t what bothered you. What bothered you was the fact that one of the new comers couldn’t seem to keep her fucking hands off Daryl.
At first it wasn’t an issue just some simple touches, help on how to hold and position the knife. You paused watching how Daryl stood his arms poised, each muscle defined, and you couldn’t stop the way your stomach flips and how heat curls low in your stomach. Your gaze moves traveling to the group only to notice that one of the women. She has a soft flush to her face and you know it’s not due to the Georgia sun.
You narrow your eyes, Tash if you remembered her name correctly, seemed less like she was paying attention to Daryl’s directions and more like she was gauking at your…. Well in all honesty you weren’t sure what you and Daryl were.
Sure you both had started as strangers who butted heads, that formed into a reluctant friendship, and after things settled slightly you both found comfort in one another. Then you had bitten him and everything changed. You both shared a secret which planted a seed of trust that flourished. It eventually led to the two of you fooling around. Both a way to pass the time but to also explore this weird little kink that you both shared without the judgement of others. It wasn’t like Daryl was your boyfriend or anything but he for sure wasn’t just your friend.
“Nothing, I’m just watching the newbies try to figure out how to fight.” You say without looking away. Maggie shifts her hip jutting out as she scans the group. She follows your gaze landing on Tash and Daryl and a knowing smirk crosses her face. “Really just watching the newbies? Or are you just watching Daryl?” Her gentle teasing causes you to look down. A lump forming in your throat as you shrug not willing to admit that you’re jealous over a man who isn’t even officially yours. Just as you were about to shrug off the uncomfortable feeling that bubbled in your gut you saw it. Tash’s well manicured hand running up his arm pausing on the bicep to give it a light squeeze.
Your jaw drops, eyes damn near bugging out of your head. You hear Maggie let out a small gasp of surprise at the woman’s boldness. “There’s no fucking way she just did that.” Maggie’s voice is breathy full of disbelief as if what she was witnessing was a dream. You don’t look away your eyes locked on Daryl who just tilts his head listening to whatever she has to say and the fact that he seems completely unbothered by the fact that Tash’s hand is trailing down his arm.
“Tell me that this is a joke.” You grumble trying to calm yourself looking over at Rick in hopes that he’ll step in. Instead of the reassurance you were looking for Rick’s also staring at Daryl brows furrowed as if he’s trying to process what’s happening. “Why isn’t he pulling away?” You’re not expecting Maggie to answer as you both stare. Several minutes pass and you start to calm down as the group switches over to the guns Rick brought down.
Just as you think that it couldn’t get any worse you see Tash holding the gun and Daryl shake his head before moving up snugly behind her. His hand wrapping around her wrist as he helps her steady the gun. Anger rises in you, uncontrollable and all consuming. You’re stomping down the hill towards the group before you process Maggie calling after you. You don’t care that the entire training group has stopped, don’t care that you have other things to do today, don’t care at the way Rick’s lips twitch as suppresses a smile as you stake your claim.
What you do care about is how Tash’s eyes widen. She steps forward creating space between herself and Daryl as you approach. It would have been satisfying if Daryl hadn’t been looking at you with pure confusion on his face. It only served to flame the fire of jealousy that consumed you. “Rick, I need Daryl. You good to manage the rest of this on your own?” You phrase it as a question but it’s anything but one. You don’t even wait before you grab Daryl’s wrist tugging hard as you whip around pulling him after you. He stumbles after you a grunt of surprise falling from his lips. The grass and weeds are smashed under your heavy foot falls as you drag Daryl away.
You drag him through the cell block, head bowed, mind racing. At a glance you just seem pissed, irritated, maybe even a bit embarrassed. It wasn’t uncommon that you’d turn to Daryl for help. But to those who knew the two of you a bit better it was clear that things were coming to a head. They saw the way Daryl slunk into your cell at night, saw the bite marks that multipled across his skin, and witnessed the way you both clung to one another in a way that was almost primitive. You didn’t stop until you were safely tucked into your cell. The blanket drawn across the barred door to give you the illusion of privacy. You immediately drop his wrist whipping around stepping into his personal space.
“What the hell was that?” You hiss tilting your head back to glare up at him. Daryl’s brows furrow, eye twitches, his jaw sets in annoyance as he looks down at you. He doesn’t back up, no he stays right where he is letting you posture at him. A failed attempt at intimidation that he swiftly and silently calls out. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” His voice is firm not a single hint of playfulness in his tone. It only angers you further. He may be dense but he’s not dumb. You’re not entirely sure of his past sexual history before meeting you but you refuse to believe that he was oblivious to what had happened out in the field.
You scoff not caring that your shoulder bumps into Daryl’s chest as you turn putting a bit of space between the two of you. “Really Daryl? You really have no idea on why I’m upset?” Your voice is flat expecting him to at least have the decency to be honest with you. As you wait for an answer your mind moves a mile a minute. Insidious thoughts of him leaving you behind, not speaking to you again, or worse saying it wasn’t a big deal fill your head causing your heart to slam in your chest. But he doesn’t snap back, instead he shakes his head. “Nah I told ya I don’t know what I did.”
An uncomfortable silence falls between the two of you. I don’t know what I did. His words bounce around in your head as you stare at him, slowly the fight drains out of you as you mull it over. What I did. A lump forms in your throat as you try to swallow. “You really have no idea why I’m upset?” You hate the way your voice cracks when you ask. Embarrassment coloring your cheeks forcing you to look away. You hear him move towards you, see the shadow that falls over you, feel the way he gently cups your jaw to coax you into looking at him. He’s soft for you, with you, around you. It’s not a conscious decision just something that happens naturally.
“Ya gonna tell me or am I gonna have to guess?” His voice is soft a hint of humor that’s so distinctly Daryl you can’t help the small smile that forms on your face. “Tash…” you start unsure of how to admit your jealousy when you see a look of pure confusion cross Daryl’s face. “Who?” Now that makes you laugh. Whether it’s at yourself for being so possessive or at him for genuinely being so clueless you’re not sure. “That girl that was basically drooling over you. You know the one you were helping with aiming the gun.” Daryl snorts “droolin’ over me? She was just askin’ for help.” You can’t stop the groan that leaves you pushing him slightly as you pace. Trying to relieve some of the frustration that creeps back over you. “Dixon, come on. You can’t be that dense it was so obvious that she was hoping you’d take her for a ride, and I’m not talking about on your motorcycle.” Now it’s his turn to laugh as he shakes his head. “Nah ‘s all in your head baby.”
That did it. If he wasn’t going to listen you were just going to have to show him. Without another word you step forward, your whole demeanor softening as you crowd him. “Oh, you’re so right. I must have been imagining everything.” Your voice is gentle as you bat your lashes. “Thanks Daryl.” Your voice is a breathy whisper as you bring your hand up running it over the sunkissed skin. Your nails lightly raking over his forearm. You can’t stop the smug smirk that flashes across your face as you see goosebumps erupt across his arm. Your movement settles, hand resting on his bicep. “I appreciate the help.” As you speak you give the muscle a squeeze, tilting your head slightly as you smile at him.
The air is thick as the tension shifts to one of desire. Daryl’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. His pupils have dilated blown out so wide that the blue of his eye is nearly nonexistent. The flush that creeps up his neck past the vest coloring his ears and cheeks as he clears his throat. “Oh.” That’s all he can say because what the fuck else is he supposed to say? His brain was short circuiting trying to connect the dots and suddenly it all made sense
“You’re jealous.” It’s a statement and the way you recoil he knows he struck a nerve. Daryl steps forward watching as you take one backwards. “My pretty girl ‘s all jealous, worked up ‘cause someone made a pass at me. That it sweetheart?” He hums enjoying the deep flush of your embarrassment as he continues to push forward. He doesn’t stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. He watches you wobble before stabilizing yourself. “Well why don’t I put your mind at ease?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer before he lightly pushes you watching as you land on the bed with a little bounce. He sinks to the ground hands shooting out to grab your calves pulling you towards him. He makes quick work of your shoes and shorts. Chapped lips press a simple kiss against your knee, moving to place an identical kiss on the other side. There’s a pause before you feel the scratch of his facial hair against your inner leg as he continues to press kisses along your skin the softness is a dizzying contrast to the tight grip he has on your calves.
His tongue moves up the inside of your thigh causing you to shiver at the sensation when suddenly your small subtle puffs of pleasure turned into a shriek of surprise and pinching pain. As you bolt upright you look down and the man between your legs. Daryl stares up at you, pupils blown wide, his lips shiny from his saliva, his cheek pressed up against the plushness of your thigh. The tender flesh blooming pink from where he sunk his teeth into you. “What ‘m not allowed to bite ya back?”
You try to snap your thighs closed but he doesn’t let you. His rough hands travel up your legs letting your calves go so he can grab at the fat of your thighs keeping you spread for him. He tsks gently under his breath as he squeezes you. The skin of your inner thighs is so soft compared to his callous skin. It makes him shiver turning his cheek into you as he gently bites down. Pulling away licking the indentation and pressing one last final kiss against your skin before he adjusts his grip. Dragging you to the edge of the bed as he presses forward his tongue lapping at your cunt. “We just started and you’re already this wet?” His chuckle vibrating through you as he continues to push his tongue deeper into you. The wet slippery intrusion of his tongue making you moan softly that is until he pulls out and attaches his mouth to your clit.
The gasp that is ripped from you makes him dizzy. Alternating between little licks and suckling at your clit. The prickly texture of his facial hair adding to your overwhelming pleasure as your hands tangle in his hair pulling hard. He lets go of one of your thighs his head coming up. You whine at the loss of sensations. Daryl quickly shuts you up shoving his arm into your open mouth.
“Bite.” It’s all he has to say before you’re clamping down on the salty skin of his arm a grunt of pain ripped from him as your teeth puncture through the flesh. The warm taste of iron starts to trickle into your mouth and you’re not sure if you want to escape or fall deeper into the feeling but just as you start to come back to reality he pushes two thick fingers into you. Pushing deeper than his tongue could reach. He’s watching how you react to his touches. “Ya gonna cum for me baby?” His voice is strained, lower than usual and full of a hunger that makes your toes curl.
He pushes his arm deeper into your mouth causing your jaw to stretch and you let go. A whimper of protest falling from you as you see the small trickle of blood drip down his arm. His eyes usually so bright are dark with desire watches as he curls his fingers deep into you. Pressing against that spongey spot that has your back arching off the bed as your hands scramble against the sheets for purchase.
“Daryl!” Your whiny voice is music to his ears encouraging him to press further. He wants to watch you come undone around his fingers on, on his face. His head dips back down his tongue pressing against your dripping folds. His nose bumping against your clit causing you to kick out. He can tell you’re overstimulated. Too many feelings and sensations at once so he pulls back, but not before licking a broad stripe up your slit. He hums gently savoring the taste of you on his tongue.
He flicks over your swollen clit and you feel yourself trying to pull away. Your chest heaves as you fight against his hands desperate to lock your legs around his neck. “Daryl enough please! Just fuck me!” Your begging plea for release causes him to smirk as he pulls back. “Course sweetheart. All ya had to do was ask.” You don’t get to reply before he’s on top of you. Kicking away his pants your hands flying up to hastily unbutton his vest, he gently pulls you up so he can pull your shirt off. He’s got you laying on the bed spread naked before him as he leans down. You taste yourself on his tongue as he devours you. You can’t help yourself but bite down on his lip and he lets out a breathy moan as you pull away.
He presses his cock into you. Slow, teasing, maddening in a way you’ve never felt before and you tangle your hands at the hair on the base of his neck trying to ground yourself. Your mouth attaches to his neck. Teeth and tongue attacking the flesh. New wounds appear raw and red only to be soothed by soft kisses and kitten licks. It’s a poor attempt to silence the moans of pleasure that are being pulling out of you. No doubt echoing through the concrete halls of the prison but you don’t care. Daryl’s hips which were originally rolling against you in a slow lazy rhythm picks up speed. His cock dragging against your walls causing him to groan and mumble soft praises against your skin as he buries his face in your neck. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know he’s close. You can tell it in the way his hips falter, his breathing becomes erratic, and instead of going in for a kiss you mirror his position as you press your face against the juncture between his shoulder and neck and bite as hard as you can.
You faintly hear Daryl’s cry of pleasure boarding on pain, the blood rushing in your ears as you finally let yourself go. At the same time Daryl thrusts into you one last time. Completely sheathing himself inside of you as he feels his cock twitch and balls tighten. It’s too late to pull out so he tries not to think about the potential consequences of his actions and just lets go. Your cunt clamping down around his cock milking him dry as he fills you up. You both are wet with sweat, blood, and fluids when you eventually pull away.
“Fuck woman, should get ya jealous more often.” He hums gathering you against his chest when you swat at him attempting to get away. You let him hold you, let him nuzzle his face into your hair breathing the scent of you in deeply. Eventually you both fall asleep entangled and satisfied. The next day nobody mentions the moans they heard echoing down the hall. Only Hershel raises an eyebrow at Daryl when he comes strolling into the common space asking to be patched up. “What happened to you son?” Hershel asks as he gently hands Daryl a few basic medical supplies. His gaze falls to Daryl’s arm. “Almost looks like you’ve been bit.” Daryl snorts giving Hershel a pat on the back as he stands “Ya could say that. Ain’t nothin’ to worry ‘bout. Wasn’t no Walker.” That got Maggie and Rick’s attention both their heads snapping around as they both put the pieces of the puzzle together in their heads. Maggie stifled a giggle and Rick rolled his eyes but Daryl didn’t pay them any mind. Didn’t pay Tash any mind either when he walked past her. His mouth twitching into a smile when he saw her expression shift from happy to horrified as her gaze dropped to his arm. A lovely patchwork of bite marks covering his biceps.
“Mhmmm,” you nod dumbly, clearly pleased with yourself and the position you’ve landed in: on all fours with your face forced into the pillow, back arched, ass up and red from his harsh slaps.
“Course ya do,” he chuckles mockingly, slightly breathless from the persistent pounding he’s been giving you, “fuckin’ dirty slut.”
His hand comes down on your ass again, leaving yet another branding print along with a staticky stinging sensation that hurts so good. “Love it,” you confess in a pathetic whine.
“Need someone t’fuck the brat outta ya, huh?”
He hovers over you, musty and sticky with sweat, tone dropping to an intimidating whisper in your ear, “well, m’gonna make it so y’can’t walk, girl. No more prancin’ around this place like some stupid whore, chattin’ up yer other boyfriends.”
His own words only serve to rile him up more, heart rate spiking at the thought of another man touching you, hell, just being near you.
“I’m the only dick you need, baby, got that?”
You manage something between a mewl and a moan… not nearly good enough for him. “Hey!” He grabs ahold of your hair, hastily yanking it to make you look back at him, “‘m talking to ya.”
Usually, you would put up a fight. Tease, push, anything to get him going. But something about his crazy eyes, tense jaw, and shallow breathing tells you he doesn’t need any more ammunition.
“I got it,” you choke out obediently.
“Say it, then. Whose is it now?”
“It’s- God!” He slams into you with purpose, like he’s proving ownership with each snap of his hips. “Yours,” you cry, tears spilling despite that faint reckless smile on your lips he knows so well.
I unfortunately prefer early seasons Daryl but I do love later seasons Daryl.
Suggestive ✿
TW: slut shaming, nondescript sexual acts.
🦷Early seasons Daryl who’s crude, rude, and a little cocky.
🩸Later seasons Daryl who’s quiet, soft, and cautious.
🦷Early seasons Daryl whose eyes linger on the curve of your ass or the swell of your tits. Openly leering at your exposed skin.
🩸Later seasons Daryl whose head snaps away from any exposed skin. Licking his lips nervously as his eyes dart back to catch a glimpse of you.
🦷Early seasons Daryl who calls you a desperate slut. A needy whore. Stupid bitch.
🩸Later seasons Daryl who calls you Darlin’, sweetheart, baby, pretty, his sunshine.
🦷Early seasons Daryl who grabs you roughly. Fingers bruising your delicate skin. Dragging you away not caring that you’re tripping after him. He shoves you only to pin you down. Your cheek smashed into the dirt as he holds your head, fucking into you from behind.
🩸Later seasons Daryl whose fingers hover over your hips nervous to touch as he takes you in. He guides you with a firm gentle hand. Sinking to his knees as he positions himself between your legs. Soft kisses pressed into the fat of your thighs as he travels towards your cunt. Ready to worship and serve you.
🦷Early seasons Daryl who pushes you out of his tent when you two are done fucking. Telling you to get lost and sneering at you. Or if he went to your tent he never spends the night scoffing calling you clingy when you ask him to stay and hold you.
🩸Later seasons Daryl who holds you close. His body wrapping around yours as he breaths in the scent of you. His fingers running through your hair. He murmurs how good you were for him. How pretty you looked. If you try to get up his hand shoots out grabbing your arm and drags you back to him.
🦷🩸Both early and later seasons of Daryl can’t just say he loves you. Can’t express with words how much you really mean to him. The words lodging in his throat, the embarrassment of being vulnerable stomping out what he desperately desires to share with you.
𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 who becomes addicted to eating you out. who needs to taste you on his tongue all day, every day. who worships your thighs, and presses rushed urgent kisses all over them. who absolutely devours you the second his lips and tongue come into contact with your cunt. who pushes his fingers inside you, curling their thickness to just the right spot and flicking his tongue over your clit in a messy rhythm. who loves to make your head lull back with your eyes, watching the way you react to him. who laps up every drop when you come because it's all for him, right?
thinkin’ about daryl finally crackin’ enough to kneel at your feet, lookin’ up through his hair all rough and guilty while you just stand there starin’ down at him, unmoved.
Daryl tells you "I love you. I'm sorry." because he truly thinks that his love and loving him is something to feel bad for, that he's not enough.
You make him see otherwise.
The first time Daryl Dixon tells you he loves you, he apologizes for it.
Not because he doesn’t mean it.
Because he does.
Completely.
And somewhere deep down, in all the scar tissue his father left behind and all the years the world spent teaching him he was too rough, too angry, too broken to be wanted gently, Daryl honestly believes loving him is a burden you shouldn’t have to carry.
The prison had been quiet that night.
Not silent—nothing was ever silent anymore. Walkers groaned somewhere beyond the fences, the generators hummed low, somebody coughed in the cellblock two rows down—but quiet enough that people had started sleeping through the night again.
You’d been sitting on the floor of your cell reading an old paperback by flashlight when Daryl appeared in the doorway.
He didn’t knock.
He never did.
He just leaned one shoulder against the frame, crossbow hanging from his back, curls damp from a late watch shift.
“You still awake?”
You looked up immediately, smiling before you could stop yourself.
“Obviously.”
His eyes flicked away.
That should’ve been your first clue something was wrong.
Daryl usually looked at you like he couldn’t help it. Like his gaze gravitated toward you against his will. Like every room naturally rearranged itself around wherever you stood.
Tonight he looked nervous.
Daryl Dixon nervous was subtle.
A tighter jaw.
Restless fingers.
A refusal to stay still longer than half a second.
You closed the book carefully. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.”
“Daryl.”
He sighed through his nose, pushing off the frame to pace two steps into the room before stopping again.
“I got somethin’ for ya.”
That surprised you enough to blink.
“You… what?”
From his vest pocket, he pulled a little piece of faded blue fabric.
A handkerchief.
Clean.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
“It ain’t much,” he muttered quickly, already defensive. “Found it on a run. Thought maybe you could use it or somethin’. Ain’t dirty.”
The thing about Daryl was that people who didn’t know him thought kindness came hard to him.
They were wrong.
Kindness came naturally to Daryl.
What came hard was letting anyone see it.
You took the handkerchief like it was made of glass.
“It’s pretty.”
His ears immediately went red.
“Yeah, well.”
You smiled softly. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, but his shoulders loosened slightly.
You folded the fabric carefully. “Sit down.”
“Nah.”
“Daryl.”
Another sigh.
Then he finally lowered himself beside you against the wall, close enough that your knees brushed.
Neither of you moved away.
That part had become normal months ago.
The lingering.
The touches that lasted too long.
The way everyone else already looked at the two of you like the answer was obvious while the two of you danced endlessly around saying it aloud.
You rested your head lightly against the concrete wall.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
“Tired.”
“You punched that walker so hard this morning Rick thought you broke your hand.”
“M’fine.”
“You’re impossible.”
A tiny twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth.
Victory.
You’d learned to treasure every small smile Daryl gave you because each one felt earned.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You listened to the prison breathe around you.
Then quietly, Daryl said, “Merle used to say people like me ain’t built for this kinda thing.”
You turned your head slightly. “What kind of thing?”
He picked at a loose thread on his jeans.
“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Caring ‘bout people. Stayin’. Bein’… good to somebody.”
Your chest tightened instantly.
Because Daryl only talked about himself like this when something was eating him alive.
“Merle said a lot of things.”
“Wasn’t wrong ‘bout all of ‘em.”
“Yes, he was.”
He shook his head.
“You dun’t know what I was like before.”
“Then tell me.”
That made him freeze.
You saw it happen—the immediate instinct to retreat.
Daryl had spent his whole life surviving by keeping pieces of himself buried where nobody could touch them.
Carefully, you nudged his shoulder with yours.
“You don’t have to tell me tonight,” you said gently. “But one day, maybe.”
His throat worked.
“You make it sound easy.”
“It isn’t.”
“Then why d’you keep tryin’?”
The question came out rougher than he intended.
More vulnerable, too.
Like he genuinely didn’t understand.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Because there it was again.
That terrible, heartbreaking confusion Daryl carried whenever someone cared about him too openly.
As if affection was a language everyone else understood except him.
“Because you matter to me,” you said simply.
He stared straight ahead after that.
Didn’t answer.
But his hand shifted against the floor until his pinky brushed yours.
And stayed there.
The problem with loving Daryl Dixon was that he loved like a starving man.
Quietly.
Desperately.
Like he was afraid someone would realize they’d made a mistake and take it back.
You noticed it in pieces.
The way he always made sure your gas tank on runs stayed full before his own bike.
The way he stood between you and every threat without thinking.
The way he remembered tiny things you mentioned once months ago.
You mentioned missing strawberries one evening.
Three weeks later he handed you a crushed container he’d found on a run like it was treasure.
You got cold during winter patrols.
Suddenly there was always an extra blanket appearing near your bunk.
You had nightmares.
Daryl started lingering outside your cell at night pretending he “couldn’t sleep neither.”
He loved in actions because words frightened him.
Words could be rejected.
Actions could pretend to mean less.
But sometimes you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.
And those moments gave him away completely.
Like now.
You were crouched in the courtyard helping Hershel sort medical supplies while afternoon sunlight spilled warm across the concrete.
You laughed at something Glenn said.
Across the yard, Daryl looked up from sharpening a knife.
And just… stared.
Not lust.
Not fleeting interest.
Something deeper.
Softer.
The kind of look people wrote poetry about before the world ended.
Carol noticed it too.
Of course she did.
Carol noticed everything.
She smirked as she walked past him.
“You gonna tell her before the apocalypse ends or what?”
Daryl nearly dropped the knife.
“Shut up.”
“She already loves you, you know.”
That hit him like a physical blow.
You saw it from across the yard—the immediate panic in his face.
Because Daryl didn’t think people loved him permanently.
He thought they tolerated him until they came to their senses.
Carol’s expression softened instantly.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
He looked away immediately.
And that was the first moment she realized just how deep the damage went.
The fight happened three weeks later.
Not between you and Daryl.
Between Daryl and himself.
Though you ended up caught in the crossfire anyway.
A supply run went bad.
Walkers poured into an abandoned grocery store faster than expected, and in the chaos, you got separated.
By the time Daryl found you outside, you had blood soaking through your sleeve from a deep gash in your arm.
Not fatal.
But enough to scare him.
You’d never seen Daryl angry like that before.
Not at you.
At himself.
“What the hell were ya thinkin’?!” he snapped while wrapping your arm back at the prison infirmary.
“I was trying not to die.”
“You shouldn’ta been alone!”
“And whose fault is that?”
His hands stilled.
Immediately, guilt crashed over your irritation.
Because his face—
God.
Like you’d confirmed every terrible thing he already believed about himself.
You exhaled shakily. “Daryl…”
“Nah.” He stood abruptly, backing away. “You’re right.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Always happens.”
His voice sounded distant suddenly.
Cold in the way Daryl only got when he was trying not to feel anything at all.
“People get hurt around me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“You saved me.”
“Too damn late.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You think this changes how I feel about you?”
He laughed once.
A hollow, ugly sound.
“You shouldn’t feel nothin’ for me.”
Anger sparked hot in your chest then.
Not because he was hurting.
Because he genuinely believed it.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His jaw clenched.
“You dun’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
He shook his head violently.
“No.”
“Daryl—”
“No!” His voice cracked hard enough to silence the room. “You got any idea what happens to people who get close to me?!”
You stood slowly despite the pain in your arm.
“Nothing happened to me.”
“You almost died!”
“But I didn’t!”
His breathing turned ragged.
Like panic and fury were tearing him apart from the inside.
“You deserve somebody better.”
There it was.
The real wound.
Not the walkers.
Not the blood.
That.
You stepped closer.
“I don’t want somebody better.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I mean it.”
His eyes finally met yours then.
And the devastation inside them nearly shattered you.
Years of abuse.
Neglect.
Being treated like he was less than human until he started believing it too.
“You dun’t know what you’re askin’ for.”
“I’m asking for you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“But I am.”
Daryl backed away again like your words physically hurt him.
Then finally, quietly, brokenly, he said:
“I love you.”
Your breath caught.
He swallowed hard.
“I love you,” he repeated, voice trembling now. “An’ I’m sorry.”
The apology destroyed you.
Not because it was dramatic.
Because he meant it.
Entirely.
Like loving him was something you’d eventually regret.
Like he was apologizing in advance for disappointing you.
Your eyes burned instantly.
“Daryl…”
“I tried not to,” he whispered. “God, I tried.”
He looked terrified.
Actually terrified.
Like this confession was the worst thing he could’ve handed you.
“You make me…” He dragged a hand over his face roughly. “Make me wanna be somethin’ better than what I am.”
“You are good.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Yes, you are.”
“You dun’t know half the things I done.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
His voice broke completely then.
“You should,” he repeated weakly.
You crossed the room before he could retreat again.
Daryl stiffened when you grabbed his face.
Not because he didn’t want you touching him.
Because tenderness still startled him.
You held him there firmly until he finally looked at you.
“You listen to me,” you said softly. “Loving is not something to apologise for.”
His eyes flooded instantly.
You kept going.
“You are not a burden. You are not poison. You are not too broken to be loved.”
He shook his head automatically.
You tightened your hold slightly.
“Yes, you are loved.”
A tear escaped before he could stop it.
Daryl looked horrified by it.
You brushed it away gently.
“I love the way you protect people even when you’re scared. I love the way you act like kindness embarrasses you. I love that you feed Judith before yourself. I love that you pretend you hate people while spending every second keeping them alive.”
His breathing hitched.
“I love you,” you whispered. “And I am not sorry.”
That broke him.
Not loudly.
Daryl Dixon didn’t break loudly.
He just folded suddenly, forehead dropping against yours with a shattered sound caught somewhere deep in his throat.
You wrapped your arms around him carefully.
And after one long second of hesitation—
He held you back.
Like he’d been starving for it.
Like he’d spent his whole life waiting for someone to say stay.
“I ain’t good at this,” he admitted against your shoulder.
“You don’t have to be.”
“What if I screw it up?”
“You will.”
That startled a breath of laughter out of him.
You smiled through tears.
“So will I.”
His arms tightened.
“You really mean it?”
“Yes.”
“Even me?”
Especially him.
You kissed him before you could say it.
Soft.
Slow.
Certain.
Daryl made a wounded sound into your mouth like he couldn’t believe this was real.
His hands shook against your back.
Nobody had ever kissed him like they intended to stay afterward.
When you pulled away, he looked dazed.
“You didn’t have to pity me.”
And there it was again.
That reflexive self-hatred.
You cupped his face harder this time.
“Daryl Dixon, if you apologize for loving me one more time, I’m going to kiss you until you shut up.”
For the first time since you’d met him, Daryl laughed fully.
Real laughter.
Warm and rough and beautiful.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A small smile lingered on his mouth afterward.
Fragile.
But real.
Then he leaned down carefully, touching his forehead to yours again.
And quietly, like he was trying the words on for the first time in his life, he whispered:
“I love you.”
No apology this time.
Only truth.
You smiled instantly.
“I love you too.”
Outside, the dead still walked.
The world was still broken.
Tomorrow would still be dangerous.
But Daryl held you like he was finally beginning to understand something enormous:
That being loved did not require him to become someone else first.
And for the first time in a very long time, Daryl Dixon believed he might actually deserve to stay alive long enough to be happy.
pairing: perv!daryl x afab!reader
word count: 1.9k
summary: daryl hadn’t believed in angels until that fateful day on the outskirts of oceanside. the way you laid in the warm sand seemed heaven-sent, hair splayed around your head like a halo while the sun hit golden rays of light against every exposed inch of your body. he thinks you’re untouchable, a piece of art too delicate to taint with his dirty fingers. so Daryl does what he thinks is best; he watches from the shadows.
warnings: nude sunbathing, voyeurism, male masturbation
There is never a supply run or inventory trade that can ever go completely smooth. This was especially true after the war with Negan. Without fail, there is always, at the very least, a small hiccup.
Daryl Dixon doesn’t visit Oceanside often for a variety of reasons. He likes to think that after the countless lives lost from the recent battle, he’s better off sticking to his duty guiding the Saviors and rebuilding communities from the ashes of death and decay. One of the other reasons being that travel to Oceanside is long and tiresome. It isn’t always worth a trip despite reliance and trust between these safe havens being what these survivors need most right now. Daryl swears up and down that more often than not, having to go to Oceanside is an unnecessary hassle.
However, he does have at least one reason he enjoys the occasional ride to the beachy front. Even when he’s sunburnt to a crisp, dehydrated and in need of rest, his senses perk up the moment he sees you on site.
His guard drops for a few seconds and safety is no longer at the front of his brain. All he can focus on is you and what you’re doing. Actually, the only reason his guard comes back up is so he can protect you from potential danger. Not that any highly dangerous scenarios have ever happened during these visits, but he’s always alert in case they do. The outpost isn’t perfect and definitely has its flaws, but you are literal perfection in his eyes. No amount of bullshit from supply runs or trading deals could ruin time spent with you. Well, time as in just standing in your vicinity. He still hadn’t gathered enough courage to properly speak with you yet.
Except, this might be the first time he’s been to Oceanside where things have somewhat gone sideways. Not from an ambush or argument between groups of people. The single factor that directly implies this supply run has genuinely been ruined is due to the fact he can’t see you anywhere.
He tries so hard to only focus on the task at hand. Daryl helps the women carry boxes upon boxes of ammo and other weapons so they can defend themselves. In turn, they offer Daryl and the other men with him baskets of food and bottles of medication they’d picked up from nearby stores. It is just what the communities back home need at this time. Thirty minutes pass of sorting through the recently donated materials when Daryl realizes he still hasn’t seen you.
He can’t help but wonder where you are. What you might be doing. Who you are with, especially. It isn’t any of his business. Daryl knows damn well he should be concerning himself with the responsibility of this supply exchange instead. However, he can’t ignore the warm feeling bubbling deep within his chest that he can only recognize as possessiveness. He barely knows you and yet he’s extremely bothered at the fact the only person he looks forward to seeing at Oceanside isn’t even here.
Not very long after arriving, the hunter starts to realize that this barter is coming to an end. In a little while, he won’t have reason to linger once supplies are packed in trucks and remaining tasks are complete. So without time to think through his plan, Daryl suggests to the women that he can set up some extra hunting traps along the outskirts of their safe haven. He uses the excuse that they seem low on meat that isn’t just fish. Without surprise, they eagerly agree to his suggestion and allow him to take whatever necessary materials to create these traps.
Daryl isn’t even sure why he thought of this idea. He angrily mutters under his breath that this is actually kind of stupid to do in the first place. Maybe deep down, he was just praying he’d run into you during the process.
Which does end up happening, but not in the way he had originally hoped.
The layers of bushes and tree branches hide many things. They almost successfully conceal lurking walkers eager to bite into a fresh meal. The shadows stow away important resources that the communities can use too, such as sharp rocks for arrows, or dry grass meant for basketweaving. Despite being so used to blending in with the scenery of forests and nature itself, Daryl felt different about this time walking through the grounds. His intentions were pure from the start of wandering these parts of Oceanside, that his exploration around the little nooks and corners was nothing but virtuous. Well, he did have a slight ulterior motive under his belt. Not that it really matters now. After ten minutes of walking, he swears nothing will come out of this. Just another stupid run gone wrong.
Originally, he didn’t intend on traveling so far in this direction. His route was partially aimless as he was just trying to find great spots to set these traps. It just so happened that his tracking skills led him near the north side of Oceanside where the beach and woods collided with one another. Through the leaks of light and small gaps of foliage, Daryl spots something lying on the nearby shoreline. Daryl would have missed the unusual shape had the color of something bright orange not caught his line of sight. He carefully avoids a large pile of dried leaves as if he might give away his secret location, even though the wind was already particularly noisy today, and carefully inches closer and closer towards the smell of salt air and the sandy strand. He wasn’t sure what on earth he was viewing at first, assuming maybe it was a body washed up from a bad storm or something worse.
He was partially right. It definitely was a human, very much alive as well.
But then that same body, which had been laid near the ocean waves, triggered the man to suck in a sharp breath. His right hand, which had been holding some bound rope, nearly drops the tool when he recognizes the person laid on that obnoxiously colored beach towel.
It was you. The only person Daryl had been looking forward to seeing today.
All by yourself, soaking up the sun, swimsuit discarded to the side. You’re nude, comfortably relaxed on your stomach and resting your head atop your crossed arms. The ocean wind has tangled knots into your hair, but it frames your face like a halo nonetheless. Daryl sees two round curves beneath your chest, definitely your breasts being smushed between your body weight and the beach towel. However, his eyes travel to a different, similarly round part of your body, and he can’t believe someone so perfect still exists in this fucked up world.
The entire scene blows his breath away.The earth stops spinning for a few seconds, or at least Daryl’s world does. He hesitates to do anything else other than just stand and stare. The man switches from silently asking himself where you had gone, to what on earth you were doing here by yourself tanning with no clothing at all. Is this a skit? A prank of some kind? Were you going to shoot your head up here in a moment and laugh at his perverted staring?
Shit. He’s staring at you and you don’t even know it.
The guilt weighs heavy on his conscience. He shouldn’t be doing this. Fuck, this is messed up. He blinks few times, turning his head to look elsewhere. His lungs tighten and there’s a rapid pulse thumping in his ears. The forest reminds him of why he is here in the first place. The purpose being he was helping Oceanside by setting up traps. Now, he feels like a piece of shit for stalking you during a time of such vulnerability. That just isn’t fair to you, even if he did want to see you so badly from the start.
Daryl decides to walk away. He tells himself that he has to before you catch him. It doesn’t even take three full steps before the hunter realizes there’s something wrong with him.
There’s a throbbing pain straining against his jeans. He looks down, peering at the damn near painful bulge that has grown in the span of probably thirty seconds just from staring at your naked body. No wonder he’s so uncomfortable; he’s hard as a rock.
This shit doesn’t happen often. Actually, Daryl can’t even remember the last time he got this hard. His mind is always in survival mode, never allowing the man to be comfortable long enough to relax and jerk off. But then there’s you. Of course, of all people, you’re at fault for being the reason he wants to shove his cock down your throat and cum on your pretty cheeks and eyelashes.
The surrounding woods feel smaller around Daryl. The moment he stops walking away, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. You’re still there, eyes closed, unaware of the man that stood only so many feet away in the depth of the trees and bushes, watching you. It almost hurts to continue standing here, purely because all he craves is to touch himself. To relieve this problem you’ve caused.
Daryl knows he isn’t perfect. He’s a mess. He’s already very much aware of the fact he is nothing but scum left in the ruins of this corpse ridden world. Or at least that’s what he has convinced himself of. Years of trauma and a lack of healthy relationships will do that to someone. He doesn’t deserve to have your attention, your patience, your praise. So if he can’t talk to you upfront, maybe he can just watch from afar.
Well, he came out here for more than one reason, right? The idea that he was helping Oceanside with these traps wasn't false, there was just a little more to it than that. To try and see you, no matter what the circumstances might be. If you aren’t aware of his presence, how harmful might it be that Daryl sticks around just a while longer?
He positions himself behind a thick tree trunk, shoulders digging into the rough bark as he continues to peer up and down your exposed body. Each part of your skin hits the sun like a gorgeous painting. His shallow breathing distracts him from any other noise in the woods. There could very well be a walker that jumps him from behind any moment now. That didn’t matter though. What mattered was you, laid there in the sand completely innocent to the man who was beginning to unzip his pants and palm his member through the fabric of his boxers.
Daryl can’t bring himself to jerk off. He needs to go home soon. He’ll need to return to his duties as a leader, a fucking role model to some dipshits called the Saviors. But he’ll continue to squeeze himself for a good while just to jog his memory of what you looked like under the bright sun. When he’s in bed later that night, fucking his hand and muffling his moans by biting his lip, he’ll secretly hope he’ll get to taste you one of these days. It won’t actually happen, he knows that, but a man can dream. He'll wonders what an angel sent from heaven tastes like on his tongue. The thought alone sputters ropes of his cum across his stomach and chest. He’s never felt so dirty before, but doesn’t regret it one bit.
PLEASEPLEASE PLEASE MORE BIMBO!READER AND DARYL!! like what are the like as a couple or how does he kinda like show her he likes her after they’ve been kinda enemies before
★ haters to lovers, definitely! daryl despises this woman, always smacking her lips and flipping her hair. she can’t stand the way he dresses. hates his hair. always has a cig in his mouth.
★ how they get together is pretty simple—hate bubbles up, and during a brisk evening in atlanta, the two get into a heated argument about whatever, something stupid. maybe they’ve had a couple beers to calm their nerves, though we all know daryl’s a shitty drunk. one thing leads to another, it’s a messy night in the tent. daryl’s taking out a little drunk anger, pent up need, and desire to dominate out on her. she loves it.
★ no labels, okay? don’t make it weird. they just fuck when shit gets stressful. daryl is ashamed of it, even, which she can’t necessarily call out, unless she admits she wants more. gross.
★ so yeah, just sex, handjobs, head, maybe rough makeout sessions if she gets a little antsy. daryl starts picking up on her little ticks, her quirks. she scrunches her nose when she laughs, sometimes even snorts if its funny enough. she picks her nails when she’s anxious, her lip twitches when she’s irritated. fuck, he’s falling.
★ don’t mention the things she starts to notice. daryl blushes if she compliments him (a rare occurrence). he prefers to stay quiet because he’s filled with guilt. daryl dixon doesn’t believe he deserves love. and shit, she might just have to change that.
★ daryl has a new girlfriend. he won’t admit it, but he smirks a little when people ask about it. he doesn’t do pda, but if he thinks she needs it, he’ll squeeze her hand, rub her back, stroke her hair.
★ daryl will go out of his way to find things on supply runs he knows she’ll like: lipstick, magazines, clothes. yunno, girly shit that doesn’t matter. he’d risk his life to see you smile.
a/n: is this ok?? i love bimbo reader sm. i have some more in drafts i’m working on, but wanted to post a little for u. tysm.
The royal dining room smelled like braised komodo chicken, warm spices, and impending chaos. That last ingredient was entirely Sokka’s fault.
He had arrived two days ago under the very reasonable pretense of a “diplomatic visit,” which everyone in the palace understood to mean he had eaten all the sea prunes in the South Pole and needed a change of scenery. He had immediately made himself at home in the most aggressively Sokka way possible—reorganizing the palace kitchen’s meat storage, loudly critiquing the royal chefs’ spice choices, and staging what he called a “cultural exchange” that mostly involved teaching three Imperial Guards how to play Pai Sho wrong.
Zuko was handling it with the strained, tight-jawed dignity of a man who genuinely loved his brother-in-arms and also, genuinely, desperately wished he would go home.
You, on the other hand, were having the time of your life.
“The problem,” Sokka announced, gesturing with his chopsticks at nobody in particular, “is that Fire Nation desserts don’t hit right. Too much spice. Not enough—I don’t know—comfort.”
“They’re not supposed to be comfortable,” Zuko said flatly, not looking up from his bowl. “They’re supposed to be refined.”
“Refined.” Sokka repeated it like a curse word. He looked at you across the wide lacquered table. “Y/N, back me up. You’ve eaten in the North. You know what a good dessert tastes like.”
“I’m staying out of this,” you said serenely, pouring yourself a cup of jasmine tea.
“Smart woman.” Zuko reached for his own tea.
“Traitor,” Sokka said to you, but his tone was fond. He jabbed his chopsticks toward the small porcelain dish near the center of the table. It was a delicate Fire Nation layered cake, dark red bean paste between thin sheets of honey sponge, dusted with powdered cinnamon. “I’ll admit, though. That thing looks dangerous. In a good way.”
“It’s yuèbing-style,” you said, leaning forward slightly to inspect it. “Fire Nation adaptation. They bake it with dragon fruit reduction instead of lotus paste.”
Sokka’s eyes lit up with the specific enthusiasm he reserved for food and battle strategy. “Okay. Okay, that sounds incredible, actually—”
“It is,” you confirmed. You picked up a small serving spoon, cut a neat portion, and held it out. Not toward Sokka, but toward the man sitting directly to your left.
Zuko stiffened.
It was a nearly imperceptible thing. A millimeter of tension across his broad shoulders, a slight sharpening of his gaze as it dropped to the spoon now hovering in the space between you. The cake sat there, perfectly portioned, an earnest little offering from his fiancée.
He looked at it. He looked at Sokka, who was watching the exchange with the focused, calculating attention of a man who had once tracked a sea serpent across open water for three days on a bet.
Zuko looked back at the spoon.
“I have my own utensils,” he said.
You blinked. “I know. I’m offering you mine.”
“I can feed myself.”
“Zuko—”
“I’m twenty-eight years old.”
The silence that followed was exquisite. You held his gaze for one long beat. He held it back, expression perfectly composed, jaw set at the precise angle you had privately catalogued as his I am the Fire Lord and I am not flustered, what are you talking about, I am completely fine angle.
You lowered the spoon.
Across the table, Sokka made a sound that wasn’t quite a cough and wasn’t quite a laugh, but existed somewhere in the loaded territory between them. You caught his eye.
Something passed between you. It was wordless, instantaneous, and absolutely damning. It was the specific telepathy that develops between two people who both find the same man endearing in his mortifying stubbornness.
You looked back down at the spoon in your hand. Then, with the serene composure of someone who had absolutely no ulterior motive whatsoever, you turned slightly in your seat and extended the spoon across the table toward Sokka instead.
“Sokka,” you said pleasantly. “Do you want to try it?”
Sokka’s expression went from conspiratorial delight to the studied, innocent blankness of a seasoned chaos agent. He straightened in his seat. He placed a solemn hand over his heart.
“I,” he said gravely, “would be honored.”
He leaned forward. He accepted the spoon. He closed his eyes as he tasted it with the theatrical reverence of a man experiencing a religious event, and then he let out a low, appreciative groan that was at least forty percent louder than necessary.
“Oh,” Sokka breathed. “Oh, that’s—Y/N. Y/N, this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Isn’t it?” you agreed warmly.
“I might have to move into the Fire Nation palace permanently.”
“We have a lovely east wing.”
“Perfect. I’ll take it.”
The temperature in the dining room had been climbing for approximately twelve seconds. You felt it before you looked. It was the specific, simmering heat that radiated off Zuko when his composure was being tested. The barely-leashed inner fire usually only made itself known when he was in the middle of a council session gone wrong, or when his fiancée had just deliberately fed another man dessert right in front of him.
You looked.
Zuko was staring at Sokka with an expression so flat and so incinerating it could have stripped paint from the walls.
Sokka, to his eternal credit, met that stare with the breezy, untroubled grin of a man who had survived a war and therefore had genuinely recalibrated his fear threshold. He set the spoon down on the table between you with a small, precise click.
“I mean,” Sokka said, in the tone of someone making a completely reasonable observation, “you did turn it down.”
You pressed your lips together very hard.
“You specifically said,” you added, with perfect innocence, “that you could feed yourself.”
Zuko turned to look at you. The flat expression had not moved. If anything, it had intensified. His golden eyes tracked from your face to the spoon to Sokka’s deeply satisfied expression and back to your face again, and you watched the precise moment he decided he was not going to dignify this with a response.
He reached across the table. He picked up the spoon. He cut himself a portion of the cake with the silent, deliberate calm of a man who was certainly not bothered. He ate it. He set the spoon down.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Just fine?” Sokka asked.
“It’s cake, Sokka.”
“Y/N said it was incredible—”
“The conversation,” Zuko said, with a finality that had once ended full council meetings, “is over.”
You and Sokka thought it was funny.
Well. Your little prank is not so funny now.
Because right now, you are in the Fire Lord’s private chambers, stripped bare and face-down across his lap with the heavy silk sheets bunched uselessly beneath your palms, rapidly revising your opinion of the entire spoon incident.
He had been very calm about it. That was the most unnerving part. No raised voice, no dramatic declaration. Just the quiet deliberate efficiency of a man with a point to make and absolutely no intention of rushing. He walked you through the mahogany doors, turned the lock, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and looked at you. That was all it took. One look, and here you were: his large calloused hand resting light and warm at the small of your back, the blistering heat of his thighs radiating straight through your bare skin, the horrible charged anticipation of waiting.
“You thought that was funny,” he said. Not a question. His voice was low, that gravelly unhurried register that did something catastrophic to your better judgment.
“A little,” you admitted, into the sheets.
His hand lifted. It came down with a sharp deliberate crack across the curve of your backside, and the sound that tore out of you was not dignified in any conceivable way.
“Zuko—”
“A little.” He repeated it perfectly even. His palm smoothed immediately over the sting, the scorching heat of his hand pressing into the bloom of warmth he had left behind. Your whole body clenched involuntarily at the contrast, the sharp bite of it dissolving almost instantly into a spreading maddening heat that pooled low and heavy in your core. “We’ll revisit that.”
He did it again. And again. Slow and measured, with that ruthless patience he applied to absolutely everything—council sessions, fire katas, and the systematic dismantling of your composure. Each strike was followed by the same soothing pass of his palm, his thumb tracing the flushed curve of your skin almost tenderly, and the combination of it was genuinely unhinged. Your fingers twisted into the silk. Your hips rolled without your permission. You heard the low dark exhale that came from him in response.
That was the thing about him. Zuko’s jealousy was a quiet, suffocating weight. He operated with the exact same obsessive, single-minded intensity that had once driven him across the globe for three years. Now, all of that relentless focus was trapped inside this room, directed entirely at stripping away your composure until you remembered exactly who claimed you.
You supposed that’s just how Fire Lord Zuko is. The jealous type.
By the time he finally stilled his hand, your skin was flushed a vivid burning pink, radiating its own warmth, every trace of your natural waterbender’s cold chased clean out of you. Your breathing was a wreck. The sheets beneath your palms were damp from the faint frost that had spiked off your overwhelmed skin and melted instantly against the furnace heat of his thighs.
“There,” Zuko murmured, his hand resting warm and still against your lower back. His voice had dropped into something quieter. Not soft exactly, but settled. Certain. “There you are.”
What came after was not gentle, and it was not quick.
He put you on all fours. His hands were sure and unhurried as he arranged you exactly where he wanted you, and the first stroke of his cock splitting you open dragged a completely ruined sound out of your throat that you felt no shame about whatsoever. He was thick and devastating at this angle, every thrust bottoming out so deep you felt it behind your navel, his hips snapping into the still-flushed spanked curve of your ass with a sharp filthy sound that filled the entire chamber. His long dark hair had come loose from its tie and fell around his face as he leaned over you, the ends brushing your spine, and even half-wrecked as you were the sight of him in your peripheral vision made it worse—that sharp jaw locked tight, those golden eyes dark with focus, the broad scarred expanse of his chest sheened faintly with exertion, lean muscle shifting with every drive of his hips.
He fucked you thoroughly. Properly. Deep hard strokes at a pace that left you completely incoherent, your arms trembling, your face pressing into the pillow as your own voice became entirely unrecognizable to you. Tears tracked silently down your cheeks, the bright overwhelmed kind that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the total dissolution of every last piece of your composure. You came with a broken sob muffled into the silk, clenching hard around him, and he followed close after with a low wrecked groan pressed between your shoulder blades, his hands gripping your hips so tight you’d feel it tomorrow.
For a moment, you both just breathed.
Then he drew you up.
He positioned you with those large certain hands, your back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours, the scorching wall of him solid at your spine. You were facing the mirror at the foot of the bed. You understood immediately, completely, why it was where it was.
You looked absolutely catastrophic. Your hair was a total wreck, dark strands plastered to your flushed tear-damp cheeks. Your lips were swollen. Your eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, the look of someone who had been thoroughly taken apart and hadn’t been put back together yet. Your cool skin was flushed with heat and steaming faintly where it pressed against the blistering heat of his chest, the fire-and-ice contrast rendered almost obscene in the amber glow of the hearth.
And then there was Zuko behind you, which was a genuinely unfair thing to have to look at in this particular state. His dark hair was fully loose now, falling in thick dishevelled waves past his jaw and brushing his scarred collarbone. His chest was bare, broad and heavily muscled with the lean hard lines of a man who had trained every day of his life, old battle scars mapping his torso in silver and pale gold. His jaw was tight, a muscle feathering in his scarred cheek. His golden eyes burned steady in the low firelight, fixed entirely on you. He looked like something forged from fire and focused want. You looked like you’d been hit by a wave and hadn’t surfaced yet.
The contrast was genuinely criminal.
His chin hooked over your shoulder. His golden eyes found yours in the glass and held.
“Don’t look away, princess,” he said quietly.
His hand slid down your stomach.
You were already so sensitized that when his fingers found your clit, your whole body jolted on pure reflex. His other arm banded across your ribs immediately, dragging you back flush against him, keeping you exactly and inescapably in place.
“Zuko—” His name fractured in your throat. “I can’t, I’m already—”
“I know,” he said. He didn’t stop.
His fingers worked your clit in tight relentless circles, the direct pressure against something so oversensitized from everything before that every stroke felt like too much and not enough at the same time. His other hand slid up to cup your left breast, squeezing the soft weight of it before his fingers found your nipple and pinched, sharp enough to make you gasp and clench and dig your nails into his forearm hard enough to leave marks.
“Look at the mirror,” he said against your ear.
You looked. You wished briefly that you hadn’t. Your face was a complete disaster, mouth open, eyes wet, cheeks scarlet, expression stripped down to pure sensation with nothing held back at all. The image of you coming apart while he remained so devastatingly composed behind you, his dark eyes tracking your every reaction with that consuming focused attention, was enough to make your thighs shake all over again.
His fingers tightened on your nipple, a rolling pinch that sent a sharp spike straight down to your already screaming clit. Then the hand at your core shifted, two fingers curling inside you while his thumb flicked directly over your swollen bud, and you actually sobbed. Loud and undignified and completely beyond caring.
“Still think it was funny?” he murmured against your ear, low and dark and almost conversational. His fingers never lost their rhythm for a single second.
You opened your mouth. You were going to say a little. You had fully intended to say a little, purely on principle, right up until his thumb pressed down firm and his fingers curled deeper and his other hand delivered one sharp stinging flick directly to your clit. Your entire spine arced off his chest.
What came out instead was his name. Just his name, over and over, increasingly incoherent.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, low and rough against your temple.
The orgasm hit so hard your vision went white at the edges, your whole body shaking, thighs clamping shut around his hand. His arm was the only thing keeping you from sliding completely off the mattress. He worked you through every convulsing shuddering second of it without mercy, fingers pumping steadily through the clench of your walls, thumb drawing slow circles over your hypersensitive clit until the sounds you were making were mostly just breath and the occasional broken fragment of please.
He finally, mercifully, stilled.
The room was very quiet. The hearth crackled. Your chest heaved. His chin was still hooked over your shoulder and in the mirror his expression had shifted into something quieter. Still dark, still certain, but underneath it the faintest trace of the thing he could never quite say out loud in dining rooms and corridors. The thing that only ever came out like this.
A thin curl of steam rose where your sweat-damp skin pressed against the furnace of his chest. The hearth fire guttered once, sympathetically.
He lowered you both down onto the mattress slowly, tucking you against his chest the same way he always did, with that quiet absolute possessiveness, like the decision had been made a long time ago and he had no interest in revisiting it. His hand settled heavy and warm at the curve of your waist. His thumb began its slow idle circle.
You lay there completely and entirely destroyed, listening to his heartbeat gradually decelerate against your cheek. The burn of him had faded from overwhelming to something grounding, a steady bone-deep warmth seeping into places the cold had lived for years.
“For the record,” you said, into the quiet.
“Mm.”
“You could have just eaten the cake.”
A beat. Then, low and dry, his voice rumbling against your cheek. “I’m aware of that.”
“Would have been easier.”
“I said I’m aware, princess.”
You smiled against his skin. “I’m just saying. For future reference. If I offer you a spoon—”
“I’ll take the spoon.”
“Good.”
“Don’t test me again.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, partially lying as you pressed a soft kiss to the scar over his eye.
prologue ⧽ read more
this is actually a bonus chapter from the main ‘sublimation’ universe ;)
