I know I haven't been active in a loooong time, but I am invested in writing my own fantasy novel. I'd love to share some of it with you so... here you go. Let me know what you think <3
“Your ego surpasses your height, Hunter,” she remarked, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Old witches always say that a man’s big ego makes up for deficiencies in other...” She paused, turning her head to assess his silhouette from head to toe, “areas.”
She half-smiled as a quiet growl of annoyance escaped from his throat. Provoking him might not have been the smartest move on her part; after all, he had a sword, and she was still bound with chains on her hands, but he was so easy to provoke that she couldn’t resist the temptation. She couldn’t help but smirk as she watched the muscle in his jaw twitch nervously. He clenched it so hard that, if not for the nearby rushing stream, she might have heard his teeth grind.
“You know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Each of us has our own complexes. You should work on them–“
His hand shot forward too quickly for Lilithya to react in any way. She didn’t even get a chance to finish her sentence; it hung in the air, caught between their heavy breaths. His fingers tangled in her hair and painfully gripped just at the base of her neck, pulling her downward. With brutal force, he tilted her head back, as if the height difference wasn't enough, and he needed to tower over her even more. As if he had to prove his dominance through violence. His dark, bottomless eyes seemed to pierce through her soul, stripping her layer by layer as he leaned in so close she could feel his warm breath on her nose. It was clear he wanted to break her, but deep inside her, a fiery warrior spirit still flickered. Even in the face of his cold, dark gaze, her fire remained untamed, even if temporarily chained, hidden at the very bottom of her consciousness.
Her chest heaved with desperate rhythm as the witch fought to steady her breath, every primal instinct clamouring to tear free from the predator's merciless grip. This wasn't the first time Ephraim had invaded her personal space without hesitation, pushing through as if it belonged to him exclusively. Thya was so accustomed to this pattern that over time it no longer shocked her as much as it once did. It no longer frightened her to her very core. She did not tremble with fear, feeling his fist tighten in her hair. She didn't even gasp when the burning pain temporarily robbed her of her ability to think rationally. Her light-blue, almost-silver eyes glimmered with restrained tears as she looked at him with a calm that was truly admirable. A calmness into which she poured all her remaining inner strength.
“Be careful, Hunter,” she whispered, observing him as if he were an intriguing experiment she planned to analyse; as if she genuinely wanted to see his reaction so she could analyse it afterwards. “If you keep pulling my hair, I might start to like it eventually, and I doubt you could handle that.”
Maybe it was just the flicker of the fire or of the dim light, but Lilithya thought she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes. However, it vanished just as quickly, and she wondered if she had imagined it. Since they met, Hunter had not once given her even a half-smile. His expression had ranged from boredom to irritation and disapproval, but never a hint of joy.
“Be careful, Little Spark,” he muttered, leaning closer over her, his breath brushing her cheek. It carried a hint of mint leaves and tobacco, a teasing yet oddly soothing scent that seemed to swirl her senses. “I’d be happy to prove to you I can handle many things.”
To emphasise his point, he clenched his fist tighter, causing her vision to whiten with pain. A quiet moan escaped her lips, dissolving into the small gap between their faces, and his mouth curved into a smug smile. She felt like wiping that devilish grimace off with her fist.
“Pretty,” he whispered, tilting his head and watching her lips with a predator's gaze. “But I’d prefer it louder,” he added, gripping her chin with the fingertips of his other hand. Clearly reveling in her discomfort, his masculine ego probably fed by her helplessness—standing there at his mercy, unable to do anything but wait for his next move. “Well, maybe skip the talk next time; I’d appreciate that more."
“Free me from the shackles and say that again,” she sneered, a muffled laugh escaping his throat, though it didn’t reach his eyes. It was a shadow of joy, a fleeting echo vanishing among the trees.
“I’m not that easy, Little Spark.”
He freed her hair from his fingers, but before she could step back, he grabbed the chain linking her cuffs and yanked her toward him so forcefully she fell onto his chest. Her cheek grazed his sternum, and she let out a quiet gasp. She couldn’t support herself with her hands. His body was as unyielding and massive as a tree, making her ears ring from the impact.
“Remember,” he whispered into her ear, leaning over her, “I’m the only one who can get you back home.” His tone turned cold again, unreadable and unyielding. This time, Lilithya shivered under his dominance, but was it fear alone? A painful tightness gripped her lower abdomen as his proximity seeped through her clothes and settled on her skin like sticky fog. A shiver traced her neck. “Do you understand, Little Spark?”
She hated being called that—derisively, mockingly—as if she were just a small fragment of this twisted reality. As if her power was insignificant compared to what his eyes had seen so far. If her hands weren’t shackled, she’d knock him down with a single impulse. But the Hunter was right—he was the only one who could lead her back to Seraphel. Her brief submission was solely driven by a desperate need to reunite with her loved ones, nothing more. If not for that...
Her teeth clenched so tightly that they grated, as this man shattered her rationality and cold indifference—things instilled since childhood—like a house of cards in a gentle breeze. A single word, gesture, or look from him and her usually composed facade would collapse into rubble and dust, and she hated him, herself, the system, and the world for it.
“You’re probably most tolerable when silent,” he said as she leaned back to meet his gaze and create some distance that was prompting her to tilt her head so far back that her neck cracked.
“I’ll rip out your tongue, fry it, and shove it down your throat so deep you’ll choke,” she whispered, trying to stay calm and composed. Her heart pounded chaotically in her chest, so loud she suspected he might hear or even feel it, especially since their bodies remained mostly in contact.
“I can’t forbid you from dreaming,” he whispered. Before taking a step back to give her space to breathe, he finally left her violated comfort zone and winked at her. She wanted to attack him with her fists, but she knew she wouldn’t reach him before he immobilised her—and she wasn’t in the mood for another close encounter. One night was enough. Even lying on a makeshift bed as far from him as possible, she could still sense his scent. His warmth felt like he was beside her, a ghostly sensation that pressed heavily on her chest, making it impossible to close her eyes. A multitude of thoughts raced through her mind, and before she could focus enough to drift asleep, the sky above shifted to purple, and the Hunter, seemingly without a problem, opened his eyes.
Daryl didn’t know softness until you came into his life, like a warm breeze in the middle of spring, bringing the scent of violets and apple pie along with you. Intoxicating his scents. Overwhelming his consciousness. Dragging out something buried deep beneath his tough surface.
Author's note:
Welcome back, my beautiful people <3 I'm sorry for such long period of silence but I've got a lot on my plate right now. However, I was able to write and post for you the first chapter. I know I was supposed to post it on Valentine’s Day but this Friday 13th is so fucked up I need to cheer myself up. And maybe some of you as well. So… there you go, enjoy!
It may seem chaotic but that's okay. It's on purpose.
╰⪼ Daryl Dixon x fem!reader / Alexandria
╰⪼ Word Count: 3,8 k
╰⪼ Warnings: intruisive and obsessive thoughts; masturbation
╰⪼ Masterlist / Sickening Desire / Prolog
"Oh, Father, please, please forgive all my sins. The water is way too deep, the deep end is where I live."
— Runrunrun by Dutch Melrose
Your smile evokes something in him that, until now, he though he’s not even able to feel. His heart has never beaten so fast when there was no danger. Adrenaline has never flowed through his veins so quickly, unless he was running for his life, killing walkers and bad guys. But there is no danger here. Not within these walls. His body doesn't need to remain in a state of readiness to fight or flee, but every time he catches himself looking in your direction, his insides do a backflip and the blood hums louder in his ears. The curve of your cherry lips catches his attention whenever you stretch them into that soft smile of yours, which suddenly makes him question his entire belief system, and all he wants is to get one step closer to you each time. Because you are different and you pique his curiosity. You caught his interest as soon as you walked into his shared home this morning, with your honeyed voice full of joy and laughter, carrying with you the scent of apple pie and violets. The scent enveloped him like a cozy scarf, and he's not even sure he ever wants to take it off.
It all started with a gentle knock on the front door, mixed with the distinctive smell of something sweet and warm, like freshly baked cake, so out of place in the world of the apocalypse. But the smell was there, it was real, and it distracted him from whatever it was that he was doing with his crossbow. Perhaps he was polishing it.
Knock, knock, knock, knock.
Daryl's calloused fingers grasped his favourite weapon with surprising delicacy, as if it were not a deadly thing, but rather a delicate instrument on which he intended to play the sweetest melody. He got up from his chair and walked slowly, step by step, but not toward the door. He left that to Carol and even Rick—people much more reliable in social situations. His attention was drawn to the open window in the living room. The thin curtains moved slightly in the gentle morning breeze, and as he got closer, his nose detected the same sweet smell he had sensed a few seconds ago. It penetrated the fabric easily, as if it were no obstacle, and spread throughout the living room, settling on every surface in its path. He frowned, leaning his shoulder against the window frame and looking outside, his hunter's eyes carefully scanning the surroundings. From this perspective, the porch was barely visible, he couldn't make out the silhouette of the person standing there, but he could definitely smell a mix of apples, cake, and violets. This made him cautious, but also somewhat curious. He wanted to lean out further, but at that moment Carol approached the door and opened it, forcing the morning intruder to speak up. A moment later, your honeyed voice reached him for the first time, creeping over his body and enveloping him like a heavy blanket that stuck to his skin. One second he was himself, and the next something inside him flipped. An unfamiliar feeling. Warmth spread across his face, and he pricked up his ears, listening. He told himself it was just self-preservation, that he was being cautious, as always, protecting his friends and family. Because he didn't know you. Definitely. He had never heard your sweet voice before. He knew he would have remembered it. Maybe he had seen you somewhere in the last few days, he would have had to look at your face to be sure, but that melodious tone... No, he definitely didn't recognize it.
“I don't want to bother you, I just wanted to welcome you to the town,” you said, and normally such openness and enthusiasm from a stranger would annoy him, but he couldn't help feeling that it was... nice. Just... nice.
A spark of curiosity appeared in his brain, stimulating his nervous system, which he should have suppressed immediately, but since you had already entered his home, he should at least see your face, right? To know who you were. To recognize you in case of an emergency. He didn't know your intentions. Maybe this nice and sweet facade was just a game, a mask that would eventually fall. Because Daryl's instincts were never wrong, and when he heard you admit that you lived only two houses away, he knew something was wrong with you. Who shares such details with strangers? What if they were not good people? You're putting yourself in danger.
He felt anxiety wash over him, goosebumps appearing on his skin with every word you spoke. He could feel it in the air, filled with a mix of so many scents that it began to irritate him, he could practically taste the apple and vanilla on his tongue. It was sweet. It was tempting. It could be addictive. And most likely, it was fake. No, it definitely wasn't nice. He changed his mind. It was fake. It had to be.
Fake, fake, fake, fake.
He took a slow, deliberate breath and moved from the window toward the hall but stopped just around the corner where no one could see him. He knew that if he dared to take even one step outside the room, Carol would drag him into the kitchen for some big and unnecessary introductions, and he wasn't ready for that. In fact, he didn't want to meet any of the people who lived here. This town, this community... It was all supposed to be a dream, but somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was trapped. Locked in a cage. Like an animal in a fucking zoo. Meeting all these people wouldn't help him. Leaning against the wall, he listened to the conversation between you and his friend. There was a broad smile in your voice. You must be a very cheerful person. He frowned. He doesn't like cheerful people. They annoy him. Usually. But there was something in your voice that made him want to keep listening, even though you hadn't said anything important. It was just a normal neighbourly conversation. You wanted to welcome them not only in the town, but also in the neighbourhood. You brought them homemade apple pie — he recognized the smell, which made his mouth water. He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten cake, and that thought almost made him take a step to reveal his presence, but he stopped himself. He certainly wasn't going to join anyone in the kitchen yet. Not while you were still at home. He doesn’t like strangers, and unknown women scare him even more. That's why he just listened, telling himself that he wasn't interested in you at all. He just wanted to know when you would leave, so he stood still, leaning on the wall with one hand, his ears pricked so as not to miss the door closing. But there was something... strange. He felt strange. Different. The sound of your voice was somehow hypnotic, delicate, but at the same time strong, soft as a feather touch. It made him want to listen carefully to your every word.
When you approached the door, he discreetly peeked out from behind the corner and saw your silhouette disappear on the porch. He couldn't see much, but enough to recognize you later when Carol forced him to attend a small gathering at Deanna’s house. He didn't want to go. He didn't like that kind of thing. He felt uncomfortable under all those curious glances, but he promised he would at least try a little for the group. For his family.
He heard you before he had a chance to get a good look at you. Your sweet, melodious voice made him turn his head in your direction as soon as it reached his ears, and when his gaze fell on you, he was sure that you were the morning intruder who had disturbed his peace.
And now he stands here like an idiot, feeling completely out of place and trying not to look. Don't stare. Why would he do that? He doesn't know you and knows nothing about you, except maybe that when you smile, little wrinkles appear at the corners of your eyes. He can't help but notice this small detail, even from across the room. You're talking to a few people, radiating warmth and kindness like rays of sunshine on a cloudy day. He notices it by accident, only because he happens to look at you right at the moment your mouth stretches into one of the brightest smiles he's ever seen. Nothing more.
He follows Carol like a lost puppy, relying on her to strike up a conversation while he stands quietly beside her, but wherever he goes, your presence somehow follows him. Are you some kind of a witch or something? It's not normal, it's not good, and it makes him shift his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He doesn't feel like himself. Why are his eyes trying to find you in a crowd of unfamiliar faces? Why are his hands suddenly itchy and sweaty? He wants to leave badly, but he will never break a promise he made. Rick is counting on him, and besides, Carol would track him down and drag him back home by his hair if he set foot outside the door.
“Hi, I'm glad you came.”
He almost spills his water when he sees you approaching. There's something about the way you move, so effortless, as if you're floating above the floor. Your hips sway with every step. Not that he's looking at your hips. He just glanced over, like he would at any other woman, right? Except... Daryl has never looked at any other woman that way. He never pays attention to the curves of their hips or thighs.
He lets out a grunt, looking away as if the sight of you burns him, and Carol nudges him in the ribs with her elbow.
“Don't mind him,” she says, trying not to scold him openly in front of you, but you can tell she really wants to. “He's just grumpy.”
He expects you to roll your eyes or comment that he should relax and talk to people. Or maybe ignore his existence completely, which would be the best solution in this situation, but you don't. No, instead, you almost give him a heart attack by giggling quietly. The sound seems to reach his soul and gently brush against it with your fingertips. Now he can see the wrinkles in the corners of your eyes up close. Damn, very beautiful eyes. Sparkling.
He holds his breath. Damn, since when can he see someone's eyes sparkle?
“It would be boring if we were all equally excited about everything, right?” you say, sending him a gentle smile. Him, not Carol. Not to both of them. Just him.
His heart does a spontaneous jump in his chest, and he feels the tips of his ears getting hot. He keeps reminding himself that this is probably all fake, but... You seem so genuinely nice. And kind. And pretty. He's never noticed a woman like this before. He's never paid attention to how their lips curve into a gentle smile, how their eyes sparkle in the warm light. Or how their hair looks so soft and shiny.
Damn, it suddenly hits him how much he wants to wrap that hair around his fingers and tilt your head back, exposing your long neck. It's a beautiful neck. He can see the outline of your collarbones and a single freckle in the hollow of your neck. He wants to press his lips against that spot.
“I hope you're having fun,” you say, distracting him from his thoughts, completely unaware of all the inappropriate scenarios playing out in his head right now. “Try the cheesecake, I baked it.”
He doesn't say a word, doesn't even open his mouth, and you're already gone. He's afraid he'll say something wrong if he opens his mouth. Damn, he's terrified. It's as if he regained his senses after you left and almost hit himself in the face. What the hell? He must be sick. Maybe he has a fever. He could already feel his face getting red and hot. Yes, it must be a fever.
“He could have at least said something,” Carol sighs, looking at him with genuine disappointment. If only she knew what was going on inside him, she would be glad he didn't speak to you. It wouldn't have ended well.
He watches you walk away and swallows hard. He sees your round ass perfectly exposed in tight black jeans and almost moans. What's wrong with him? He's never felt this way before. He's never paid so much attention to any woman before. He's never felt such a rush of adrenaline at the sight of anyone before.
Has he fallen in love with you? In just one day? After seeing you only once?
No fucking way. Daryl Dixon doesn't fall in love with anyone. His destiny is to remain alone for the rest of his life. He doesn't flirt, he doesn't get involved in relationships, and he doesn't deal with any of that intimacy nonsense. He hunts, kills walkers, and is always dirty. His hands are always covered in blood and zombie guts.
And you're so clean and delicate, so pretty and innocent. If he got close to you, he would destroy you. He would ruin you. He would...
Touch you. Lick you. Kiss you.
He would hunt you like a sweet little prey.
Fuck. He has to get out of here. He has to make an excuse and leave, because the situation is getting out of control. He feels like someone has poisoned him, put all these filthy, dirty thoughts in his head, and now is torturing him to see how far he can go. This isn't him. This isn't the man he is. The only things he hunts are animals in the forest. Maybe walkers. But not people. Not women. Not you.
“Are you okay?”
He looks at Carol with a vacant stare and nods, mumbling something about another glass of water, and heads for the furthest table he can find. He needs water, but in the form of an ice-cold shower to wash the madness from his head. If his friend knew what was going through his mind right now, she would throw him out of here. That would be a good solution, but he's not going to tell her anything.
As he reaches for the glass, a smaller hand appears in his field of vision, almost brushing against his. Almost in slow motion, he watches the slender fingers wrap around the wine bottle. Red nails, a gold ring. He knows. He recognizes you by your scent alone. Violets and something else, something sweeter. Maybe the cake you baked earlier. Or maybe it's the way your body teases him, inviting him to take a bite.
He clenches his jaw and grabs the glass. He has to leave, but his legs are paralyzed. Glued to the floor. All he can do is look to the side, meeting your eyes. And that will be his undoing, because that damn smile is still there, stuck on your face like a neon sign leading him to hell.
“It can be overwhelming,” you say, but he's too mesmerized by the movement of your lips, too mesmerized by your Cupid's bow to understand what you're saying. He's not quite sure what to do with his hands. You're so close to him and smiling so radiantly that he can't stop thinking about how perfect the shape of your mouth is. When you speak, he doesn't even hear the words. The sound suddenly becomes muffled, as if he were underwater, and he knows people are talking, but he doesn't understand a word. And to be honest, he's not even trying. He can't bring himself to be interested in anything other than you. He tells himself he's just being observant, as always, but for the first time, he sees things. Things he shouldn’t see.
“Huh?” he asks after what seems like an eternity. His face flushes.
“People,” you say, nodding toward the crowd, not discouraged at all. Even though you see the blush appearing on his cheeks, you are polite enough not to pay attention to it. No, you don't even look at him for more than a second. “The noise. It's strange to hear all these conversations after being outside for so long, isn't it?”
You turn away, leaning your back against the table, staring at the gathered people with an expression as if you were thinking intensely about something. Your lower lip is pulled between your teeth. You hold a bottle of wine in your hands, supporting it from below with one hand and grasping the neck with the other. For the first time in his life, Daryl Dixon begins to wonder what it would feel like to have someone's fingers wrapped around his dick. Your fingers.
“I guess so,” he mutters, trying to stay calm as his head is flooded with all these dirty thoughts and images with you in the middle. Chaos. Total chaos. His hands are shaking, he has to clench them into fists.
“Don't feel bad if you don't like it.”
Why are you being so nice to him? Why are you trying to strike up a conversation? Why are you messing with his head so much?
One last smile, one last look full of warmth and kindness, and then you walk away, leaving him alone. You don't intend to bother him. You're just trying... What exactly are you trying to do? Strike up a conversation? With him? Why?
And why can't he stop staring at you as you walk away, like some kind of weirdo? Something has happened to him today, and he doesn't like it. His senses are heightened, but at the same time dulled. He is conscious, but he feels as if his mind is floating somewhere above his head, refusing to accept any meaning. There must be something in the air. Some kind of toxin or something. Maybe the whole damn city is filled with it. It's the only explanation for his behaviour. The only one.
He lasts an hour, then apologizes to Carol and runs outside, not even wanting to see her rolling eyes. He wants to smoke. He wants to clear his mind. He wants to escape from you and your magnetic presence. As far away as possible. Maybe he should go outside the gate and spend the night alone in the woods, that would probably help.
He groans loudly as he takes a cigarette out of the crumpled pack, lights it, and inhales the smoke. His lungs fill with nicotine, but it doesn't bring him any relief, as he would expect. It doesn't calm his nerves or stop his hands from shaking. It does nothing good, only frustrates him even more.
Daryl was never the type of man who yearn over girls. Even as a teenager, when his hormones were at their peak, he didn't make a big deal out of looking at boobs or anything like that. He's not a virgin probably only because his older brother forced his girl at the time to have sex with him. Until now, he suspected he was asexual. He doesn't even masturbate that often, disgusted by the touch of his own hand. He never imagined what it would be like to have a warm body beneath him, someone moaning his name in his ear.
Before you, there was no desire. There was no greed.
Before you, he never felt his dick harden in his pants at the mere thought of someone's mouth. Someone's fingers.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. It's not just his imagination. His pants are getting tighter, and his semi-erect cock is pressing against the inner seam, making him hiss.
He throws his cigarette on the ground, extinguishes it with the heel of his heavy boot, and practically runs toward the house. A cold shower. He needs a cold shower immediately to wash this damn feeling off his skin. He feels dirty. He feels poisoned.
Something is wrong with him, and he desperately wants it to end.
When he reaches the bathroom and closes the door, he takes off his clothes in seconds, jumps into the shower, and turns on the water. The coldest it can go.
“Fuck,” he curses, punching the wall with his fist. The low temperature hurts his heated skin, but that's okay. It's refreshing. It wakes him up. It's exactly what he needs—a distraction. A distraction from you and the memory of your lips stretching into the most beautiful smile he has ever seen; your fingers wrapped around that bottle with such a gentle but firm grip; your swaying hips.
“No, no,” he mutters, clenching his teeth. His cock is now fully erect, ready and eager. “Stop it.”
He's gone mad, talking to his fucking dick. But of course, it's not listening. Not when his mind is still showing him all these images that have no right to exist. He tries to breathe in through his nose and out through his mouth. It doesn't help. Nothing fucking helps. No, Daryl Dixon is absurdly and so incredibly horny that he doesn't even know how to deal with it. Well, there is one way that would work, but he doesn't want to do that. Not with you in mind. Not like some pervert who masturbates thinking about a girl he doesn't even know.
But he has to get rid of this erection, and fast.
“Damn...”
He grabs the first bottle of shower gel he can reach, opens the cap, and pours some into his open palm. He shouldn't do this. He knows he shouldn't, and he knows it's wrong, but when his calloused fingers wrap around his length and start pumping, there's no turning back. A loud moan escapes his lips as he rests his hand on the tiles, supporting his weight. He's never been so needy before. He's never been so horny. His own hand has never given him as much pleasure as it does right now, when all he can think about is how much more pleasant your skin would be.
It doesn't take him long to come in his hand, accompanied by a throaty growl muffled by his clenched lips. It doesn't take him long to feel that burning sensation, a mixture of shame and guilt, in his chest.
You old pervert, he thinks as he cleans himself up. You're sick in the head.
But this evening is just the beginning. The beginning of a much longer story that Daryl has yet to live, full of conflicting emotions, shame, and more sleepless nights with his hand in his pants, silently screaming your name in the darkness of his room.
hi bub! I'm so sorry your prologue got pushed to now accidentally! Don't pressure yourself with rushing with the first chapter! It's okay; shit happens.
Also, I loved the prologue; it is just chef's kiss. Can I be on the tag list if it isn't too much work!
much love
Thank you, that means a lot ♥️
I’m just disappointed I guess, I was really hyped to post it on Valentine’s Day but oh well, Tumblr decided it’s too good to be kept in my drafts for almost a month (yes, I’m trying to cheer myself up by thinking this way).
So... Prologue to Sickening Desire was scheduled for February 14th, and honestly... I'm very disappointed that something went wrong and it was published today. I don't know what happened. I don't know what exactly went wrong. It was supposed to be a big Valentine's Day thing, and now I have to rush to write the first chapter.
The only positive aspect is that you seem to have enjoyed it, so... that's all that matters. Thank you for your wonderful feedback. It greatly alleviates my disappointment and annoyance.
Welcome to the dark side of my mind, which I’ve tried to keep on a leash for too long. The beast has escaped. A masterpiece is being born.
This story is not an easy one. Nor is it happy. I will drag you down with me into the abyss of madness and insanity, and I will make you love every second of this sweet torture.
Before you dive into it, I want you (each and every one of you) to understand that because this story focuses on Daryl's dark side, the POV also revolves around him. He goes through different stages—he goes through denial and hatred of both himself and the world, he’s lost, confused, angry, obsessed. The story is chaotic in some places, the plot may slow down and speed up in the blink of an eye, but there is a purpose to it. The narrative fully reflects what’s going on in his mind. Sometimes you may get bored. Sometimes you may not be able to follow his train of thought. Sometimes you may need to go back and read again. And that's all right, because that's exactly what I wanted to achieve.
Buckle up, you're in for a rough ride.
╰⪼ Daryl Dixon x fem!reader / Alexandria
╰⪼ Word Count: 2,7 k
╰⪼ Warnings: obsessed!daryl; intruisive and obsessive thoughts
╰⪼ Masterlist
“I shouldn't have fallen in love—look what it made me become. I let you get too close just to wake up alone. And I know you think you can run. You're scared to believe I'm the one but I just can't let you go.”
His heart beats steadily, and his breathing is calm and even. Not a single muscle in his body twitches or tenses. He stands with his shoulder leaning against the back wall of his house, completely motionless like a stone statue, blinking only every few seconds. Not very often, though. He doesn't want to miss anything. His gaze is fixed on the end of the road ahead, as if he expects to see something there at any moment. Or rather, someone. He is patient. He has time. He has all the time in the world, for that matter. He can wait.
His middle finger begins to tap his thigh in a silent rhythm as the seconds pass. Tap, tap, tap, tap. He waits, watches. Covered by the heavy blanket of a cloudy night, he is almost invisible to the naked eye. There is no moon, no stars. In his all-black clothes, he looks like part of the shadows, an integral part of the darkness of midnight. That's good. That purposeful. He can't risk anyone seeing him. Not now. Not yet.
Hunt, eat, sleep… His body straightens and tenses like a violin string.
There you are.
His mantra disappears from his mind even faster than the breath hitches in his lungs when he sees your silhouette exactly where he has been looking for the past hour. You appear in the distance, walking down the street towards him, swaying your hips from side to side. Even from so far away, he can see it, the unique way your body moves, as if each step is integrated with some music that only you can hear. It is full of sensuality, and the fluidity of your steps drives him crazy. His hunter’s eyes follow your steps carefully, attentively, patiently—one by one, as if there were nothing else worth looking at in this god forsaken world, and perhaps there isn't. His muscles tense and his consciousness is on high alert. Your presence creeps toward him like silky tentacles, climbing up his body and wrapping around his limbs, chest, and throat. There is pleasure in this form of suffocation, making him want more, harder, closer. The sound of your small high-heeled shoes echoes both on the empty street and in his head. Click, click, click, click.
The blue hue of his irises dances around the strings of desire in his eyes. His gaze is persistent, patient, never leaving your silhouette. When you toss your hair over your shoulder halfway down the street, tangling loose strands with your left hand, your fingers dancing between them in a subtle way, he swallows hard. The flame in his chest turns into fire. His stomach flips. The movements of your slender hands always stimulate his imagination and excite that little part of him that he had long hoped would remain deeply hidden. But every time he allows himself to look—or every time he simply can't stop himself from doing so—that part seems to break through his thick walls, and all the defences he has carefully built over the years crumble to pieces at his feet.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. His heart pounds in his chest, his blood pressure so high he can feel it rushing through his veins. He hears it so clearly that it quickly becomes annoying, and the low hum in his ears gets on his nerves. He closes his eyes for a second, hoping it will pass, but the hum is still there, it doesn't go away. On the contrary, with every step you take, the hum in his head turns into a loud buzzing.
Too loud, too loud, too loud, too loud.
However, he is unable to look away. He watches you like a predator hunting its prey, ready to attack at any moment, holding his breath, and you get closer and closer, your heels clicking on the sidewalk, and you wrap your arms around your chest, trying to protect yourself from the cold of the night, and the dim warm light of the solar lamp falls on you and he can now see your face, and your hair is so shiny, and your cheeks are adorably flushed, and his eyes don't know where to focus because it's too much.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.
His head is spinning, you are so beautiful. He takes deep, uneven breaths. His thoughts are racing. Should he approach you? Should he keep watching? Should he go back inside and forget? And you keep walking, and you are so absurdly beautiful that before you, he didn't even know someone could be so beautiful.
So delicate.
So soft.
So naive.
Naive, naive, naive, naive.
His jaw clenches at the thought that you are so unaware of your surroundings. He has been watching you the whole time, and you just walk casually toward your home, unaware that danger may be lurking around the corner. You don't look around. You don't look back. Your lack of self-preservation instinct gives him a headache and makes him clench his fists. You should be more careful, more cautious. You should know that there are people who would like to have you for themselves. He knows, he's seen the way they look at you. That level of admiration, greed. He can't stand it, these people who want you so badly that it shines above their heads like a fucking neon sign. And you're completely unaware of it.
His breathing quickens, he's hyperventilating at this point, two breaths for every little step you take. You're almost there, almost at your house, and if the night were just a little brighter, you would see him there. You would probably be scared, you are so delicate and fragile, but he would never want to scare you. He wants to protect you. Shield you. Hide you. Possess you.
Possess, possess, possess, possess.
Your silhouette is now very clearly visible in the light of the nearest lamp, and your thin coat hugs your curves so perfectly that his hands itch with the need to touch you, to dig his fingers into your soft skin and feel its surface under his calloused fingertips. If only he could reach you, he would grab your waist, gently but firmly, and pull you towards him, and now he can practically feel it, and the mere thought of feeling you against his chest makes his muscles twitch, ready to make that move, and he has to fight his own mind against the idea because he knows it's sick.
Sick, sick, sick, sick.
Deep breath. That need. That desire. That greed. Too much. He breathes through his nose, stabilizing his lungs again. You're already close to your house, and he sees you disappear around the corner. This makes him move for the first time tonight. He quietly circles his house, his arm almost brushing the cold wall, keeping his distance in the shadow of the building and only stopping when he reaches the front. Adrenaline is now rushing through his ears, making his usually steady hands tremble, because he knows he is now much more exposed. He could easily be spotted if anyone bothered to look around.
He crouches down, making sure no light falls on him, and waits.
One, two, three, four. Four seconds later, your heels click against the wooden surface of the porch. He can now see your profile, illuminated by the light of the lamp hanging above the front door. The curve of your lips as you mutter to yourself, searching for your keys in your pockets, makes him wonder how they would feel against his own if he had the courage to get a taste. If he had the courage to take what his heart desires most. His heart, soul, mind, body—his entire being aches, desperately craving you. A battle rages in his head with a quiet voice whispering: go, move, touch, hug, take, possess. Like a little devil on his shoulder, tempting him with things he shouldn't even think about, and with each passing day it becomes harder and harder for him to resist. So, he just breathes, staying in the shadows. Always in the shadows, but each time a little closer to you. Subconsciously. He is drawn to you like a little moth to a burning flame, like the opposite pole of a magnet. He can't take his eyes off you. He can't walk away. He can't stop.
He can't, he can't, he can't, he can't.
Finally, you open the door and go inside, your silhouette disappears, and he stays there, cold and lonely, desperate, dissatisfied, frustrated, scared, confused, irritated, needy, greedy... Deep breath. Hungry. He is hungry for you, for everything you can offer him, and much more, and he would accept it all gratefully, praise it, and keep it. He would keep you.
You, you, you, you.
Images of your body flash through his mind at lightning speed, bringing back memories of every occasion when he had the chance to get close to you but didn't. He didn't even try. No, he holds back because somewhere deep down he knows it's not right. It's crazy. It's sick. His mind rebels against him, and only when you're not around is he able to somehow control his thoughts. And now you're gone, you walked in and disappeared from his sight. You're safe. That's the main reason he's still watching—to make sure you're safe. He's the only one who can keep you safe; the only one who can protect you. And now you're protected by four walls. Finally, he feels the tightness in his stomach ease and the lump in his throat disappear. He leans his head back, leaning against the wall and counting each breath.
One, two, three, four...
But you're still there, you're so close. He could just walk around your house and come in through the back door. He could just...
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He closes his eyes, losing himself in the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears. He counts, breathes, and taps his thigh with his finger, using all his willpower to just stay still. He can't allow himself to get up. He can't allow himself to do all the things the little devil on his shoulder is telling him to do.
She's there.
Go, go, go, go.
He runs his hands over his face, letting out a quiet sigh. He just can't do it. He can't lose this fight. What would his friends say if they saw him now? Carol, Rick, Michonne... And what would you say if you knew he'd been watching you every night since he found out what time you finish your shift at the infirmary? What would you say if you knew that he figured it all out—what time you leave the house, where you go before work, what route you take, and when you come back. He knows where to go to make sure he sees you that day. He knows where to hide so you won't notice him.
Hide, hide, hide, hide.
The light comes on in your bedroom window, and he lifts his head, his heart beating faster again. He has to get up, he has to go, he has to hide, he has to take a cold shower and try to regain his sanity. You're home. You're home, and you're not alone, and you definitely don't belong to him, and it drives him crazy to think that someone else is touching your body right now. He sees red.
Red, red, red, red.
He gets up and clenches his hands into fists and he clenches his teeth so hard that they grind against each other. It's too much. It's almost physical pain to even think that there is someone else you smile at, kiss, touch, undress for.
A thick fog of anger falls on him like a ton of bricks, almost crushing him to the ground, but he turns and walks on, step by step, away from your house. Away from you. Away from that disgusting need to break down the front door, throw you over his shoulder, and run away with you somewhere far, far away, where no one will ever find you. You would be his. You would be safe, and you would be only his.
Stop, stop, stop, stop.
He's gone too far. He knows it. He has to end this madness, be strong, and regain his sanity. It's not like him to yearn over a woman, especially to this extent. What the fuck is wrong with him? How can he behave like this? How can he allow himself to be so lost that he almost loses his mind?
The warmth of his home calms him a little when he finally steps inside. The closed door helps him leave the madness behind. He takes off his shoes and jacket and puts down his crossbow. Everyone is asleep, and all is quiet.
Step by step, he climbs the stairs and goes to his bedroom. He needs to sleep. Daylight always brings a new beginning and a clear mind, and that's what he needs. A clear mind. Yes, a clear... clear mind...
His gaze turns toward the window and he subconsciously moves closer, as if in a dream, as if some paranormal force is pulling him, and he is unable to resist. His windows look straight out at your house. At your window. The light is still on, and you are still there. He can see you clearly even through the curtain, and his heart begins to beat faster because you are standing there, in the middle of the room, wearing only a huge white T-shirt and panties. Your nipples are perking under the fabric. He knows. He sees. He's not imagining it. His dick twitches in his pants and he moans as you raise your hands to tie your hair up in a bun, and the hem of your T-shirt lifts, exposing the soft flesh of your butt to his greedy gaze. That sight alone would be enough to bring him to his climax. The urge to touch himself through the fabric of his pants is too strong, too persistent, too desperate. He feels dirty as his hand lands on the growing bulge in his crotch, but it's as if his hand has a mind of its own and is responding only to his primal instincts at this moment.
Saliva floods his mouth as you lower your arms along your body, the outline of your breasts teasing him from beneath your shirt. His chest vibrates with the guttural moan building inside him. He squeezes his cock, unsure if he wants to stop it from hardening or just give in.
Give in, give in, give in, give in.
The light in your bedroom goes out. Your silhouette disappears, but the animal lust flowing through his veins only intensifies. He wants to come up to you and rip your shirt off. He wants to tear your panties off and savour every inch of your body. He wants to touch you, kiss you, lick you, fuck you so well and so hard that you forget your own name.
Do it, do it, do it, do it.
He clenches his fist and bites his lower lip so hard that it bleeds, and the metallic taste of his own blood is enough to pull him away from the window. It grounds him. He sits on the edge of the bed, buries his face in his hands, and tries to breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, but the image of you is still too vivid before his eyes. You destroyed him. You turned him into someone else, someone strange, someone sick. It's your fault.
Yours, yours, yours, yours.
It's torture. It's a disaster. It's madness.
Madness, madness, madness, madness.
But he loves every second of it. And he'll make sure you know it.
Which tense is more suitable for a dark romance? The past or the present? I’ve always written in the past tense, but with Sickening Desire coming up next month, I am beginning to wonder if I should maybe switch to the present tense.
What do you think? Isn’t the present tense a little more freaky? Like… he sees you right now, he thinks of you right now, he wants you right now…
little help here, please 💋
The past tense
The present tense
Voting ended onJan 19
You’re very much welcome to share your opinion with me!
FIRST CHAPTER COMES ON VALENTINE'S DAY, FEBRUARY 14TH
Author’s note:
Haunting Adeline? Little Stranger? Lights Out? If you’re familiar with these titles, this one is for you. As I promised, you’re in for a rough ride. Hold on tight, because perv!Daryl got mixed up with obsessed!Daryl and above all, dark!Daryl.
╰⪼ Daryl Dixon x fem!reader / outbreak au
╰⪼ Masterlist
This story is rated hard 18+ and you dig into it on your own responsibility. Every chapter, like always, will include its own list of warnings. Check it carefully and take mental notes before reading—some aspects of the story might (and most likely will) be disturbing to some of you.
He hates you because of how badly he craves you. His mind revolves around you day and night. His thoughts focus mainly on you; on keeping his distance from you; on not letting himself give into that sickening desire.
He hates you because you make him lose his sanity. He has never been the one to fall first, or even fall at all but with you, everything is twisted and wrong. He fell first and he fell deeply. And he wants to drag you down with him into the depths of consciousness.
He hates you because you are his sweet sin, and all he can think about is breaking all the rules to get you. He is slowly losing the fight. He is slowly losing his mind. He is becoming addicted to the point where nothing else satisfies him.
He wants to kiss you.
He wants to lick you.
He wants to claim you.
He wants to hunt you down, pin you against every surface he can find, and fuck you senseless until you beg him to let you come. Until his name is the only thing your brain recognizes. Until the imprint of his cock marks your sweet, throbbing pussy and ruins you for anyone else who would dare lay a hand on you.
He hates you because he can't imagine life without you.
Daryl Accidentaly Walking In On You While You're Changing...
... if he has a crush on you.
╰⪼ Daryl Dixon x fem!reader / prison era
╰⪼ Word Count: 439
╰⪼ Warnings: little bit of smut
╰⪼ Masterlist
𑣲 Let's be honest, if this guy walked into your cell and saw you standing there almost completely naked, he would definitely get paralysed. He would suddenly stop mid-step, frozen, unable to move or even look away. His gaze would immediately be drawn to your bare chest. The way your boobs bounce as you jump, startled by his sudden intrusion, makes him feel things he shouldn't feel.
𑣲 Even though you immediately cover your breasts with your hands, he just stands there staring like some old pervert until you finally squeal his name, which makes him look up. His face turns bright red and his whole body heats up so much that he feels like he's on fire. It doesn't help that you are definitely not pleased with his presence at this moment. He can't get out a single word, all thoughts left his mind except for one very filthy one that makes him feel dirty.
𑣲 He would try his best to not let his gaze slip, but your body attracts his eyes like a magnet. It's not easy to look at your (adorably flushed) face, even when you ask him what the hell he wants. Your hands are still covering your breasts, holding them tightly, and all he can think about is coming up to you and making you lower your arms. Not to grope you, no. He just simply wants to admire you.
𑣲 It would take him a good ten seconds before he could finally turn away. He'll probably scold you for not putting up a “Do Not Disturb” sign or something when you're changing. He would never admit that it was his fault. He would also never admit that his pants became much tighter after that incident.
𑣲 He will be haunted by the memory of you standing there wearing only lace panties, and every time he looks at you, he will be so flustered that he will have to avoid you at all costs. Especially since he would jerk off to that memory almost every night.
𑣲 He is so deprived of love, touch, and action that he gets so worked up by your bare chest that he almost loses his mind. What's worse (for him), he knows you know it. He sees how you look at him when he tries to act like you're not there. However, he doesn't know that you have a crush on him too, and once the initial embarrassment of him walking in on you passed, you decided to take advantage of poor, very flustered Daryl Dixon. You'll definitely show him your boobs again, this time on purpose.
