How twd men would react to you pranking them with a fake hickey
(negan smith , rick grimes , daryl dixon)
You hummed softly as you moved around your shared living space, a playful glint dancing in your eyes. Negan was out on a supply run, and the mischievous part of you had decided that today was the perfect day for a little prank. A harmless one, of course, but one that you knew would definitely get a rise out of him.
You’d been with Negan for a while now, navigating the complex landscape of his personality with a mixture of fascination and affection. He was possessive, undeniably so, and fiercely protective. It was a part of him that both thrilled and occasionally exasperated you. You knew his possessiveness stemmed from a deep-seated fear of losing what he held dear, a vulnerability he rarely showed but one you had glimpsed on more than one occasion.
The idea for the prank had come to you during a particularly boring afternoon, flipping through a magazine you'd found tucked away in a forgotten corner of the Sanctuary. A glossy image of a perfectly made-up woman had sparked the thought: a fake hickey. Harmless, a little silly, but guaranteed to send Negan into a controlled, yet visible, frenzy.
Now, armed with makeup brushes and a mischievous plan, you stood in front of the mirror, carefully crafting your masterpiece. You opted for a shade of deep plum, strategically placed on your neck, mimicking the tell-tale signs of a passionate encounter. You blended the edges meticulously, adding subtle variations in color to make it look as realistic as possible. After a few minutes of focused artistry, you stepped back to admire your handiwork. It looked convincingly real.
A wave of nervous excitement washed over you. You knew Negan's reaction would be explosive, at least initially. He would likely go through a whirlwind of emotions, from disbelief to possessive rage, before finally realizing it was a joke. The thought of witnessing that rollercoaster was both thrilling and slightly terrifying.
You busied yourself with other activities, trying to appear nonchalant as you waited for Negan's return. You tidied up the living space, humming softly, and even started reading a well-worn paperback. But beneath the surface, your anticipation was building. You kept glancing at the entrance, listening for the rumble of the trucks returning.
Finally, you heard the tell-tale sound of engines approaching. Your heart leaped into your throat. You took a deep breath, reminding yourself that this was all in good fun. You casually positioned yourself on the couch, making sure the fake hickey was clearly visible.
The door burst open, and Negan strode in, his presence filling the room. He was a force of nature, all booming voice and swagger. He surveyed the room with a proprietary gaze, his eyes lingering on you.
"Honey, I'm home," he announced, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He tossed his bat, Lucille, onto a nearby table with a familiar thud. "Missed me?"
"Of course," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. You offered him a sweet smile.
Negan crossed the room and leaned down to kiss you, his hand gently cupping your cheek. But as he drew closer, his eyes narrowed, focusing on your neck. The playfulness in his expression vanished, replaced by a look of intense scrutiny. The air in the room seemed to crackle with unspoken tension.
He pulled back slightly, his fingers lightly tracing the contours of the fake hickey. You could see the subtle shift in his demeanor, the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. His eyes, usually so full of warmth when directed at you, now held a flicker of something dark and possessive.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice dangerously low, the growl barely contained. It was a question, but it was also a threat.
You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. "What's what, baby?" you asked, feigning innocence.
His grip on your cheek tightened slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a clear message. "Don't play coy with me, sweetheart. You know damn well what I'm talking about."
The possessiveness was radiating off him in waves. You could feel it, a tangible force in the room. He was a man who didn't share, especially not when it came to you.
"I... I don't know," you stammered, trying to keep the laughter from bubbling up. "Maybe it's just a bruise?"
Negan's eyes darkened further. "A bruise? Looks an awful lot like something else to me." He stood up abruptly, pacing the room like a caged animal. "Who was it?" he demanded, his voice laced with a barely suppressed rage. "Tell me who laid their hands on you."
You watched him, a mixture of amusement and apprehension swirling within you. He was exactly as you had predicted, a powder keg ready to explode.
"Negan, calm down," you said, trying to soothe him. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?" he snapped, turning to face you, his eyes burning with intensity. "Enlighten me, because right now, I'm seeing red."
You took a deep breath, deciding it was time to come clean before things escalated further. "It's a prank, Negan," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's just makeup."
The words hung in the air for a moment, and you watched as the storm raging within him slowly began to dissipate. His eyes narrowed, searching your face for any sign of deception.
"Makeup?" he repeated, his voice laced with disbelief.
You nodded, reaching up to wipe away a small portion of the fake hickey with your thumb. You held up your thumb to show him the smudge of plum-colored makeup.
The transformation was remarkable. The tension drained from his body, replaced by a mixture of relief and exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a long, shaky breath.
"Goddammit, (Y/N)," he said, shaking his head. "You scared the living hell out of me."
A smile tugged at your lips. "That was the point," you said, unable to resist teasing him.
He stalked towards you, his eyes still filled with a possessive glint, but now it was tempered with amusement. He reached out and gently cupped your face in his hands.
"You know I can't stand the thought of anyone else touching you," he said, his voice soft, almost vulnerable. "You're mine, (Y/N). Only mine."
"I know, Negan," you replied, your voice equally soft. "And you're mine."
He leaned down and kissed you, a deep, possessive kiss that left no room for doubt. When he finally pulled away, he was breathing heavily.
"You're lucky I love you," he said, his voice husky. "Otherwise, you'd be in serious trouble right now."
"But you do love me," you pointed out, your eyes sparkling with mischief.
He grinned, a wide, genuine grin that always made your heart skip a beat. "Yeah, I do," he admitted. "More than you know."
He pulled you into his arms, holding you close. You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your own, a comforting rhythm that reassured you.
"Don't ever do that again," he murmured into your hair. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"No promises," you teased, snuggling closer to him.
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your body. "You're incorrigible," he said. "But that's why I love you."
And as you stood there, wrapped in his arms, you knew that despite the occasional prank and the ever-present possessiveness, you wouldn't trade your life with Negan for anything. He was a complicated man, a flawed man, but he was your man, and you loved him fiercely.
Inside the modest, but sturdy, house you shared with Rick, the air was thick with a comfortable stillness. The kind that comes after a long day of rebuilding, of securing walls, of simply surviving. Rick was out on patrol, his familiar silhouette a comforting presence on the watchtower earlier, before disappearing into the dense woods surrounding their haven.
A mischievous glint sparkled in your eyes as you examined your handiwork in the small, cracked mirror. A carefully crafted, utterly fake hickey bloomed on your neck, a masterpiece of strategically placed lipstick and artful smudging. It was a silly prank, a playful jab at Rick’s inherent seriousness, and a little test of his possessiveness, a trait he often tried to keep tamped down, but one you secretly found endearing.
You knew Rick. You knew the lines etched on his face held stories of loss and relentless struggle. You knew the weight of leadership pressed down on his broad shoulders. You also knew the fierce, unwavering love that burned beneath that hardened exterior, a love specifically, almost obsessively, directed at you.
The idea had sprung to mind while chatting with Michonne, a shared moment of levity amidst the ever-present grim reality. Michonne, ever the observant friend, had raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Rick's not going to take that lightly," she'd warned, a hint of amusement in her voice.
But that was half the fun, wasn’t it?
You busied yourself preparing dinner, the familiar routine a soothing balm to your anticipation. The scent of simmering stew filled the small house, mingling with the lingering aroma of gunpowder and leather that always clung to Rick. You set the table, the clinking of ceramic plates a small rebellion against the silence. You imagined Rick’s reaction, the initial flash of anger in his eyes, quickly followed by confusion and then, hopefully, amusement.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the yard, when you heard the familiar crunch of boots on gravel. Your heart quickened its pace. Rick was home.
You took a deep breath, smoothed your hair, and plastered on an innocent smile as the door creaked open. Rick stood framed in the doorway, silhouetted against the fading light. He was a portrait of rugged masculinity, his face weathered and worn, his eyes, those intense blue pools, scanning the room with practiced vigilance.
"Hey," you said, your voice a little higher than usual. "Dinner's almost ready."
Rick stepped inside, the scent of the woods clinging to him. He shrugged off his jacket, his movements deliberate, and hung it on the coat rack. He hadn't said a word, but you could feel his gaze on you, assessing, evaluating. It was a habit ingrained by necessity, a constant awareness that never truly left him.
He finally spoke, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "Everything alright?"
"Perfect," you chirped, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. You turned back to the stove, stirring the stew with unnecessary vigor. You could feel his eyes boring into the back of your neck.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the gentle bubbling of the stew. You knew you couldn't prolong the charade much longer.
Finally, Rick moved. He stepped closer, his presence filling the small space. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle tension that always seemed to hum beneath his skin.
He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently turning you to face him. His eyes, usually so open and expressive, were narrowed, focused, almost predatory. The playful smile faltered on your lips.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. He reached out again, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the fake hickey. The touch sent a jolt of unexpected heat through you.
You swallowed hard. "It's… it's nothing."
Rick's jaw tightened. "Don't lie to me." The words were a low growl, a primal warning that sent a thrill of both fear and excitement through you.
You opened your mouth to confess, to reveal the silly prank, but the words caught in your throat. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving, the possessiveness radiating from him palpable. This wasn't the reaction you had anticipated.
"Someone marked you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. The blue of his eyes seemed to darken, to become almost black. You saw a flicker of something dangerous there, something untamed and fiercely protective.
"Rick, it's not what you think," you stammered, finally finding your voice. "It's just…"
He cut you off, his fingers tightening on your arm, not painfully, but with a firm possessiveness that sent another shiver down your spine. "Who was it?"
"No one! It was me," you blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "It was a prank. Lipstick. I swear."
Rick stared at you, his expression unreadable. The tension in his body remained, coiled and ready to spring. You could see the struggle within him, the battle between the hardened leader and the man who loved you with a fierce, unwavering intensity.
He didn't release your arm. He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. "Show me," he whispered, his voice rough.
"Show you?" you repeated, your voice barely audible.
He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Show me how you did it."
And that's how you found yourself, a few minutes later, demonstrating the art of the fake hickey on Rick's neck, your fingers tracing the strong lines of his throat, the faint stubble scratching against your skin. The initial anger in his eyes had slowly dissipated, replaced by a simmering heat.
As you meticulously recreated the mark, you could feel Rick's body relaxing, the tension slowly bleeding away. He let out a long, slow breath, the sound rustling in your hair.
When you were finished, you stepped back, admiring your handiwork. "There," you said, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. "Convinced?"
Rick raised a hand to his neck, his fingers tracing the fake hickey. He looked at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. It was a genuine smile, a rare and precious moment of lightness amidst the darkness.
"Almost," he said, his voice low and suggestive. He reached out, pulling you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. "But I think I need a real one, just to be sure."
And as his lips met yours, you knew that your little prank had backfired in the most delicious way possible. Rick Grimes was a force of nature, a man who loved fiercely and protected relentlessly. And you, you were irrevocably, hopelessly, utterly his. The mark of mischief on your neck might have been fake, but the possessive fire in his kiss was undeniably real. And in that moment, surrounded by the comforting warmth of his embrace, you wouldn't have it any other way. The stew could wait.
You sat there, humming softly, carefully applying another layer of stage makeup to your neck. The small compact mirror reflected your focused expression. Today was the day. You were finally going to pull off the fake hickey prank on Daryl.
It wasn't that you didn't appreciate Daryl's...intensity. You did. His fierce loyalty, the quiet way he cared, the possessive glint in his blue eyes when another man looked at you for too long – it all added up to a potent cocktail of devotion that made you feel cherished, protected, wanted. But sometimes, just sometimes, you wanted to poke the bear, to see the raw, untamed edge that simmered beneath his gruff exterior. And let's be honest, you were also bored. Life in Alexandria had settled into a routine, and you missed the thrill of…well, not zombies, exactly, but maybe a little controlled chaos.
The makeup kit was a lucky find during a scavenging run a few months back. You’d squirreled it away, knowing exactly what you'd use it for eventually. Now, with deft fingers, you blended shades of red, purple, and a touch of blue, creating a convincing replica of a passionate…encounter. You even added a slight swelling effect with some clever contouring. Perfect. It looked real enough to send even the most level-headed person into a spiral. And Daryl? He was not level-headed when it came to you.
You knew you were playing with fire. Daryl's protective nature wasn't just a charming quirk; it was woven into the very fabric of his being, a survival mechanism honed by years of hardship and loss. He guarded what was his with a ferocity that could be both thrilling and, occasionally, a little intimidating. And you were most definitely his.
Taking a deep breath, you headed inside the small house you shared. Daryl was in the kitchen, cleaning his crossbow. The late afternoon light caught the dust motes dancing in the air, illuminating the hard lines of his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He looked every inch the stoic warrior, a man carved from granite and grit.
“Hey,” you said casually, leaning against the doorframe. You made sure the left side of your neck, the side bearing the fake hickey, was clearly visible.
Daryl glanced up, his gaze softening as it landed on you. "Hey yourself." He grunted, returning to his task.
You waited, your heart doing a nervous little tap dance against your ribs. Come on, Daryl. Notice it.
He reassembled the crossbow with practiced ease, then picked up a rag to wipe down the stock. Still nothing.
You shifted your weight, subtly angling your head to give him a better view. "What are you working on?" you asked, feigning nonchalance.
“Crossbow,” he replied, stating the obvious.
Frustration bubbled inside you. Was he blind? Did he just not care? Or was he so secure in your relationship that a little supposed love bite didn't even register? The thought stung more than you cared to admit.
Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. You walked over to him, standing close enough that he couldn't possibly miss it. "Anything interesting happen today?" you asked, your voice a little too bright.
He looked up again, his blue eyes meeting yours. He searched your face, a flicker of something unreadable passing across his features. And then, finally, his gaze dropped to your neck.
The change was instantaneous.
The relaxed lines of his face hardened, his jaw clenched, and the blue in his eyes seemed to darken to a stormy indigo. The hand holding the rag tightened, the knuckles turning white. The air in the small kitchen crackled with a sudden, almost palpable tension.
He didn't say anything, just stared at the fake hickey with an intensity that made you want to simultaneously laugh and run for the hills. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the frantic beat of your own heart.
You swallowed hard. Maybe this had been a mistake.
He finally spoke, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "What…is that?"
You feigned confusion, batting your eyelashes innocently. "What is what?"
His eyes narrowed, his gaze burning into you. "Don't play coy with me. That mark on your neck."
Okay, time to commit. "Oh, this?" you said, touching the spot lightly. "Just…having a little fun."
The muscle in his jaw ticked. "Fun, huh?"
"Yeah," you said, trying to sound breezy, even though you were pretty sure your voice was trembling slightly. "You know, a little…affection."
He dropped the rag on the counter with a thud. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. He stepped closer, invading your personal space, his gaze never leaving the fake hickey. You could smell the familiar scent of leather and woodsmoke clinging to him, a scent that usually comforted you but now felt…threatening.
He reached out, his calloused fingers gently tracing the outline of the mark. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, a mixture of fear and…something else. "Who?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The possessiveness in his voice was a tangible thing, a dark cloud that seemed to fill the room. You knew you should confess, tell him it was a joke, but something held you back. Maybe it was the thrill of the danger, or maybe it was a perverse desire to see just how far he would go.
"Does it matter?" you asked, your voice trembling only a little.
His eyes flashed. "It matters. Tell me."
You hesitated, then took a deep breath. "Maybe I don't want to."
That was it. The match that lit the fuse.
He grabbed your arm, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make it clear you weren't going anywhere. "Don't," he said, his voice a low growl. "Don't do that. Don't make me ask again."
The intensity in his eyes was almost frightening. You saw a glimpse of the wild, untamed Daryl, the man who had survived unimaginable horrors, the man who would do anything to protect what was his. And you were his.
Okay, joke's over. Time to defuse the situation.
"Daryl," you said, your voice softer now, more pleading. "It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?" he demanded, his grip on your arm tightening slightly.
You took another deep breath, preparing to confess. "It's…it's a prank."
His expression didn't change. "A prank?"
"Yeah," you said, forcing a nervous laugh. "I used makeup. It's fake. See?" You reached up and wiped at the mark with your fingers, smearing the carefully applied colors.
The storm in his eyes slowly began to dissipate, replaced by a flicker of confusion, then…relief. He stared at the smeared makeup on your fingers, then back at your neck.
The grip on your arm loosened. He released you, stepping back slightly. He ran a hand through his greasy hair, a gesture of bewildered frustration.
"You…you faked it?" he asked, his voice incredulous.
You nodded, feeling a mixture of relief and sheepishness. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
He stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a slow smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and made your heart skip a beat.
"Damn," he said, shaking his head. "You got me good."
He stepped closer again, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest. "You're lucky I love you, you little shit."
He nuzzled his face into your hair, his breath warm against your scalp. "Don't ever do that again."
But even as he said the words, you could feel the rumble of laughter in his chest. He wasn't angry, not really. Just…possessively relieved.
He tilted your head up, his blue eyes searching yours. "But just so you know," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Next time I give you a hickey, it's gonna be real. And everyone will know you belong to me."
And as he lowered his head to kiss you, you knew he meant every word. The prank had backfired, but somehow, you didn't mind. You had poked the bear, and the bear had reminded you, in no uncertain terms, exactly who was in charge. And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what you wanted all along. Maybe you'd ignited a flame that would burn even stronger between you, and for now, nothing else mattered.
