𝚂𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 (𝚙𝚝. 𝟹) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ˎˊ˗
ᴅᴀʀʏʟ x ɢɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
Part One | Part Two
a/n: god this is so kinky. this one's for the freaks. 🔞 so basically, daryl's late coming back to Hilltop. you nervously track him down, finding him bound to the base of an oak tree. you really like him tied up. he sure as hell likes it too.
tags: established d/s power play, mean dom!Reader, attempting to brat sub!Daryl, handjobs (Daryl receiving), blowjobs (Daryl receiving), bondage kink, overstimulation as punishment, laughing kink, dacryphilia, face slapping, multiple forced orgasms, edging, dirty talk, pet names, Reader is a fucking badass, angst, graphic depictions of violence
wc: 6k
taglist: @annastarcandy, @absolutebimbo-doll, @kitty-grimes, @boondockreedus, @allisterfiend, @staticonrewind, @headknight-oh, @electroniczombieprince, @amethystfawn, @corrodedghosts
Autumn never lingers. It flares up in gold and rust, then leaves itself hollow before you can get used to it.
Right now, the beauty feels like a taunt.
It’d be easier to enjoy if Daryl hadn’t run off without you again.
He’s been doing this more lately. Slipping away the second your attention drifts.
Especially after they lost Rick.
You know how hard it’s been for him. He talks about it all the time. Swears up and down that Rick is alive out there. You’re not so sure yourself, but you quietly support him either way. He’s been leaning on you and Carol a lot lately.
When he’s actually at Hilltop.
You try to go with him on hunts because you worry about him. Everyone worries, but they know better than to comment on it.
You’re more than happy to poke the bear though.
So, you’d told him to wait for you earlier that morning. That he needs someone to go with him, especially if he actually does find Rick out there.
You didn’t pose it as a question, it was a command. Plain and simple.
At first, he was being good for you. Waiting by the gate, arms crossed, weight tipped onto one boot and squinting against the morning sun that slanted across the yard.
He gave you a small nod. Almost patient, like a recognition of what you asked of him.
So you go back to work.
That was your first mistake.
Your hands sank into cold soil beside Aaron as you worked through the last of the harvest. The frost glittered on the leaves of the plant, but the potatoes didn’t seem to mind. You pulled them free one by one, dirt packed under your nails, each one thudding softly into the basket at your side.
Your second mistake was made when Aaron passed you another empty basket. You didn’t think twice about taking it. You’ll fill one last basket, you decided. Then you were going with Daryl.
Dig, pull, toss. Dig, pull, toss.
By the time you looked back up to see Daryl again—
Gone.
You drop your head and let out a loud sigh.
Of course.
You didn’t go after him. Not right away.
Mostly because you were pissed off at him.
That was your third mistake.
You finished helping Aaron with pulling the rest of the harvest, went inside and cleaned up, then finally came to rest on the concrete steps of the front porch with a book.
The sun had already crested in the sky, now beginning to sag into the glow of late afternoon. The sun would be setting soon.
And Daryl still wasn’t back.
Your anxiety coiled tight, regardless of the reassurances you fed yourself.
After trying and failing to read, you let Jesus and Carol know you were going out to bring him back home. Because something about this particular Daryl absence felt different. You hadn’t been able to shake your concern all afternoon.
Hilltop falls quiet behind you, swallowed up by distance and trees.
Out here, the air shifts. Cooler. Damp where the sun hasn’t quite reached. The ground holds onto the night a little longer, soft in places, slick in others. Perfect for tracking.
Accordingly, you find his bootprints immediately.
The impression of his worn soles press into the dirt, cutting a path through fallen leaves that haven’t had time to settle back into shape. He didn’t try to hide it, probably for you.
You gnaw on your lip as you follow him north.
You step into his trail without hesitation, boots fitting into the rhythm he left behind, your stride adjusting until it feels almost natural. Like walking beside him, just half a step out of sync.
The forest deepens the closer you get to the river. You follow his path for a while, until the trees thin into shadow, the light breaking apart into narrow beams that slip down to the forest floor between branches.
The path suddenly veers away from the river and back into the thicket. A slew of other bootprints flood your vision. Pointed toes and a squared heel. Cowboy boots.
Was he ambushed?
“Dammit, Daryl.” The words slip out with a shaky breath, bitten and anxious as you shove a low hanging branch out of your way. It snaps back behind you, scattering a quiet rain of brittle leaves to the ground.
The smell shifts. Less warmth, more earth. Wet soil turned up somewhere ahead, the faint, the sulfurous thread of gunpowder woven into it.
Daryl’s stride changes again.
You see it in the ground, the spacing between his steps stretches, then shortens. One print digs deeper than the others in the wet mud, toe scooping in like he pivoted hard, like something forced him to shift direction fast.
Not wandering anymore.
Reacting.
You follow the shift, your pace picking up just enough to match the story the ground is telling you. A smear of something dark captures your attention and you stop.
Your hand hovers before touching it, already knowing what you’ll find.
Blood.
Fuck.
It’s not dried. Not yet. Still tacky, clinging to the edges of a torn leaf where it’s been dragged across.
You knew something was wrong.
You knew it.
“Daryl…” you mutter to yourself mindlessly, anxiously.
You straighten slowly, unsheathing your knives. You take a deep meditative breath and recall your training with Jesus. The quiet control, the meditative patience he drilled into every movement.
Then another instinct kicks in. Daryl’s training. Rougher, more explosive, like a boxer. Only your hands are closed around steel instead of the padding of boxing gloves.
You sink down carefully and continue on in stealth.
The blood doesn’t stay a smear for long. It gathers. Thickens, dripping down and scattering in uneven streaks across the forest floor, soaking into leaves.
You follow it uphill.
The grass and dirt shifts under your boots, softer where it’s been disturbed, torn up in patches that don’t match the solid rhythm of Daryl’s tracks from before.
You crest a small hill at the start of the incline and spot a body laying still, straight ahead. You rush forward, sighing in relief that it’s not Daryl.
The man lies crumpled, half-turned into the dirt like he tried to crawl and didn’t make it far. But his head, damn.
Caved in. Crushed hard enough that it doesn’t look like a face anymore. Bone collapsed inward like wet plaster. The kind of damage that takes force. Repeated force.
You don’t linger on it.
Your attention diverts, landing on the straight thin line that cuts clean into the dirt and leaves.
Crossbow foothold.
Daryl’s.
He loaded a bolt.
Concern pierces through your ribs, hot and sharp.
You rise in one smooth motion, scanning ahead.
The hill pulls upward, steeper now, the trees thinning just enough to give you fractured glimpses of what waits beyond. The forest floor is churned up worse the farther you look. Leaves ground into the dirt. Drag marks. Signs of a fight that didn’t stay contained.
More blood.
More than one person.
Way more than one person.
So far you’ve counted seven unknown bootprints.
You move forward faster, quicker.
The men that left those prints finally come into view. Dead, like they’ve been thrown there.
One stares up at you blankly with a slit throat. The blood still drips. This was recent.
Very recent.
Another with a bolt through the eye. Then three more, limp and lifeless. Blood is still dripping from wounds. You step over them without slowing, pulse ticking faster now.
Daryl’s tracks don’t stop.
The forest absolutely reeks of iron.
“I said stay still,” a voice barks.
At the top of the ridge.
You quickly crest the ridge, boots sliding in the loose dirt as you prowl and slide behind a tree.
You take a deep breath and peek around it.
There he is.
Daryl sits at the base of an oak tree with rope wrapped several times around the chest, securing him to the trunk. Daryl notices you almost immediately, of course, but he schools his expression.
The last man is kneeling beside him, blade pressed to Daryl’s throat. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to dimple his skin. Daryl’s wrists are bound too, forearms together behind his back.
“You’re gonna tell me exactly where your settlement is,” the man hisses, dragging his knife over his skin. “I’m only askin’ once. You’re gonna spill either way.”
“Fat chance,” Daryl spits, rough, steady, defiant.
The man jerks, frustration flaring. He’s about to—
No. Shit.
You step out of concealment to distract him from his next move.
“Reconsider,” you murmur.
The man spins toward you, eyes wild, and yanks a gun from his belt. He fires—once, twice—but the sound is nothing but a hollow, useless click. Out of bullets.
His jaw tightens, disbelief flaring into rage just before he charges at you, fast, desperate, and sloppy.
Child’s play.
You don’t flinch. Moving quick and precise on instinct. As he throws a punch, you step to the side and sweep your blade along his ribs. You drive it in further to get him to stumble. He curls forward with a shout. You smile, because his momentum carries him directly into your knee as you drive it into his chest.
He coughs, then hits the ground hard with a sad little wheeze. One swift kick sends his knife tumbling through the leaves.
You move before he can recover, driving your blade into his temple with a sharp, clean finish.
In your periphery, the other men—those not hit cleanly—begin to stagger up the ridge, walkers now, drawn to the scent of blood and the noise of the scuffle.
They rise, arms outstretched as they stand and move in your direction.
You tear into the first one once it’s closer. It groans, wet and guttural as you plunge the knife into its forehead, then shove it aside.
You’re already twisting again, knife flashing as you drive it up through the underside of its jaw. The blade punches through rotten bone, grating against the roof of its mouth before it cracks and gives into the brain.
You kick it off your knife, turning just in time to sidestep the third one lumbering toward you. Its fingers snag on your sleeve, as you shove your knife through its temple. It drops like a puppet with its strings cut.
Then the ridge is silent.
You take a deep breath and sheath your blades. You pour water from your canteen over your hands then rub them clean on your handkerchief.
When you finally glance back toward Daryl, you freeze.
His head’s tipped back against the tree, throat bared, sweat glistening there. His chest rises and falls quickly, breathing ragged, but it’s his eyes that stop you. Dark as deep sea, locked on you with a flicker that’s entirely unrelated to his exhaustion.
Moreso related to the obvious tent in his jeans.
You scoff.
Over the past several months, he’s proven to be quite the adrenaline junkie. They almost exclusively mess around after a big fight, or stressful shit like this.
Daryl finally has an easy and comfortable way to let out his energy.
And you get to watch him unravel by your own hand. Or mouth.
Win-win.
You always ‘do inventory’ together down in the cellar. That’s what you call it anyway. It didn’t take the council of leaders very long to figure out exactly what that meant.
Jesus was the first.
He just smiled while ruffling Daryl’s hair by the campfire one night, making him promise that we wouldn't fuck in the food storage area, to keep the mess neatly confined to the prison cells, and to clean up afterward.
Daryl went so red you worried he was having a stroke.
Now, here you are, looking down at him, bloodied and tied to a tree in the forest, and it’s already turned into foreplay.
Daryl’s thighs spread wider now, ropes groaning as he shifts against them, and you don’t miss the way his hips tilt up, just slightly, searching and seeking friction.
Cute.
His left eye is already purpling, eyebrow red and swollen. There’s a fresh split in his bottom lip that gleams when he licks at it.
You crouch in front of him, grinning when his knees twitch like he wants to spread them wider for you.
“You’re especially easy lately,” you hum.
“Fuck you,” he snarls back.
You’re taken aback, but not for long. This never lasts long.
“Oh, you’re gonna brat right now? That’s not very nice of you considering I just saved your life.”
“Untie me, dammit,” he grunts, shifting against the rope.
You stand back up and scan your surroundings. It’s nice that you’re elevated on the hill. You have a clear vantage point up here. And it’s plenty quiet.
So, you turn your attention back to Daryl.
“You’re gettin’ really rusty if that guy got the best of you.”
You kick his legs back together, then promptly settle down onto his hips like it's the easiest thing in the world. You feel the line of his cock press up into your ass, pinned below you with a wild throb.
Daryl coughs out a groan and ruts his hips up. Those blue eyes look up at you like you’re his reckoning.
You are, after all.
“I told you to wait for me.”
“Didn’t wanna wait.”
“Clearly.”
“Untie me.”
“Not yet,” you hum. “First, I wanna know how you got yourself into this mess.”
“They came outta nowhere. Ambushed—” He hisses when you wiggle your hips down on him. “Fuck—Can I just tell you later?”
You sigh. “The details, yeah. But I gotta know how you ended up tied.”
"Got the drop on me." He jerks his chin toward the last man you’d put down. "He got a good swing on me. Knocked me out."
You look at the swollen red bloom on the side of his eyebrow and press your thumb to it, hard.
He winces and whips his head away with a sharp grunt. “Shit, quit it.”
You grind down on his hips, just to be a little cruel. He hisses and bucks up into you, moving as much as he can while bound.
You actually laugh at him. Mean.
You love it when he tries to be defiant with you.
Daryl bristles instantly. “What?”
“You’re just pathetic.”
“Fuck you,” he snaps. But it falters halfway through. His thighs shift anyway, spreading without permission, like his body’s already made the decision for him.
You settle even heavier on his cock, sliding back into that space and filling it with a deliberate grind.
“I saved your life,” you say, voice low, steady.
“Yeah?” he shoots back, clinging to the attitude like it’ll actually hold this time. “You want a fuckin’ cookie?”
Your hand comes up fast.
You grab his chin, fingers digging in just enough to force his head to move where you want it. His teeth click faintly with the movement, breath catching hard in his throat.
Daryl goes still.
“What I want,” you murmur, leaning in close enough that he has to feel it, “is for you to say thank you.”
You turn his head, exposing his neck. Holding him in place as you drag your teeth up the side of his throat.
Daryl tries to keep up the defiant act. He really does.
You see it in the way he gnaws his lip, the way his brows knit like he’s reaching for that stubborn edge again. Like he wants to snap back, wants to keep some piece of himself out of your hands.
“T-Thank you,” he blurts instead, rough, uneven. Struggling to form the words with your hold on his chin.
Not good enough.
Your grip tightens, just a fraction. He winces.
“What’s the matter? All you have to do is say thank you.”
His breath stutters. His head tips back against the tree, tension cracking straight down the middle.
“Fuck—” it breaks out of him, softer now, slipping. “Thank you—”
There it is.
Messy. Dragged out of him.
“Thank you,” he repeats, quieter this time, like he hates how easily he comes apart in your hands.
“Keep going,” you command, gripping his chin and shaking him around, just to be mean.
“Fuck, thank you, thank you—” His voice loses that growl and climbs into this breathy little moan when you grind down on him again. “Thank you for savin’ my life,” he breathes.
Wow.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide despite the afternoon sun filtering through the trees, landing on his face in bright shivering blotches.
You shift your weight just so, pressing down harder where he’s straining against his jeans, and the noise he makes is downright filthy. Half-groan, half-whine, choked off like he’s ashamed of it.
But his hips jerk up anyway, chasing the friction.
You smile. “Can’t help yourself, huh?”
You release your hold on his chin and focus instead on grinding, working him up, kissing on his neck and jaw.
"Shit," he gasps, head knocking back against the tree. His throat bobs against your nose. "C’mon—"
“No, you c’mon. Where’d all that gratitude go, huh?”
You keep rocking against him, slower this time, dragging it out just to watch him squirm. The rough seams of his jeans rub against you just right. It’s addicting, especially when his breath hitches like that.
His cock twitches under you, hot and heavy even through the layers.
"Thank you," he blurts, voice ragged. "Thank you, fuck—thank you—"
You pull away from his neck and grin at him, slow and wicked. His breath catches when you roll your hips just so. Deliberately off-center, teasing.
Daryl’s teeth dig into his lower lip, splitting the scab there. Fresh blood beads, and you lean in to lick it away before he can, humming at the copper tang. He exhales sharp through his nose, hips stuttering up against you.
“Quit teasin’,” he growls, but his thighs tremble when you shift your weight, pressing him deeper into the tree. The bark scrapes against his back, and you don’t miss the way his cock jumps at the pain.
“That doesn't sound like thank you.” You rock against him in earnest. “You better be good, Dixon.”
He makes a noise like you’ve punched him, head thumping back against the tree. “Fuck—”
His hips jerk, uncontrolled, and you laugh, low and mean.
“Shut up,” he snarls with a wrecked, breathless edge.
You hate it when he says that.
And he knows that.
The sound cracks through the clearing before you’ve even consciously decided to do it. Your palm stinging against his cheek, sharp enough to snap his head to the side. Daryl’s breath punches out of him—
"Thank you," he moans, voice scraped raw, and fuck if that doesn’t practically slap you right back. Daryl's eyelashes flutter, lips parted around the words like he can’t stop them. “Thank you.”
“That’s more like it.”
The next slap doesn’t just turn his head, it whips sideways. His cheek blooms red under your palm, and the noise he makes is fucking delicious, a punched-out groan that dissolves into another choked thank you.
You lift yourself off his hips and step back between his legs, savoring the way he whimpers when your weight leaves him. His thighs twitch, knees coming together around your legs like he’s trying to get you to come back.
The ropes hold his body stubbornly in place.
You kneel between his legs instead, fingers tracing idle patterns along the strained denim. His cock jumps against your palm the second it settles down.
“I told you not to leave without me this morning,” you murmur. “And you did the exact opposite.”
“I know—shit—’m sorry.”
You click your tongue, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. "Gotta correct that behavior, don’t I?”
Daryl’s breath comes in ragged bursts paired with these cute little whimpers. He twists against the ropes, restless, needing something to grip, but nothing is there. Nothing he can reach.
You don’t know how you hadn’t considered bondage until just now.
You lift your hand away from his groin and his hips jerk up, chasing your touch. “Wait—fuck—” His voice cracks, knees knocking together against your arms, as if that gets him closer to your hand. “No—don’t stop, no—” The words tumble out in a rush, half-desperate, half-embarrassed, and you see the flush crawling upward on his neck.
“No, or don’t stop?” you taunt, tilting your head, hand hovering just out of his range. You watch him squirm. “Make up your mind, Dixon.”
“Don’t—ah—stop.” The last word comes out strangled when you drag your palm up the length of him again, slow enough to make his thighs tremble on either side of you.
“Please,” he adds, quieter, wheezing out of him.
The moment he pleads like that, you see red. Your restraint was already running thin.
He just knocked it loose.
"If you want more…," you lean in close, eyes locked on his lips, murmuring, "I need you to beg prettier."
Daryl doesn't hesitate. His hips jerk up into your touch, a ragged "Shit—please, please—" tumbling out of him like it’s been ripped from his chest.
“That’s it.” You slowly drive with the heel of your palm along him, root to tip. His whole body seizes with it. "Good boy," you purr.
“No, no, no— wait, stop—”
Daryl makes a choked-off noise, and his hips stutter against your hand.
Then he’s coming. His cock pulses in his jeans as he spills into them with a broken gasp. His thighs tremble and lock up, legs kicking out as he tries and fails to keep still.
The look on his face—scared eyes locked on his crotch, lip split and dripping blood down his chin, cheeks flushed— it all tells you he didn’t mean to come.
Especially not without permission.
“Poor thing. You’re just breaking rules left and right today.”
"Fuck," he rasps, breathless, shoulders slumping back against the tree, drained. "Didn’t mean to. I—"
You drag your hand upward along him again. He lets out a strangled sound, hips jerking away from your touch, oversensitive.
You click your tongue, fingers tracing the damp spot spreading through his jeans. "You like being tied up a little too much. Couldn’t hold it anymore, huh?"
He gnaws on his lip, embarrassed. His hips twitch and turn weakly like he’s trying to hide the mess even though it’s already been made.
You don’t let him.
Your fingers curl into the waist of his jeans and pull him forward as much as you can. Before he can shift away, you tug sharply at the leather straps of his belt.
“Nah, don’t,” he grunts out, surprised, when you undo the buckle with one hand, the other pressing flat against his stomach to keep him still.
The button pops open too easily. His zipper rasps as you drag it down, and Daryl’s whole body tenses like he’s bracing for impact. His breath comes quick and shallow, chest rising fast under the ropes.
You hum, dragging the waistband of his boxers down.
Well, it’s more like peeling them down.
"Damn," you mutter. “You really made a mess, huh?”
Daryl turns his head to the side like it’ll hide his shame.
You gently wrap your hand around him, slick with his spend, and Daryl makes a sad broken noise and his hips jerk. Not into your grip, but away, muscles straining against the ropes as he tries to twist out of reach. “Dammit, quit. Shit’s sensitive. I just came.”
“Oh, I know. But I won’t be stopping.”
“Please, don’t. Ain’t fair.” He gives you that begging look, but his expression starts to drop when he tracks the movement of your hand. “Nah, not when I’m tied up.”
“No, no. Especially,” you correct him, “when you’re tied up.”
“Ain’t fair.”
“Again, I know. Punishments aren’t very fair.”
The way his cock jumps in your palm tells a different story than the one he’s failing to speak. Already half-hard again like his body hasn’t gotten the memo that he climbed that hill already.
“Fuck—please—” His voice cracks, ragged, but his thighs tremble when you stroke him slow, thumb swirling over the head just to watch his stomach clench. “Goddammit—!”
You don’t stop.
Don’t plan on stopping for a while actually.
You tighten your grip instead, twisting your wrist on the upstroke the way you know he likes, and Daryl’s whole body locks up like your hands are a live current. The cords of muscle in his neck stand out, and his shoulders scratch against the tree.
His cock jerks in your hand, rock hard all over again.
“You’re too easy,” you laugh.
Your grip tightens around his cock just to hear him gasp. Daryl writhes away from your hand wildly, but you don’t let up, stroking him faster now, thumb pressing just under the head.
“That’s the spot,” you hum with a quiet chuckle. “Right there, huh? Bet it feels really good right now.”
“Nah it’s—fuck—hurts—” He lets out this sad little sob, and for a second you think he might actually scream, but he catches himself at the last second, teeth sinking into his bottom lip hard enough to draw fresh blood from it all over again. “Quit—”
“No.”
Daryl’s a blubbering mess, curses and pleas to stop tripping over each other in a frantic contradiction to how hard he is already.
"Nah, please—fuck—stop—" as his hips jerk between your grip and the ropes binding him. His breath comes in ragged bursts, lips slick with blood from the split. You twist your wrist just to watch his thighs tremble, and he hisses in through his teeth, head thudding back against the tree. "Okay, I get it, I get it. I’m sorry—Please."
His voice is raw, wrecked, syllables slurring into each other.
You don’t give him the luxury of choice.
Your thumb drags rough and focused on the underside of the head, then across the slit, smearing precum down the length of him.
Daryl’s whole body locks up like it always does when he gets close. His shoulders strain against the ropes, a broken "Ah—ah—" punched out of him with every focused drag of your thumb.
His hips aren’t fleeing anymore. Rutting up into your fist, even while he begs you to stop.
"Can’t even decide what you want." You smile and lean in so close your breath ghosts his face. He stares at you through heavy-lidded eyes. "Good thing I decide for you, huh?"
Daryl snarls, hips bucking erratically. Into your hand, away from it.
You tsk, slowing your strokes just to watch his brows furrow in confusion.
"Nah—fuck—don’t do that t’me—" he rasps, voice scraping against the words.
You slow your strokes to a torturous crawl, fingers barely brushing him. Daryl's hips jerk, a ragged noise tearing from his throat when you deliberately pull away from the upstroke he's chasing.
You hum, circling the base with your fingers tightly to hold him right on the edge.
"Wish you could see yourself," you murmur, hand limp around him now.
You tighten your grip gracelessly, pulling up in a firm stroke. He chokes.
"Bet your cock was hard the second they got rope around you."
Daryl's head snaps back, teeth gritted. "Fuck you," he growls.
You laugh, low and cruel, and stop stroking again. "Still trying to brat, sweetheart?"
You let the heat of your palm linger against him. Daryl's hips jerk instinctively against your fingers, chasing that firm friction that isn't there anymore.
The noise he makes is downright pitiful.
"Please," he rasps, ragged. "I'm sorry, aight? God—fuck—"
You don't move. Just watch him unravel, the way his thighs tremble when he tries to rut up into your grip and finds nothing but your palm, limply resting on his cock.
Daryl goes still altogether, chest heaving. He locks eyes with you and his brow furrows, head falling back against the tree behind him.
"Please," he begs softly. “Please, keep touchin’ me. I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you.”
The moment that sinks in, you stop teasing.
“Good boy.”
Your fingers tighten around him, stroking fast and rough without preamble. No warning. No mercy. Just the column of your fist dragging around the length of him, twisting at the head in that way that makes his thighs lock up.
Daryl quakes, watching you touch him, rutting up to meet it.
“Yeah, there it is,” you hum.
His breath hitches, sharp and sudden, and then he’s coming with a broken noise, hips grinding against your grip as he spills over his stomach with a few thick, uneven spurts.
His legs tremble violently, knees lifting like he’s trying to close them, but you’re between them. His cock twitches weakly in your hand, still pulsing even as his breath comes in ragged, punched-out gasps.
And you don’t stop.
Your fingers drag through the mess on his stomach, smearing it back down over him as you stroke him slow and deliberate through the aftershocks.
Daryl makes a wounded sound, hips trying to angle away. “Fuuuckk,” he groans, breathless. “Can’t do it again.”
“You can, and you will. Because I say so.”
His cock jumps in your grip, still hard, still leaking, and you don’t let up, twisting your wrist just to watch him hiss and curse.
“Still hard?” you murmur, thumbing over the head. “Damn. Greedy today, huh?”
Daryl’s head knocks back against the tree, teeth gritted, boots kicking around. His wrists twist against the bindings, but they hold true.
Right where you want him.
You lean forward, smiling in his face. “I’m gonna make you cry, Dixon.”
Daryl actually gulps. “Nah,” he rasps, voice gravel. “C’mon, you got two outta me—”
“Let’s try for three.”
You tighten your grip, twisting hard on the upstroke, and Daryl sobs.
It takes another stroke to realize that he’s not actually sobbing.
He’s laughing.
Damn.
Oh, he’s so overstimulated.
It starts as a choked-off gasp, something wild and breathless, bubbling up from his chest like he can’t hold it back.
Then it breaks loose, rough and jagged, spilling out of him in bursts between whimpers and moans as you keep stroking him. His hips jerk away erratically, legs lashing and twisting and bumping into you where they bracket you.
His voice cracks, laughter dipping into a shaky, breathy moan when your thumb circles the head. His head thrashes side to side. Then he’s laughing so hard that no sound comes out.
You grip his cock with one hand, the other presses down with your palm against the head, swirling in tight, fast circles just the way he hates. Loves?
Oh.
No, he hates this.
If the way his whole body starts to give you a real fight is any indication.
Daryl sounds like a wounded animal, half-laughing, half-whimpering. His legs kick out, heels digging into the dirt, hips bucking up, down, to the side, every possible attempt at getting away until you push his hip into the forest floor and still him.
He still tries, so hard.
“You’re pitiful,” you chuckle. He tries with all he has left to curl away from you.
"Fuck, fuck, pleasequitpleaseplease—" His voice cracks, syllables fracturing as your palm rubs relentless over the head.
His cock leaks fresh precome that slicks your palm, getting that friction wet and smooth again.
The laughter comes out now like he’s not in control of it, and you drink it up.
He has no control at all.
The grimace on his face is nothing if not delicious.
The laughter dies in his throat, catching somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
Then before you know it, he’s crying. Real tears, hot and messy, streaking down his flushed cheeks.
“Ohh, sweet boy,” you hum tenderly, even as your touch is anything but tender.
"Quit—fuck—p-please—" His voice cracks, syllables fracturing.
His legs tremble violently on either side of you, knees coming together and shoving at your shoulders, like he’s trying to push you back.
It almost works until you shrug him off and move closer, where he’s firmly tethered to that tree. His cock jumps weakly in your grip, oversensitive and spent, but you don’t let up.
"You know what to say if it's too much," you state plainly.
Daryl doesn’t answer.
His lips move, shaping please, please, please but no safeword comes out, just these pathetic little broken gasps as tears carve tracks through the dirt and blood on his face.
His body thrusts and shoves, muscles straining, heels digging into the leaf-litter like he’s trying to push himself backward through the tree now.
You lean in, tongue tracing the split in his lower lip before dipping lower, past the stubble of his jaw, the frantic pulse of his throat, then you kiss a fast line down to where his cock twitches in your hand.
"Don't—no," he whimpers.
The first lick has him jerking violently, ropes groaning as his hips buck. His cock bumps your nose when he squirms.
Daryl just whines, “God, fuck—fuck—"
It dissolves into a broken noise when you wrap your lips around the head of his cock and take him deep, back against your throat and swallowing to get beyond. You gag and choke, lean back and spit on his shaft, then go back down on him.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he cries.
His voice cracks, raw and desperate as you bob your head. Slow at first, then fast, twisting your wrist where you can’t quite fit him all the way in.
The sound he makes when you gag around him again is filthy—a choked-off whimper that dissolves into a full-body shudder. You pull back just enough to breathe, spit-slick and swimmy-eyed before sinking down again, swallowing him into the wet heat of your throat.
Daryl’s crying in earnest now, tears dripping off his chin, mixing with the sweat and blood on the front of his shirt. But his cock stays buried in your mouth, twitching and leaking, and you don’t let up, humming around him just to hear him sob.
"Can’t—shit, I can’t—"
Dammit.
You pull off and lick a line up the shaft, scowling at him, but there’s no heat in it. “You will,” you order. “And you’ll come down my throat.”
“Seriously, I can’t—”
You lift and slap him across the face, smiling at the way his head snaps sideways, followed by a sharp sob.
Another slap and you recognize how he’s tensing after it.
Shit.
He’s close.
Daryl turns to look at you just as you slap him across the face yet again, the other side. His tear-streaked cheeks make it sting, but he just moans.
As you move back down his body, his breath starts punching out of him.
Daryl gasps. “I’m—”
You sink back down on his cock, and he twitches against your tongue.
Once.
Twice.
Then he’s coming again. If you weren’t so goddamn familiar with how he feels when he climaxes, you might not have even noticed.
There’s barely anything left in him. Just a few weak pulses, his stomach clenching like he’s trying to force something out that isn’t there. He laugh-sobs, uneven and breathless, tired eyes locked on you.
You suck him through it, and a little beyond just to feel him start to squirm again.
You could do this all day.
Daryl's hips rut forward weakly. Not chasing it now, not even trying to get away, just twitching like a dying thing, exhausted and spent.
You finally let go of him. His thighs twitch, heels buried in the dirt.
Settling back on your haunches, you admire the wreckage. The ropes digging into his coat, the ruined mess where his jeans hang open, his dick laying against his upper thigh, still twitching weakly in the aftershocks.
His chest heaves, exhaling a loud shaky breath.
"That might be the single hottest thing we’ve ever done," you murmur, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
Daryl flinches when you drop your hand to your thigh to rest it.
Oh?
His eyes track the movement of your hand like he's already conditioned to expect you to touch him again. Pride swells in your chest.
You grin, leaning forward to press a long, firm kiss to his cheek.
"You're insane," he rasps, voice shredded. His head lolls against the tree, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead.
You hum. "Bet you learned your lesson though."
Thanks for reading, you freaky freak. Comments are always appreciated, too 🖤
Part One | Part Two
