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Daryl has said âNaâ and âNawâ enough times in TWD that I can hear him saying it in my head
JM Is Live
Pairing: Joel Miller x himself
Summary: Struggling to pay the bills, Joel finds a rather unique way to make ends meet.
Warnings: minors dni, smut, adult cam star! joel, masturbation, dirty talk, very descriptive male anatomy, male genitalia pronouns, usage of daddy but it's only mentioned once
Word count: 3.1k
A/N: It's been a while! I've had this one sitting in my drafts for such a long time and edited it so many times I've lost count (and I still don't quite like it). Life has been hectic, but things have finally slowed down so now I'm finally able to post it. Enjoy âĄ
Divider by @kodaswrld
Ten minutes until showtime.
It was a Friday night and his trailer was quiet aside from the hum of his refrigerator and the distant whine of a truck down the highway. Joel sat on the edge of his bed, mattress springs groaning under his weight.
He rubbed his calloused palm over his stubble. Construction dirt was ingrained in his skin, under his nails. He'd taken a quick shower after work, but after so many years, it simply became a part of him, present no matter what he tried.
He shoved his laptop across the bed, the screen flickering to life. It illuminated his roomâ mostly unidentifiable clutter, such as a coffee mug and a pack of cigarettes that he swore he'd quit five times now. He never had.
The sight of the adult cam website greeted him. It was familiar by now, but the knot in his stomach it gave him never really went away.
Joel had started this a year ago. He'd been so desperate for cash at the time. Bills kept piling up week after week, while his construction work paid him less and less. He had to make ends meet, and fast.
He'd taken on normal jobs at first. A handyman, a janitor, a security guard. But he had to quit each job not long after starting them due to the incompatibility with his construction work schedule, and the fact they paid like shit.
Joel had been out of options. But one day, as he was reading a news article about how much the adult cam industry paid, he knew he had to give it at least a try.
He'd hated it at first. Something about having a bunch of strangers watch you jerk off made his skin crawl. He swore he'd never do it again, until he saw how much just half an hour had made him. And ever since, JM went live twice per week.
"Alright," Joelâ or in this case, JMâ muttered to himself. "Let's get this shit over with."
He adjusted his webcam, making sure it was low. Always showing just his chest and below. No face, that was his rule. The last thing he needed were people he knew in real life stumbling across him jerking it.
The angle framed the worn khaki flannel shirt he'd thrown on, unbuttoned just enough to show the patch of grey hair on his chest. He leaned back against a bunch of pillows, making himself comfortable. He wasn't young anymore and neither was his back.
The chat was empty for now. Truth to be told, he never quite read the chat besides donations. The more he read the things overly horny people threw at him, the less he wanted to keep doing this.
11:00 PM.
Joel hit the 'Go Live' button. The tiny red dot blinked, and a rush of adrenaline spiked his veins, cold and sharp.
The viewer count was zero for now. He took a breath, letting it out slow. He nervously scratched the fabric of his jeans, waiting for the first notification to roll in.
"Evenin' folks."
The viewer count jumped. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. Within a minute the room was packed, at least to Joel's standards. The chat rolled at such a fast pace the text became a blur of grey text and colorful usernames.
Joel leaned forward a little, making sure his face stayed out of frame.
It was easy money, he kept telling himself despite the way his heart hammered against his ribs. The numbers don't lie.
"Alright, alright," he rumbled, the microphone picking up his deep voice. "Settle down. Y'all are especially restless tonight."
He glanced at the donation section. A few were already dropping in; five, tens, twenties. A generous fifty from someone with the username SilverFox. That one alone would cover the electricity bill for the week.
Joel shifted, the denim of his jeans brushing the sheets beneath him. He took a quick look at the requests scrolling past.
Take off the shirt.
Show us your muscles.
Talk to us, daddy.
He let out a grunt, the sound low in his throat. His hand reached for the top button of his flannel shirt. His fingers felt rough, the skin dry as they fumbled with the tiny plastic disc.
"Patience," he said, voice dropping as he slipped into the persona they craved. He didn't rush, he never did. He made them wait. "We've got plenty of time."
He popped the first button. Then the second. The fabric parted slowly, revealing a sliver of his tanned, hairy chest and the white tank top he always wore underneath.
Joel leaned back, pushing his chest out. The camera captured the definition and width of his shoulders perfectly.
"See somethin' you like?" he asked, watching as the chat exploded in response. "Y'gotta speak up if you want somethin' more."
He let his hand linger on the third button, waiting for the next wave of donations to hit before he gave them what they all wanted.
The chime of incoming tips rang out like a damn slot machine payout. He didn't rush, as he knew the value of anticipation and the way the chat seemed to like it more if he took his sweet time.
He worked the rest of the buttons, letting the fabric fall open.
His flannel slid down his arm and landed on a heap on the floor next to him. The exposure made his skin cooler. The white cotton of his tank top clung to the damp heat of his skin, reading the scrolling text without really taking in the words.
More.
Take it off.
Joel hooked his fingers into the hem of the tank top. It was a tighter fit than his flannel was, hugging his broad shoulders and the slight softness of his middle. He pulled it upward, the friction dragging against his hair as he peeled it over his head.
His hair was a mess now, sticking up in tufts. Not that he cared or bothered to smooth it downâ these people couldn't see his face anyway.
There was definition in his chest. His pecs, the ridge of his sternum. But it was all buried under a layer of lived-in softness. His stomach wasn't flat like it had once been. It rounded out slightly over the waistband of his jeans, proof of the cheap beer he liked to drink after a long day at work. Even so, beneath the softness were cords of muscle that came from hauling lumber and concrete since he was a teenager.
A thick dusting of salt-and-pepper hair covered his chest, narrowing into a thinner line that eventually disappeared into his jeans.
Joel leaned back, stretching his arms over his head. He flexed his muscles, watching as the comments flood in. Praise for his dad bod, the hair, the bulk. He never would've thought his aging body would attract any kind of attention on this website, but he had been wrong. It was paying off.
"Y'all likin' the view?" he asked, voice low. He ran his hand through the hair on his chest, scratching his nails against his skin. "Been a long day. Still got some dust on me from work."
Glancing at the donation goal, he saw it was inching closer and closer to the mark for the 'main event' to begin.
"Who wants to see what's under this denim?" he growled, fingers dropping to his belt buckle. The metal clinked loudly in the otherwise silent room. "Y'know the drill."
The banner flashed across the top of the screen seconds later, a bright gold: goal reached. The cheerful chime that accompanied the banner felt absurdly out of place.
Joel let out a huff of air through his nose. "There we go," he murmured. "Knew you folks would come through."
He shifted his weight, bringing his hands to his waist. The belt was a heavy, worn thing, a thick leather that had definitely seen better days, cracked and chipped in places.
He worked the buckle with ease, the metal clack loud in the room. He didn't pull it out of the loops, instead just letting the ends hang loose, the tension around his midsection vanishing.
Next came the button. It was tightâ these jeans were his oldest work pair and he hadn't bothered to buy new ones in a while. It still fit and it wasn't torn, so he saw no reason to replace them.
He popped the snap, the relief immediate. Soon after that the zipper followed, teeth parting slowly with a low rasp.
Joel spread his thighs wider to fill the camera angle. The denim fell open, revealing the front of his boxersâ grey cotton, definitely way too thin. The outline of him was clear, a heavy, resting weight that pressed against the fabric.
He didn't take his jeans off, though. Not yet. He liked the tease, the way the denim would frame his hips. So instead he brought his right hand to his crotch, cupping the entire bulge in his palm. It was warm, heavy. Promising.
"Well, look at that," he grunted, voice dropping even lower. He squeezed, digging his fingers into the flesh, feeling the blood start to pool, the familiar heavy throb of waking up. "That's what yer payin' for, ain't it?"
He kneaded the fabric, thumb brushing over the head still trapped inside the cotton. He felt the twitch, the way his hips jerked involuntarily against the friction. He tried not to focus on the chat too much, finding it easier to get aroused that way.
Joel rubbed his hand up and down the length, the knot of arousal tighter in his gut. The cotton dragged over the sensitive skin, coaxing him to full hardness to fill the space.
"Gettin' there," he muttered, half to the audience, half to himself. He squeezed the base, groaning softly as the pressure built. "Just gotta warm him up."
He lifted his hips, the effort making his breath hitch audibly. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, dragging the grey cotton down over the curve of his ass.
He didn't take these off either; simply pushed the bundle of denim and cotton down until they bunched around his upper thighs.
Gravity did the rest.
His cock sprang free, slapping heavily against his lower abdomen with a fleshy sound. He was impressive, not pretty in the usual sense but rather long and thick, the shaft a flushed red color that stood out against the tan of his stomach.
He was manly. His foreskin a puckered hood that still half-concealed his tip, glistening where a bead of fluid was gathering, shaft slightly curved upwards and with a dense patch of salt-and-pepper hair curled at the base of it all, thick and unkept. His balls hung low, heavy and full, settling onto the denim bunched beneath him.
Joel looked down at it, a low rumble vibrating in his chest.
"There he is," he muttered, voice thick. He wrapped his right hand around the shaft, fingers barely meeting around the girth despite his large hands. He squeezed, hard enough to make the head flare and push fully out of the foreskin, shiny crown emerging red and angry.
"Big enough for y'all?"
He gave himself a slow stroke, pulling the skin down to the root and letting it slide back up slowly, friction wet and audible.
"He's hungry tonight."
He shifted his legs wider, planting his feet on the mattress. He angled his hips up to give the camera a better angle of what he was working with between his legs. The chat was a blur of praise and desire, but he tried not to pay too much attention.
"Alright," he grunted, spitting into his right palm to slick up his length. "Let's get to work."
The rhythm he set initially was heavy, a friction that nearly bordered on too tight. Joel never went for light, teasing touches; instead gripping the shaft like it he was holding a jackhammer, palm calloused against the slickness of his skin.
"Shit," he grunted, the sound tearing from his throat as his fist hit the base. His hips lifted up, a thrust that drove his cock upward through the tight circle of his fingers.
He settled back down only to drive up again, meeting his own strokes halfway. The wet slap of skin and his breathing were the only sounds in the room.
The head emerged from his foreskin, redder and angrier each time with each stroke up, leaking a stream of pre-come that slicked his grip.
"Look at 'im," he growled. "Look how damn hard he is for ya."
His left hand drifted lower, away from his shaft and instead towards the heavy sack beneath. He cupped the weight of his balls, rolling them between his thick fingers, tugging them down away from his body. His breath hitched at the sensation, a sharp intake of air that whistled through his teeth.
"Fuck," he hissed, accent thickening. "Tha'ss it."
The pace increased, just a fraction. Joel could feel the heat coiling in his spine. The chat was scrolling too fast to read, but the money kept pouring in, and it motivated him to keep going.
"Yeah, y'want this, don'tcha?" he rasped to no one in particular, voice dropping to a whisper. He squeezed the base hard, cutting off blood flow slightly, making the head swell purple.
"Wanna make this big ol' cock spill for ya."
He leaned his head back against the pillows, exposing the thick cords of his neck to the camera, face just out of frame. "Gon' make a mess soon," he muttered, slurring. "Gon' cover everythin'."
The sound of his fist jerking off his cock was loud and obscene, filling the small room. His breathing had turned into a ragged noise, chest heaving as he worked himself up and down the rigid shaft. He fucked up into his own hand, driving his hips up off the bed with every downward plunge of his wrist.
"Jesus," Joel gritted out, head falling back. "He's so fuckin' wet."
Pre-come leaked from him in a steady stream, pouring over the swollen tip and slicking his palm until his hand was just a blur of motion. It was dripping down his knuckles, matting the hair at the base.
"Look at that," he growled. He stopped for a fraction of a second to pull the foreskin all the way back, exposing the glossy, now purple head to the camera.
"Look at 'im. Swollen as a damn tick."
He wrapped his hand back around it, squeezing tight, forcing another drop of pre-come from the slit.
"Yeah, y'want this," Joel spat. He was sweating now, beads of it rolling down his temples and tracking through the hair on his chest. "Y'wanna see me empty these?" His left hand squeezed his balls.
He picked up the pace, the wet slap of his sack against his thighs audible even over the sound of him fisting his cock. He was utterly hard now, the curve of his stiff cock rigid. At his age it took him longer to get like this, but when he got there, it was worth it.
"Gon' make it hurt," he rasped, hips bucking erratically. He roughly tugged on his balls with his left hand, pulling them away from his body to delay his release, groaning at the jolt of both pleasure and pain it earned him.
"Gonna milk every last drop outta him."
Joel grunted, a deep sound that bordered on animalistic. His eyes squeezed shut for a momentâ not that the audience could tellâ as he got lost in the friction of his own fist.
"Talk to me," he demanded, babbling more than that he actually meant it. "Tell daddy how bad you need it."
The coil in his gut snapped tight, pulled to a breaking point.
"Yeah, fuckâ!"
Joel's hips jackknifed off the bed, abs crunching hard as the first wave of his release hit him. It was an explosion, his hand moving as if on autopilot, jerking his shaft hard and fast, dragging the pleasure out of him by force.
"God damnâ"
The first shot was a heavy, pearly white rope that arced through the air, landing with a wet splat on his upper chest, right in the center of his salt-and-pepper hair. He couldn't stop. His hand kept squeezing, demanding more of himself.
"Fuck! Take it, fuckin' take it..."
Another spurt followed, this time painting a line onto the soft curve of his belly, pooling in his navel. It felt hot against his cooling skin.
Joel grunted again, a deep sound that vibrated through his body, his head thrown so far back that his muscles strained.
"Yeah... Fuck yeah..."
The intensity evened out, cock pulsing in his grip, spilling a messy flood that dribbled over his calloused knuckles, dripping down his shaft and eventually matting the pubic hair at the base.
His strokes slowed, fist milking the last few drops out, breathing ragged. He looked down at himself through lidded eyes, sweat dripping down his temple to mix with the mess he'd made at his collarbone.
"Look at that," he breathed. His voice was wrecked, barely even above a whisper. He slowly released his grip, hand falling away to rest on his thigh, strings of come stretching between his fingers before snapping. "Fuckin' drowned me."
Joel sat there for just a moment, staring down at the screen through half-lidded eyes the audience could not see. The post-nut clarity hit him like a wave, as it did each and every time he did this. The adrenaline faded fast, leaving him with just the sticky, cool reality.
The mess on his stomach was cooling rapidly, turning tacky and uncomfortable. Joel stared at the chat, a waterfall of praise, heart emojis and a whole bunch of words in caps-lock. It meant very little to him beyond the numbers that would appear in his bank account soon.
He couldn't help but laugh at himself internally. Fifty-six years old and jackin' it on the internet.
A pang of vulnerability shot through him that made Joel want to pull the plug and call it a night. But he hid it, wanting these people to return next time.
He tilted his chin down, allowing just his stubble and a forced smirk onto the screen.
"Alright, that's all she wrote, folks," he drawled, voice slowly regaining its strength, though slightly more tired. "Y'all drained me tonight."
His eyes glanced at the top donation. "Appreciate y'all, as always."
Joel leaned back, stretching his arms wide one last time, showing off the sticky mess one last time.
"JM signing off. Go do somethin' productive with yerselves."
The red light died, screen going black. The silence of his trailer rushed in again accompanied by the hum of his refrigerator.
JM would be live again.
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pairing: perv!daryl x afab!reader word count: 1.9k summary: daryl hadnât 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 youâre 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 doesnât visit Oceanside often for a variety of reasons. He likes to think that after the countless lives lost from the recent battle, heâs 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 isnât 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 heâs 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 youâre 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 heâs always alert in case they do. The outpost isnât 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 hadnât gathered enough courage to properly speak with you yet.
Except, this might be the first time heâs 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 canât 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 theyâd 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 hasnât seen you.
He canât help but wonder where you are. What you might be doing. Who you are with, especially. It isnât any of his business. Daryl knows damn well he should be concerning himself with the responsibility of this supply exchange instead. However, he canât ignore the warm feeling bubbling deep within his chest that he can only recognize as possessiveness. He barely knows you and yet heâs extremely bothered at the fact the only person he looks forward to seeing at Oceanside isnât 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 wonât 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 isnât just fish. Without surprise, they eagerly agree to his suggestion and allow him to take whatever necessary materials to create these traps.
Daryl isnât 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 heâd 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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. Youâre 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 canât 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 Darylâs 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. Heâs staring at you and you donât even know it.
The guilt weighs heavy on his conscience. He shouldnât be doing this. Fuck, this is messed up. He blinks few times, turning his head to look elsewhere. His lungs tighten and thereâs 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 isnât 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 doesnât even take three full steps before the hunter realizes thereâs something wrong with him.
Thereâs 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 heâs so uncomfortable; heâs hard as a rock.
This shit doesnât happen often. Actually, Daryl canât 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 thereâs you. Of course, of all people, youâre 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. Youâre 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 youâve caused.
Daryl knows he isnât perfect. Heâs a mess. Heâs already very much aware of the fact he is nothing but scum left in the ruins of this corpse ridden world. Or at least thatâs what he has convinced himself of. Years of trauma and a lack of healthy relationships will do that to someone. He doesnât deserve to have your attention, your patience, your praise. So if he canât 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 arenât 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 didnât 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 canât bring himself to jerk off. He needs to go home soon. Heâll need to return to his duties as a leader, a fucking role model to some dipshits called the Saviors. But heâll continue to squeeze himself for a good while just to jog his memory of what you looked like under the bright sun. When heâs in bed later that night, fucking his hand and muffling his moans by biting his lip, heâll secretly hope heâll get to taste you one of these days. It wonât 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. Heâs never felt so dirty before, but doesnât regret it one bit.
tags: @amethystfawn @twd-bee3 @rickgrimes-cupid @kitty-grimes @shtgshdrnit @lilzz1236969
Attitude Adjustment
Daryl Dixon x gn!reader
word count: 2.1k
content: going on a supply run with daryl, a hunting attempt gone wrong leads him hiding in a bush with some very... strange symptoms. (itâs sex pollen)
day what fucking ever of cher's kinktober !!
comments and reblogs are much held very dear to my heart
Daryl Dixon has been pissy the last 20 minutes.
He'd been this way since youâd gone into town on a supply run, youâd checked a house while he went after the deer heâd seen in the yard. Because that was one thing you were coming to terms with in the post-outbreak world: deer and other such animals felt comfortable wandering deep into towns and cities.
Heâd come back after a few hours, no deer, but visibly tense.
It made sense. Really, it did. Because if you knew Daryl- which you very well did- then you knew he tended to get pissy when he came back from anything empty handed. Especially when the aforementioned thing happened to be his bread and butter.
So you'd done the (slightly nonsensical) act of opening your mouth in an attempt to console him.
âYou can go back out, I donât mind-â
The glare he shot you had your mouth clamping shut instantly though, the rest of the sentence be damned.
Anyone could call you dumb, but they could never call you stupid. And you werenât planning on taking the downright moronic approach of getting further on Darylâs nerves when he was in a mood. Even with the last few months having been good between the two of you, you'd seen what he was like in said mood before, and you wanted none of it.
Despite the tension, he helps you scavenge for a bit. And honestly? It has you on edge.
Heâs aggressive with it. Aggressive in the way he gets when heâs drunk. The tension is thick enough you could cut it with a knife.
Finally- suddenly, even, when your back is turned to him, he groans low, followed by a clatter made only louder in the silence, and he mutters a quick, âGoinâ out.â
Thereâs an unspoken âstay hereâ.
Heâs gone before you can say anything.
Itâs not until a good hour later that he comes back. His flannelâs tied around his waist, revealing the toned biceps you hadnât seen since the warmer half of fall. You can tell he's overheated even from afar.
Heâd look damn good if there wasnât something so unsettling about the look on his eyes.
âDid you-â
âWalkers got it.â He cuts you off. His voice is thicker than usual.
ââŠYou get bit?â
Daryl gives you an incredulous look, âFuck you askinâ that for?â
âYouâre actin' all pissy and weird- you drunk?â
âItâs noon.â He refutes, as if youâre somehow the one thatâs acting off.
âThen fuckâs wedged up your ass?â
Heâs silent for a long moment, â'llergic to something out here.â
A smile crosses your lips, thinking that maybe some banter would distract him from whatever funk he was in, âDidnât think you got allergies-â
âShut the fuck up, will ya?â
You take a step back as if heâd slapped you. Daryl had spoken to you like that before, sure. Youâd slapped him for it more than once. But thatâd been at the beginning. Back before heâd calmed down a bit and gotten used to being part of the group.
So why the hell was he acting up again?
âYouâre so sick? Go look in the damn cellar then.â You snap finally, more hurt by his words than you're willing to let on, âOr a bedroom for a nap, fuck if I care. Come back once you put your big boy pants on.â
He grumbles something that has you setting down your cans a little rougher before he disappears to the cellar.
Youâre not exactly sure how long passes, but the clatter of something in the cellar followed by several grunts has you on guard.
Walker! it's a walker! your brain screams. And no matter mad you are at Daryl, youâre rushing down before you can even fully process it.
But itâs not a walker. Itâs Daryl leaned against the wall, pants shoved down around his thighs.
His hand is pumping feverishly around his cock, which in turn is bucking up frantically. His mouth is open, panting shallowly, drool leaking from the side of his chin. He hasnât seen you yet, eyes squeezed shut as he huffs out a âplease, please- oh fuck- pleaseâ.
Your jaw goes slack. Your hand does too, weapon clattering to the ground.
His eyes shoot open, pupils blown and glossy with tears, staring directly at you.
He cums.
Thereâs so fucking much of it. Youâre not trying to notice, but itâs impossible not to. And you canât look away.
Heâs barely done cumming before heâs practically crying for you, one hand still on his cock, the other trying to push himself up. You have a feeling that if he couldnât stand, heâd crawl.
It grows increasingly more obvious with every passing second that something is definitely, very not right with him.
âPlease, you gotta-â He rasps, âI donât- I canât.â
âWhat the fuck, Daryl?â
You donât mean your voice to sound harsh, you really donât.
But this isnât Daryl. This isnât the guy whoâll come by your cell just to sit quietly with you. And while youâd be lying if you said youâd never fantasized about him, youâd also be lying if you said you didnât think there was something wrong.
ââM sorry- canât stop.â Heâs panting again, âFigured it was- fuck- and walkers- too many. Saw the bush- didnât think itâd- damnit- didnât think itâd do this.â
Heâs almost impossible to understand right now, babbling on about walkers and some- fuck. It was coming back to you now, something Eugene had said once. A flowering bush that was sort of⊠well, natures way of ensuring the next generation.
And while it was late fall and surely it had died by now, actively hiding inside the bush was likely enough for any lingering effects to get pushed onto Daryl.
âCâmon- donât make me beg.â He pleads, pushing off the wall shakily.
He makes it a few steps before you catch him, supporting his weight as he grasps at you like a lifeline.
While youâre internally debating on if you can even morally fuck him, heâs actively grinding his sensitive cock against the denim of your jean clad crotch, making downright unholy sounds in your ear.
âFuck- Dar- cool it a second.â You finally get the words out, trying to push him back for a second.
The lack of friction on his cock for that half a second has him looking like he wants to cry. Heâs tugging you back within the second, âCanât do that- fuck- need it-â
His irises are practically eclipsed by his pupils, a pure, rabid hunger in them. Heâs clearly deep in the course of the bushâs effects, ration abandoning him.
âDar, this is- shit- you canât exactly want this-â
He scoffs, still grinding, clearly thinking youâre joking, âCan.â
You try to pull away again, but his grip is strong. âDaryl, âm serious, youâre like horribly under the influence right now- itâs wrong-â
The way the air shifts is practically enough to give you whiplash.
âBut itâs not wrong to leave me like this?â He all but snarls, mood flipping in an instant as he reaches for your belt. He doesnât unbuckle it yet, but his hands are trembling with the need to, âGonna leave me down here? Hope it goes down? Thaâs not wrong to ya?â
Heâs not wrong. Either way wouldnât exactly be right⊠and youâd be lying if you said you wanted to leave him like this.
You cave surprisingly easy, considering all your concerns. But then again, you always do when Darylâs involved.
His eyes darken further than they already were when you spit into your hand, and a whined âfuck!â all but tears from the back of his throat when you wrap it around his aching cock.
His hips are jutting forward frantically, slipping through the ring of your calloused fingers.
He doesnât say thank you, despite his earlier pleading. But heâs got his lips against your neck, kissing a sloppy and frantic path down to your collarbone and then further down still.
The hands that had been resting on your belt were finally unfrozen, and he all but threw it across the room, pushing your jeans down, and shoving you against the wall, your face resting against the cool stone.
ââm sorry, âm sorry.â He pants directly into your ear.
You donât get the chance to ask what heâs sorry about. Because you hear him spit. You hear the slick sound of him jerking his cock. And then you feel it.
The tip presses against the entrance to your hole. And then heâs pushing in, babbling apologies as he bottoms out in a single thrust.
It hurts so strongly that you can barely focus on the way he babbles almost incoherently in your ear.
Youâve never heard Daryl talk this much. Never heard him make this much noise. But heâs so vocal right now, panting and moaning and babbling about how you feel so damn good around his cock.
Its almost enough to distract from the burning pain of the sudden stretch.
Heâs humping into you frantically, moaning and groaning incoherently into your ear as he tries to tug you closer. His hands might as well be bruising your hips- youâre sure thereâll be 10 little bruises by the time the effects of that bush wear off.
And that burning is quickly getting eclipsed by the way he reaches so deep and fills you just right and you're gasping as he drives in over and over and over again.
And he's cumming. He's cumming so fast and so hard that you can barely even process it, despite the warmth that fills and leaks out of you.
It's not enough- you don't even get a few moments of deluding yourself that it could possibly be enough to sate the bush's effects because he's already starting to guide you onto the floor.
Whether his legs gave out or yours did first, you're not sure, you just know that the way he's practically on top of you has your mind dizzy with it. All the while, he's breathing out a string of desperate "please" into your ear, the stuttering of his hips still more irregular than not.
He's babbling directly into your ear, not a word of it understandable, only broken pieces of praise and pleading.
And then he's flipping you onto your back, kissing frantically down your chest like he's running out of time to do it. Each thrust is punctuated with a whine, some incoherent babble, and you're cumming so hard it's almost pathetic.
And he's just. Going. Going. Going. Going.
He's going like he's chasing anything he could ever need, and all he has to do to get it is merge himself into you.
With the way he manhandles you into different positions so often, you're half convinced he's just looking for a way to get deeper inside of you. It's all a haze of white hot pleasure, orgasm after orgasm that you're note even sure he's intentionally giving you, but it's just so much that you can't help it.
And then he finds it. That spot that gets him so deep inside that he gives one last stuttered buck of his hips against your ass and he's crashing over that edge.
There's so much of it that he's not even done cumming before it starts leaking out of you. Not a single thought can even begin to form in your head.
Drool leaks from the corner of your lips, eyes glazed as you look back up at him. You're not even sure how wrecked you look, but in that moment, you're sure Daryl Dixon is off ten times worse than you are.
There's maybe the faintest hint of coherence starting to return back to his eyes, but it's quickly overtaken by sheer exhaustion. He tugs you into his arms and you're pretty sure he's just operating based on whatever his scrambled brain thinks would be good right then, because you've never felt Daryl be this clingy with you- not that you're complaining.
But his head is smushed into your chest and his eyes are already shut and it's so Daryl that your chest practically aches.
Sleep's already halfway overtaken you both when you feel it. His cock- which he'd never had the energy to pull out- twitches deep inside you. The soft whine that tugs from him is muffled by your chest, and it's becoming quite obvious that the effects of the bush haven't quite worn off yet like you'd hoped.
He doesn't ask for it though. Doesn't even try to move his hips beyond a few involuntary twitches. He wants to rest- he wants you to rest, though he's clearly having a hard time with that. So you chose to take mercy on him, rolling him onto his back and starting the whole thing back over again.
It'll wear off sooner or later... you hope.
need some fics with this vibe
someone tell me this isnât the most rideable man youâve ever seen like pls Iâll be ur stress source AND relief
âiâll have her home âyour daughter
by eightâ calls me daddy tooâ
filthy liâl thing.
âpart twoâ
daryl dixon x fem!reader
â¶âŽ summary: the night passes. the pull doesnât.
â¶âŽ tags: nsfw/mdni/18+, dom!daryl (kinda), brat!reader (kinda), power imbalance, power struggle, praise kink, degradation kink, humiliation kink, obedience kink, control dynamics, possessive behavior, rough handling, minor pain play, forced proximity, enemies to lovers (sorta), mutual obsession, sexual tension.
wc: ~5.8k
âpart oneâ
the dawn came low and heavy, bleeding a pale, sickly yellow through the slatted walls of the barn. the rain stayed away, but the fog had rolled in to replace it.
you woke up with the cold deep in your bones, the phantom weight of his hand still pressed against your mouth, and a deep, burning ache between your thighs that felt less like satisfaction and more like a brand. across the loft, daryl was still out, buried in his thin, dirt-stained bedroll, his back a curved, impenetrable wall of dark denim and shadowed canvas. his breathing was deep, slow, and measuredâthe only rhythm in the dead quiet of the morning.
you didn't look at him for long. the defiance that had been burned out of you the night before was crawling its way back up your throat, sour and demanding.
âthis changes nothing.â those were your words. you meant them. but as you looked at the broad line of his back, a toxic mix of humiliation and desire coiled in your gut. he had made you crawl. he had used his fingers and his knife to peel back your armor until you were nothing but a shivering, sobbing mess in the hay, begging for a touch he gave like a handout.
moving like oil, you slipped out of the hay. your boots didn't make a sound against the floorboards; youâd learned how to walk light before the world ended, and years of dodging the dead had made you a ghost when you wanted to be.
you crept toward the corner where his gear was stacked. his crossbow sat leaning against a splintered post, looking like a piece of salvaged iron. the black nylon strap hung loose. you reached out, your fingers wrapping around the grip. it always felt bulkier and cruder than the bows youâd grown up with, but you knew how it handled by now. proving that the girl he had pinned and muffled could still strip his prized weapon right out from under his nose while he slept was worth the risk.
you slung it over your good shoulder and slipped down the ladder into the gloom of the lower floor.
unbolting the heavy main barn door just enough to slip your body through, you eased yourself out into the wet cold of the woods, pulling the heavy timber shut behind you so it sat flush against the frame while you were gone.
the fog was so thick you could taste the river on your tongue. everything was slick, the mud clinging to the soles of your boots like wet clay, trying to drag you down with every step.
as you crawled through the dripping brush, keeping low to the damp ground, your mind kept slipping backwards, trapped in the memory of the loft. every time a wet branch bounced against your cheek, you felt the rough drag of his thumb across your bottom lip. your thighs rubbed together with every step, the friction a sharp, stinging reminder of how wet youâd been for him, how easily heâd unraveled you with nothing but a few low words and a steady rhythm.
âfilthy liâl thing.â the words repeated in your head, a degrading pulse. he looked at you like you were something heâd found in the dirt, yet heâd consumed you with a hunger that felt personal. it made your stomach flip and you hated him for it.
your eyes caught the muddy, wet line of tracks near a collapsed sweetgum tree. three turkeys scratching through the damp leaf litter.
you dropped to one knee, the cold mud soaking through your denim instantly. you brought the heavy crossbow up, resting your elbow against your thigh to steady the weight. the sight aligned. your fingers were steady on the trigger, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. you didn't want his praise anymore. you wanted to provoke him. you wanted to see that mask of his crack until the wild, angry animal underneath came roaring back out.
you breathed out, watching the fog rise from your own lips, and squeezed.
the thunk of the string was a flat, wet sound in the mist. the bolt took the largest bird out clean, striking where the neck met the body. the animal dropped instantly. the other two vanished into the morning mist.
"ain't hard," you whispered fiercely into the quiet woods, a bitter imitation of his drawl.
you retrieved the bolt, wiping the thick blood against the wet grass, and slung the massive bird by its legs over your shoulder opposite the bow. its dead weight pressed hard against your back, the warm fluid slowly soaking through the fabric, staining your back with the sharp copper smell of blood. the hunt had taken longer than youâd meant it to, and by the time you turned back toward the sagging silhouette of the barn, the sun was high enough to turn the fog into a blinding, white glare.
when you pushed the main door open and stepped inside, you turned immediately and threw the iron bolt home. the metal latch dropped into place with a heavy, final click, securing the perimeter before you even turned to face the room.
the air inside was already thick with malice, feeling like a weight against your chest.
daryl was standing at the base of the loft ladder, out in the wide, open center of the floor space where the ashes of last nightâs fire sat cold. the dirt around his boots was scuffed, kicked up where heâd clearly been tearing the lower level apart searching for his weapon before realizing that you and the crossbow were both gone. his bedroll was packed, his vest pulled tight, and his knuckles were white where his hands clenched at his sides. when his eyes found you, the breath caught in your throat.
"told ya," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly scrape that barely carried across the dirt floor. "don't touch my shit."
you didn't back down. the adrenaline from the hunt morphed into something uglier, something sharp and combative. you walked right into his space, letting the massive bird hit the dirt floor between you with a wet, solid thud.
for a long, tense beat, darylâs eyes flicked down to the carcass, taking in the clean, precise puncture where the neck met the body. he stared at it, then his gaze traveled up to the crossbow slung over your shoulder. a flicker of impressed annoyance crossed his featuresâhe knew exactly what kind of shot that took, and he hated that youâd pulled it off. his jaw tight, his expression locked down instantly.
"brought you breakfast," you said, your voice dripping with a mocking, sweet defiance that you knew would prick his pride. "since you can't seem to bring back anything bigger than a fist."
daryl stepped forward, crowding you. before his chest could even brush yours, his boot shot out, kicking the massive bird out of the way, sending it sliding across the dirt floor where it hit the base of an empty horse stall. he pressed into your space, trapping your boots.
"think you're real smart, don't ya?" he hissed, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and angry against your skin. "you ain't nothin' but a damn headache."
"the headache that's keeping us from starving," you shot back, matching his heat note for note, leaning up into his space until your jaw was set against his. "maybe if you spent less time throwing tantrums and more time looking for actual game, i wouldn't have to do your job for you."
"do my job?" he muttered.
before you could even blink, his hand shot out. his fingers didn't just grab the bow; his palm slammed against your collarbone, shoving you backward with a violent force. he kept driving you back, away from the central clearing and the entrance, forcing you deeper into the barn until your spine cracked against the splintered wood of the horse stall wall.
as your back hit the wood, your head jarred back, catching a sudden glimpse of pale gray daylight cutting through a low-set, broken window pane along the side wall of the stall. the jagged remainder of the glass was caked in grime, casting a dull shadow into the corner.
his hand lingered for a fraction of a second, his thumb intentionally catching the edge of the raw skin where the nylon strap had dug into your shoulder again like he had done yesterday. the crossbow clattered against his foot, breaking its fall to the dirt, before he shoved it to the side with his boot.
he closed the distance, pinning your hips with his thighs, his coarse denim pressing against your aching center. his hand wrapped around your throatânot enough to choke you, but enough to force your chin up, his thumb digging hard into the soft skin beneath your jaw.
"runnin' your mouth," he growled, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear until you whimpered. "keep stealin' my damn bow. actin' like ya got somethin' to prove."
he let out a short, mocking grunt that vibrated against your throat. his free hand snaked down behind you, his broad palm flattening against your lower back. his fingers smeared against the cold wetness on your shirt, pulling his hand back just enough to look down at the sticky streak of animal blood on his skin. his jaw tightened, a sharp, venomous smirk cutting through his features.
"canât ever just listen, can ya?" he spat.
the words hit the room like a blow, making your core instantly tighten with a violent, electric gush of heat. you pulsed around the words, your belly turning over as he stared down at you with resentment.
his eyes flicked toward the discarded carcass by the stall, then to the blood smeared on his hand, then back to you. "what, ya some kinda bird dog now?"
instead of reaching for your buttons, his hand shot straight down to your crotch, cupping you hard right over the thick fabric of your jeans. his palm flattened against your center, his fingers spreading wide to lock you in place.
the absolute stillness of the contact was cruel. it was a physical declaration that he controlled your body and he wasn't going to give you the friction you were desperately craving. a helpless whimper escaped your throat, your hips instinctively twitching against his palm, begging for movement, but his hand remained like stone, pinning you flat against the stall wall.
"shut up," he ordered, his thumb pressing harder into your throat, cutting off your breath just enough to make your head spin.
he abruptly pulled his hand away from your jeans, reaching down to yank a steel bolt free from his quiver. with a dismissive, mocking flick of his wrist, he tossed it across the barn. it skittered through the dirt, traveling far across the floor and coming to a halt underneath an old wooden feed trough against the opposite wall.
he didn't drop his hand from your throat; instead, he used his grip to give you a firm, downward shove, pushing you until your knees hit the dirt floor with a dull thud. daryl dropped down with you, crouching on the balls of his feet to bring himself perfectly level with you as you landed on all fours in the shadow of the horse stalls.
âfetch it.â he commanded.
your jaw tightened, the last remnants of your pride flaring up in your chest. you glared up at him through your eyelashes. âfuck you,â you spat.
âi ain't askinâ ya, i'm tellinâ,â he growled back, his voice a low, rumbling vibration.
the sheer authority in his tone cut straight through your defiance, making your body submit before your brain could even protest. annoyed at yourself, furious at how easily he could pull your strings, you quickly resolved that if he wanted you to crawl again, you weren't going to make it easy for him this time.
you moved forward, intentionally dropping your chest low, arching your back, and rolling your hips with a slow, deliberate swing as you crawled across the barn floor toward the far trough. it was a silent, mocking provocationâusing the very submission he demanded to mess with his head.
darylâs breathing hitched. his boots shifted heavily in the dirt, a sudden, ragged intake of air betraying just how much the view was tearing through his restraint. his knuckles went white, and his eyes locked onto the movement of your hips with a rigid fury. you could hear the tense, tight clicking of his jaw; your slow, seductive movements were turning his own game into a torment, driving a spike of raw tension through him.
you reached the shadow of the trough, deep in the perimeter of the barn and far from where the low window sat. instead of reaching out with your hand, you leaned down, parting your lips, and clamped your teeth firmly around the cold metal shaft of the bolt.
turning around slowly, you carried it back to him crawling, holding his intense, burning gaze the entire time. when you stopped right in front of him near the stalls, daryl didn't move. for a long, torturous beat, he just looked at you, his eyes dark and dilated.
his gaze dropped to the bolt clenched between your teeth. for a second, he just stared. then, his fingers slid over your hair onceâpetting your head.
"atta girl."
the softness lasted for a split second before his grip snapped tight. his fingers tangled roughly into your hair right at the roots, pulling back with sudden force. the sharp yank caused your jaw to drop, the steel bolt clattering out of your mouth and hitting his lap before he tossed it aside in the dirt.
daryl then pulled you hard toward him slightly, dragging your face up to his as he surged forward to sloppily kiss you. it was a collision of teeth and tongues, wet, desperate, and completely devoid of the restraint heâd tried to maintain all morning. a low groan ripped from his chest as he moved against your mouth.
meeting his frantic energy, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pushed him hard from his crouching position. daryl went down, his boots sliding as he landed firmly on the ground, his back slamming hard against the wood of the stall with his legs spread out in front of him. your mouths never disconnected. you scrambled over his thighs, crawling directly into his lap and straddling him, your movements urgent and maddened by the sudden shift.
breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, you gasped for air, looking down at his flushed, dirt-stained face. the temptation to push him further was too strong. "look at you," you whispered, trying to flip the power dynamic. "on the floor, begging for a piece ofâ"
"said shut up," daryl shot it down instantly, his voice a dark growl that sliced through your words.
his hands clamped onto your hips, checking your movement before you could reply. with brute, uncompromising strength, he forced your hips down, grinding you heavily against him right over your clothes. the sudden friction against your denim-clad core was a shock to your system.
with that single movement, the masks of resentment you both wore fell away. the pretense crumbled. the sheer, overwhelming reality of how good it felt took over completely. darylâs head fell back against the wood, his face deeply flushed, his breathing ragged and uneven. you let out a loud, uninhibited moaning sound, your hands gripping his shoulders as he pulled you against him again and again.
suddenly, a sharp sound cut through the barn from the side wall.
every muscle in daryl's body locked up. his eyes snapped toward the broken pane of the low-set window right at the end of the stall row.
through the jagged opening, a rotting gray face suddenly pressed against the frame. a bloated, decayed arm shoved blindly through the shattered gap, its grey fingers clawing at the empty air, scraping aggressively against the splintered frame. the remaining shards of glass rattled as the creature rammed its weight against the outer wall, yellowed teeth snapping as it tried to force its way through an opening far too narrow for its body.
pure panic flashed in both of your faces. you were completely vulnerable on the dirt floor, and with the walker suddenly at the side window, the space felt incredibly small. thanks to your earlier caution, the main door was securely bolted shut, but the raw sound of the intruder at the glass turned the momentum between your bodies into a knot of frantic adrenaline.
neither of you stopped. but the rhythm changedâit became a frozen, agonizingly tight struggle against the silence.
your breaths came in short, panicked gasps against his neck. darylâs face was strained, his eyes squeezed shut as he rode the edge of falling apart. his right hand left your waist, moving quickly up your chest to clamp his broad palm firmly over your mouth, stifling your whimpers into the dirty skin of his hand. he leaned up, his mouth pressing directly against your ear, his breath hot and completely wrecked as he silently acknowledged how hard it was for you to hold it in.
the dead fingers kept scraping against the wood surrounding the window, the low, wet gurgle in its throat rattling right through the slatted wood. you both froze completely, chests heaving, hips locked in a torturous, unmoving press as the shadow lingered right at the glass, its arm still thrashing through the gap, trying to find purchase. the threat remained, stretching the quiet into an unbearable, terrifying weight.
tears gathered in the corners of your eyes from the sheer, agonizing pleasure of the static pressure.
âshh. i know, i know,â daryl murmured in a harsh, mocking, strained whisper against your ear, his voice trembling with the dual strain of the danger and the heat between your thighs.
your body tightly wound, resuming your movements at the sound of his words and trembling under his hands as you struggled to keep silent against his palm, the danger sharpening the sensation into something blinding. daryl looked at you, his face a mask of undone, desperate intensity as he neared his limit. "you're... i fuckinâ hate ya," he whispered, the insult breathless and trembling, losing all its venom to the pleasure breaking him while pulling his hand from your mouth.
outside, the frantic clawing against the window frame finally ceased as the walker failed to find leverage through the narrow pane. the shadow shifted, the weight leaving the window as the arm dragged back out through the gap, leaving the remaining glass to give one last, quiet vibration. the shuffling scrape of its boots began to fade, crunching slowly away through the damp leaf litter and back into the wet woods.
"i can tell," you shot back, your voice a broken, triumphant whisper against his ear the second his hand slipped from your lips.
daryl completely fell apart before you, his body tensing into a rigid, trembling line as he spilled himself entirely in his pants. his head buried itself into your neck, a muffled, trembling groan escaping him. as he came down, his body went entirely sensitive, a low, vulnerable whimper escaping his throat as his hips twitched helplessly beneath yours.
the sight of him completely undoneâthe fierce, cold hunter reduced to a panting, sensitive mess under your lapâwas too much. a violent wave of heat crashed through your belly, the intense visual bringing you straight over your own edge, your back arching as a powerful orgasm tore through your core, leaving you shaking against his chest.
for a long minute, the only sound was the uneven rhythm of your breathing fading back into the silence of the barn.
daryl suddenly shoved you off his lap, his movements quick and efficient as he scrambled to his feet. he didn't look at you, his jaw tight and his face averted as he gave his pants a sharp tug, adjusting himself back into the rigid armor of the survivor.
he walked back toward the stalls, reaching down to snatch the dead turkey off the dirt floor by its legs with a tight, angry grip.
âgrab your shit,â he growled, his voice once again short, dismissive, and cold as he turned toward his other belongings. âand let's go.â
SoâŠ
would you ever write something with daryl getting a tattoo of his girl name in his arm or chestđ i just feel that this would be something he would do after realizing reader is truly his and he would totally try to act nonchalant
wait, this is quite literally gold. heâd probably view it more as branding than anything else. quietly devoting himself to her, but marking her as his simultaneously by the ink on his skin. trying to act normal about it too, like it was some spur-of-the-moment decision, even though heâs been thinking about it for some time. itâd probably be an unsanitary stick and poke; regardless, the pain would be grounding for him, and he'd endure it to show his devotion.
my mind is actually foul because it immediately started connecting this to pain play dynamics too. anyways! iâm absolutely adding this to my stories-to-write. mwah.
â permanently yours.
daryl dixon x reader
â¶âŽ tags: prison era, tattooing, devotion, possessive undertones, emotional vulnerability, blood/injury mention, soft daryl, intimacy
wc: 2.3k
the prison washroom was heavy with the smell of damp concrete and old rot. daryl sat on the edge of a rusted bench in the shadows, his back against the cold tile. he had spent the afternoon scavenging the infirmary and the wardenâs old office, pulling together a kit that felt heavy with a history he had tried to leave behind in the woods.
a small motor from an old battery-operated fan, a sharpened guitar string snared from the cafeteria, and a hollowed-out pen casing.
he could still hear merleâs voice, raspy and impatient, echoing from a memory ten years old. âsit still, baby brother. you gotta feel the depth.â merle had learned the craft in a high-security cell in reidsville, scraping soot from burnt boot heels and stropping guitar strings against concrete floors until they were sharp enough to kill. heâd made daryl sit on a milk crate back home, practicing on daryl's skin to make sure the dixon name was carried the right way. a skill passed down like a grim inheritance.
he felt sixteen again, caught doing something stupid and desperate with merle laughing in the background.
daryl leaned toward a cracked, water-stained mirror bolted to the wall. he had to tilt his chin up, stretching the skin over his collarbone until it was taut. he propped his elbow against a heavy porcelain sink to stabilize his hand, the makeshift machine vibrating with a low, mechanical buzz. the needle bit into his skin, a hot, electric line of fire. his jaw ached, his hand trembling slightly from the strain of the awkward angle.
the heavy door to the washroom creaked, a soft shadow falling over the wet floor. daryl froze, the motor still humming between his fingers. he didnât look up, but he could feel you standing there, taking in the blood-streaked rag and the raw, half-finished letters of your own name weeping on his chest.
"daryl," you murmured, your voice a mix of shock and something softer. "what are you doing?"
he cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the distorted reflection. he tried to keep his voice flat, dismissive. "found some parts. merle taught me how to make 'em work back when we was kids. figured i'd put it to use. kill some time."
you stepped further into the room, your eyes tracking the way his arm shook from the effort of holding the machine. he looked exhausted, his neck stiff and his skin pale under the flickering overhead light.
"you can't see what you're doing," you said softly, reaching out to steady his hand. "the angle's all wrong. you're going to butcher it."
daryl grunted, pulling back just an inch. "i got it."
"no, you don't." you reached for the makeshift machine, your fingers brushing against his. "let me. sit down."
he looked at you then, his eyes dark and searching. he let out a jagged breath and sat back on the low bench, leaning his head against the tile. as you took the machine from him, he looked away, his jaw tightening.
"just... don't make it look stupid," he muttered.
you paused, the motor humming in your hand as you looked down at the letters already etched into his skin. "don't make it look stupid? daryl, itâs my name." you looked at him, waiting for an explanation. "why this? why now?"
he didn't answer. he just stared at a crack in the concrete, his shoulders tense.
you didn't start the needle. you clicked the motor off, the sudden silence in the washroom feeling heavier than the noise. you waited, refusing to continue until he looked at you. the quiet stretched between you, thick and expectant, until he finally shifted, his gaze meeting yours with a raw, uncomfortable honesty.
"everything else out there... it just goes," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the sound of the dripping pipes. he gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the cellblocks and fences and the dead world beyond them. "figured i wanted somethin' that stayed. somethin' that was mine."
*too many graves already. too many names that disappeared.*
he looked back down at the floor, his ears tinged red. "somethin' that said i was yours, too. in case... well. just in case."
the weight of it settled in the small room. you didn't say anything more; you didn't need to. you clicked the motor back on, the low hum filling the space again. you knelt between his legs, your knees brushing his, and carefully pressed the needle back into his skin to finish the work heâd started. daryl didn't flinch, his hand coming up to rest tentatively on your knee, finally grounded.
the needle moved in a steady, rhythmic pulse, stitching the last of the ink into the skin over his collarbone. daryl kept his head back, his throat exposed and his eyes squeezed shut, though he wasn't flinching from the pain. the vibration of the motor seemed to settle into his bones, a constant, mechanical hum that drowned out the silence of the prison.
when you finally clicked the motor off for the last time, the silence felt differentâlighter, somehow.
you set the makeshift machine down on the bench and picked up the damp rag, gently dabbing away the excess ink and the small beads of blood. your name was clear now, the dark lines standing out sharp against the pale, irritated skin. it wasn't perfectâthe soot-ink was deep and heavyâbut it looked like it belonged there. like it had always been there, just waiting to be uncovered.
daryl didn't move for a long moment. he stayed leaned back against the tile, his breathing deep and slow. then, he reached up, his rough fingers hovering just an inch away from the fresh ink.
"it's done," you whispered, your hand still resting on his knee.
he finally opened his eyes, looking down at his chest. he didn't say anything, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to bleed away. he let out a long, shaky breath and looked at you, his expression uncharacteristically soft.
"looks alright," he muttered, though the look in his eyes said a lot more than that.
he reached out, his hand sliding from your knee to catch the back of your neck, pulling you forward until your forehead rested against his. his skin was hot, smelling of gin and metal and the outdoors.
"didn't think you'd actually do it," he said, his voice a low vibration against your skin. "figured you'd think i was crazy."
"oh, i do," you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips as you pulled back to look at him. "i like it. mostly 'cause it's my name... and i like being on you."
*the words hit him harder than the needle ever had. hot and sudden, straight through his chest. jesus christ.*
the effect was instantaneous. daryl froze, his hand still resting at the nape of your neck. his eyes widened slightly before he jerked his gaze away, staring intensely at a cracked tile on the wall. a deep, furious red flooded his face, starting at his collar and creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.
he let out a sharp, choked-off soundâsomewhere between a cough and a gruntâand scrambled to his feet. he nearly tripped over his own boots as he stood up, his usual grace completely gone.
"aight, let's get out of here," he muttered, his voice sounding thin and strangled.
he fumbled with his vest, his hands shaking just enough to make the buttons a struggle. he practically yanked the denim over his collarbone to hide the raw ink, his head ducked low so his hair fell over his burning face.
he turned on his heel and headed for the heavy metal door with a stiff, hurried gait, his shoulders hunched nearly to his ears as he tried to outrun the sudden, crushing weight of his own embarrassment.
"daryl," you called out, unable to hide the grin in your voice as you followed him.
"don't," he grunted over his shoulder, his pace never slowing. "come on. it's gettin' late. and theyâre gonna start wonderin' why we're hidin' out in the showers."
he didn't look at you as you reached for his hand, but his fingers clamped down around yours, tight and grounding, as he led you back into the dark hallways of the prison.
My baby fr đ€
