ᴅᴀʀʏʟ ᴅɪxᴏɴ ⋆ ᴘʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ
summary: An ultra-conservative people of Georgia divided between the "decent people" and the Dixon brothers, who live marginalised in a dilapidated trailer. Merle is the older brother, violent and criminal; Daryl is the youngest, a lonely, taciturn and skilled guy with the crossbow who lives under the shadow of the poor family reputation.
This fanfiction is heavily inspired by the song «Lo Que Quiero Hacerte» by La Mafia del Amor (a prominent urban/reggaeton group from Spain).
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On the official maps of the state of Georgia, Oglethorpe was little more than an invisible dot, a speck of red dust surrounded by thousands of acres of young pine trees and back roads where cargo trucks sped past without a second glance. It was the typical Deep South town where everyone knew exactly what your faults were long before you even stepped out your front door. People's lives were divided into two unyielding factions, separated by an invisible but implacable line. On one side stood the decent folk: those who went to the Baptist church on Sunday mornings in crisply ironed shirts, kept their lawns immaculate, and ate dinner with the lights on at seven in the evening. On the other side, completely cast out to the fringes of local sanity, were the Dixon brothers.
The Dixons were a shameful birthmark on the county’s history. A pair of social outcasts who scraped by in a prefab trailer with walls eaten away by dampness, surrounded by a yard that looked like an illegal junkyard full of scrap metal, rusted engine parts, overgrown weeds, and empty cans of the cheapest beer sold at the local gas station. Merle was the violent drug dealer who went in and out of the municipal lockup as if walking into his own kitchen, and Daryl... Daryl was the taciturn younger brother, the guy who moved through town on a loud, battered motorcycle, hustling whatever came his way, hunting with a crossbow, and living in the shadow of a miserable reputation that he himself maintained through sheer silence.
You belonged, by birthright, to the first group. You were the pride of a respectable family, the girl who walked down the main sidewalk smelling of expensive shampoo, the one with a guaranteed future at a northern university far away from this suffocating hole. Your father was the man who pulled the town's strings, and his greatest achievement was keeping you safe, clean, and pure from any trace of local decay.
That was precisely why standing inside the abandoned mechanic shop the Dixons used at the end of county road 9, at two in the morning on a Tuesday, felt like digging your own grave with a smile on your lips. But curiosity was a slow poison, and you had been swallowing it for months every time you crossed paths with those sharp blue eyes at the supply store.
The air inside the shed was heavy, thick, almost unbearable. It reeked of burnt motor oil, kerosene, cold metal, and the dense smoke of the cigarette that Daryl Dixon kept permanently stuck to the left corner of his lip. The only illumination breaking the night's gloom was the flickering glow of a work lamp hooked to the open hood of a battered Ford truck. Daryl was leaning over the engine block, his arms completely smeared with black grease up to his elbows. The muscles of his broad back, hardened by rough labor, tensed beneath a filthy gray tank top that revealed—with every movement—the map of his past: the pale, rugged lines of a couple of old scars that crossed his left shoulder blade from top to bottom.
The silence between you stretched for several minutes, broken only by the clinking of tools and the buzzing of crickets outside. It was a physical tension, a rope right at its breaking point. Suddenly, Daryl dropped a wrench onto the solid wood workbench with too much force, causing a metallic crash that made you give a small flinch. He turned around slowly, dragging his boots, and wiped his calloused hands on a dish rag that looked absolutely revolting. His blue eyes, always hidden and elusive behind that greasy, unkempt fringe of hair, locked onto you with an intensity so direct it forced you to take a step back, hitting your spine against a rack full of old tires.
—What the fuck are you doing here again? —his voice sounded like gravel being dragged, a rough and hostile vibration, typical of a guy who didn't talk to anyone unless it was strictly necessary or to tell someone to fuck off—. I’ve told you a thousand times that the dirt road out here isn't safe for a good little girl like you at this hour. If your daddy smells the smoke from this place when you get back to your clean little bed, he's gonna bring holy hell down on me. And I ain't in the mood for more trouble.
—My father is asleep in his room, Daryl —you said, making a superhuman effort to keep your voice from trembling as you took a firm step into the circle of yellowish light projected by the lamp. The visual contrast between the two of you was ridiculous, almost obscene. Your flawless clothes, your soft skin, against the accumulated filth of his sanctuary—. And we both know perfectly well that you aren't afraid of my father. Or anyone else in this town.
Daryl let out a rough grunt, a cheap imitation of a laugh that split the corner of his lip right at the exact spot where a small, white, vertical scar divided his skin. He threw the cigarette butt onto the damaged concrete floor and crushed it ruthlessly with the toe of his worn leather boot.
—I ain't afraid of him, brat. I'm afraid of you —Daryl muttered, closing the distance between you with that heavy yet feline way of walking, like a wild animal measuring the strength of its prey—. You don't have a damn clue what you're getting into coming out here looking for me. You're looking to ruin your record, stain your family name—is that what you want? A little fling with the trash of road 9 just to feel rebellious?
He stopped mere inches away from you, forcing you to lift your chin. You could smell him with total clarity; it was a primitive scent, a suffocating mix of sweat, rolling tobacco, gasoline, cheap bar soap, and that rustic forest and damp earth smell that clung to his skin from spending whole afternoons hunting in the brush. He was delinquency personified, the real danger your well-to-do friends whispered about with a mix of panic and morbid fascination in the high school hallways.
—I'm gonna force you to commit a sin —Daryl whispered, tilting his head down, so close that his lips brushed your earlobe, sending a shiver through your entire body. The contrast of his rough, hot skin against yours cut off your breathing completely—. That way I get to feel like a saint for once in my miserable life. Let's just do it out of pure wickedness, since you came here looking for it.
His large hand, stained with black motor grease and rough-fingered from manual labor, suddenly clamped around your jaw. He didn't squeeze hard enough to cause real pain, but he held you with the implacable firmness of someone demanding you stay still and look him in the eye. There was no room for tenderness or cheesy foreplay in the touch of his fingers; there was only a restrained hunger, pent up for months, that made your stomach flip violently. You realized right then that you were never going to walk out of this abandoned shop as the same good, exemplary girl you used to be.
Daryl wasn't a guy who waited for permission to take what he wanted. In his world of back alleys, bar fights, and basic survival, you didn't ask nicely; you grabbed it tight before someone faster came along to take it right out of your hands. His grip slid up from your jaw to the back of your neck, burying his fingers into your clean hair without the slightest care, and he yanked you toward his body with a abruptness that forced a sharp gasp from your throat. His mouth slammed against yours with a savage hunger, a dirty, rough kiss that tasted of tobacco and pure, pent-up desperation. There was nothing choreographed, nothing subtle or delicate about the way he devoured your tongue, forcing your head back against the rack of old tires, which rattled loudly behind you from the impact.
You let out a muffled moan, feeling the freezing contrast of the metal against your bare back and the scorching, almost feverish heat of his body pressed hard against yours. His arms were tense, blocking any escape route, and his rough fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, seeking direct contact with your bare skin.
—Look at you... You're shaking like a leaf —Daryl growled against your lips, pulling back barely a few millimeters to catch his breath. His blue eyes were pitch black, his pupils dilated with desire, locked onto your panicked face—. You got a curiosity burning you up inside, don't you? You've been watching me for months in town, wanting to see what the Dixon trash does when nobody's looking. Wanting to see what it's like to get properly fucked.
—Daryl... please —your voice was a meaningless wisp of air, completely unable to articulate a coherent defense. Your heart was racing so fast you could feel the beats hammering against your ribs with painful force.
—You don't have a fucking clue what I wanna do to you right here —he whispered, a lopsided, almost cruel smirk stretching the white scar on his lower lip—. I ain't like those preppy boys you go out with on weekends, the ones who hold your hand at the movies and ask for permission to touch your shoulder. I need more. I always need more of everything.
With a single clean, sharp, upward hoist, Daryl lifted you right off the floor. The difference in physical strength was so massive it was ridiculous. He slammed you down onto the solid oak workbench, knocking away a couple of wrenches and several used oil cans with a violent sweep of his arm. They hit the concrete floor with a metallic crash that echoed in every corner of the shed. He forced your legs wide apart to wedge himself between them, cornering you against the splintered edge of the wood.
With hands clumsy and rushed by the urgency of the moment, he unbuckled his old leather belt and pushed his jeans down just enough to free himself. His blue eyes didn't waver from yours for a single millisecond, reading every tiny change in your expression, feeding on that exact blend of absolute panic and savage desire that completely dominated you. As his large hands gripped your thighs to push them even wider, you could clearly see the map of scars covering his arms: knife marks from old fights, deep cuts from shop tools, and old cigarette burns. It was a battered body, broken by life, but fucking powerful.
—If I tie you down to this table, what are you gonna do, huh? You gonna like it, or is it gonna scare you so bad you'll run straight home to your daddy? —he taunted in that raspy voice that chilled you to the bone, grabbing both of your wrists with just one of his calloused hands and pinning them above your head with an unrelenting firmness that completely immobilized you.
—Stop talking so much, Dixon. Just do it already —you snapped back, a surge of anger and adrenaline rising from your stomach, locking your eyes onto his without blinking.
Daryl muttered a loud curse under his breath, visibly pleased by your show of resistance. Without warning and without any kind of foreplay to soften the impact, he lined himself up with you and buried himself inside you in a single direct, brutal thrust, filling you completely. The impact knocked the wind right out of you instantly. Your head flew back, your eyes went wide with a perfect look of panic, and a sharp, muffled cry died in the back of your throat before it could even escape.
—That's it... look right at my face —he ordered, gritting his teeth, starting to move in a heavy, rough, completely wild rhythm that made the wooden table legs creak with every stroke. His sweaty chest rose and fell violently against yours, transferring the dirt and grease from his skin onto your spotless clothes—. You wanted a poor guy to fuck you illegally, didn't you? You wanted to know what danger feels like. Well, now you hold on tight and take every bit of it.
Sex with him was a crime in itself, a vandalism against the town's rules. Daryl dragged you into his dark territory with deep, rhythmic, and merciless thrusts that made you lose your sense of direction at times. You bit your own lower lip so hard you tasted the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, all to keep from screaming his name to the high heavens, while Daryl completely dominated you in the shadows of the shop, claiming your body as if it were the only clean and sacred thing he was ever going to touch in his entire miserable existence.
However, the perfect, suffocating bubble of the abandoned shop didn't take long to shatter into a million pieces, because in a place like Oglethorpe, shit always floated to the surface much faster than usual. It took barely a couple of weeks of secret encounters for the rumors to start spreading like wildfire across the diner tables and the gas station pumps. Someone swore they had seen your family car parked near county road 9 at odd hours; someone said they had seen Daryl Dixon staring at you too intently from the seat of his motorcycle while you walked out of the library. Your father, predictably, almost had a stroke from the shock.
The lecture waiting for you at home that evening was monumental: shouts that could be heard from the street, serious threats of packing your bags to send you off to a boarding school out of state, and a string of disgusting, derogatory words about "that white trash Dixon boy" that made your blood boil with pure anger. That was precisely why, when you snuck out again that same night, slipping past your bedroom window, and walked into Daryl’s prefab trailer—taking advantage of the fact that Merle was locked up in the county jail over a fight—the atmosphere surrounding the two of you wasn't one of romance or reunion. It was a fucking war zone.
—I told you to get the fuck out of my house right now! —Daryl yelled at you the second you crossed the front threshold. He was standing in the middle of the cluttered living room, barefoot, holding a half-finished can of warm beer, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Frustration and resentment seeped from every pore of his skin—. Are you a complete idiot or what the fuck is wrong with your head? Your old man was at the shop this morning threatening to call the sheriff in front of everybody. Says I'm dragging you into my shit, that I'm corrupting you.
—I don't give a damn about what my father says or what this whole stupid town thinks! —you yelled back at the top of your lungs, giving him a sharp shove right in the middle of his chest that barely moved him an inch. You were furious, out of your mind, with tears of pent-up rage burning your eyes—. Why do you have to agree with him? Why do you always act like you're less than them, like you're just trash?
—Because I am less than them, goddammit! —Daryl roared with all his might, slamming the beer can against the drywall, splashing the old, splintered wood floor—. Look at you and look at me. I don't have a dime to my name, I ain't got a future, and my brother is a fucking junkie that the whole town laughs at. You were just dying for a poor guy to fuck you so you could rebel against your perfect fucking family, wasn't that it? Well, you've had your dose of the gutter and delinquency. Now go back to your daddy's clean house and leave me the fuck alone once and for all.
The insult, the raw way he reduced what you shared to a rich girl's whim, hurt so deeply in the center of your chest that you reacted purely on instinct: you slapped him clean across the face, a sharp crack that echoed through the empty room.
Daryl stood completely still, his head tilted from the force of the blow, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out, and his breathing so rapid that the map of scars on his back rose and fell violently under the dull light of the room. He locked a gaze onto you loaded with a fury so primitive, so animalistic, that your heart flipped completely. There were no more words; none were needed. He grabbed both of your wrists with a brute force that made it clear you had crossed the line, spun you around in a single movement, and shoved you hard against the battered mattress he had lying directly on his bedroom floor, sending the stale sheets flying.
—You wanna play like we're equals? You wanna play rough? Then let's fucking play for real —he growled, climbing over you before you had the slightest chance to react or try to twist away.
You fought him tooth and nail. You insulted him, called him a brute, an animal, and a savage as you tried to turn your body on the mattress, discharging in every movement all the helplessness, hatred, and frustration that class conflict had imposed on you since day one. But Daryl wasn't deterred in the slightest by your insults. He immobilized both of your arms above your head, pinning your wrists against the mattress fabric with just one of his hands, and with the other, he pulled your pants down without a shred of gentleness. He gave you a couple of firm, loud, and sharp slaps, directly against the bare skin of your buttocks; a few spanks loaded with anger that made you let out a sharp cry of pure surprise, humiliation, and frustration.
You were crying, yes, tears streaming down your cheeks and soaking the pillow, but neither of you was fooling the other: they weren't tears of physical pain. They were tears of pure adrenaline, of rage accumulated against the town's expectations, against your father's tyranny, and against that invisible wall of social status that separated you on the street but crumbled completely in here. And Daryl knew it perfectly well. He read the tension in your muscles, saw how your pelvis lifted seeking his contact despite your complaints, and knew that this rough, direct play was the only way either of you had to extinguish the fire burning you up inside.
—Cry all you want, insult me all you damn well please, but I know perfectly well you're liking this just as much as I am —he muttered directly into your ear, his voice broken, thick, and panting, before forcing your legs wide apart and sinking into you without warning, with an overwhelming force.
This time there was no room for a slow pace, nor for doubt, nor for any kind of gentleness. It was a savage thrusting, a mutual and desperate punishment you inflicted on each other against the old mattress. You clung to his broad shoulders with your nails, digging them deeply into the scars on his back, returning every hip stroke with the same violence and desperation with which he subdued you. You were destroying and saving each other's lives at the exact same time, using rough, unfiltered sex as the only true language where respectable last names, bank money, and Oglethorpe's social classes lost every bit of meaning.
The act left both of you completely exhausted, with sweat clinging to both bodies and the bedroom atmosphere plunged into a dense, almost sacred calm. You lay sideways on the old mattress, your breathing trying to return to normal, staring at the silhouette of Daryl’s back. He was sitting right on the edge of the bed, his back to you, his head low and his bare elbows resting on his knees. His long fingers traced the scars on his ribs in absolute silence. He fed on your soul, on your constant presence in this godforsaken hole, and you knew perfectly well that despite his facade of a sullen, dangerous delinquent, he loved you the only way a wounded, cornered animal knows how to love someone: with an absolute, blind, and dangerous loyalty.
The peace of the moment lasted exactly twenty minutes.
The screeching sound of tires suddenly sliding over the loose gravel in the yard outside put both of you on high alert in a second. The front door of the prefab house was kicked open with a single blow, and Merle Dixon stormed into the living room like a total whirlwind of violence. His face was completely twisted with panic, a large black canvas bag tucked under his right arm, and a fresh, bright bloodstain soaking the sleeve of his flannel shirt.
—Daryl, get the fucking motorcycle keys and move now! —Merle yelled from the living room, completely out of his mind, not giving a single shit that you were in there half-dressed—. Things went completely sideways with the guys from the next county during the handoff. They came armed to the teeth, dammit. We took the stash from them but they're right on our heels, and the state troopers are coming up behind them too. We gotta get the fuck out of here now if we don't wanna spend the next ten years in a cell.
Daryl bolted off the floor mattress as if triggered by a military spring, stepping through the discarded clothes and buttoning his jeans in a rush. Real panic—the kind he never showed anyone—reflected in his blue eyes again, but this time it wasn't about reputation or your father; it was about losing his freedom. He turned to you, grabbing you by the shoulders with a physical desperation you had never seen in him the whole time you'd been together.
—Get out of here right now. Go out the back window, cut through the woods, and run home before anyone gets here. Right now you don't exist here, you hear me? —he ordered you, his voice shaking for the first time in his life—. This ain't a little adventure to piss off your parents anymore. This is a real federal crime. If they catch you here, you're finished forever.
You looked Daryl in the eyes, fixed on his face marked by life's scars; you looked at Merle, who was tearing up the kitchen looking for ammo, and then you locked your gaze onto the large black canvas bag containing the stolen goods. Something clicked definitively and sharply inside your head. The established order, Sunday church services, university, your father's approval, and the respect of decent folk... that entire house of cards evaporated in a millisecond. If Daryl and Merle fled together on the bike down the county road with police cars patrolling, they'd be caught in less than five minutes. The bike was too easy a target.
—Daryl, give me your motorcycle keys right now —you said, with a coldness and a determination in your voice that surprised even you, standing up from the floor mattress and pulling your hair back into a quick ponytail.
—What the fuck are you saying? Have you lost your damn mind? —he roared, looking at you like you were speaking a foreign language.
—Merle, give me the fucking canvas bag right now —you ordered the older brother with a tone of authority that left him completely petrified in the middle of the living room, staring at you with his mouth open—. The state police and the guys from the other county are looking for a Ford truck and a loud motorcycle driven by a Dixon. Nobody in the entire state of Georgia is going to stop or search the trunk of the mayor's daughter's personal car at this hour of the night. I'm putting the stash in my car and taking it out of this county via the old dirt road, the one without checkpoints. Daryl, you're getting in the passenger seat with me right now. Merle, you go get lost on foot in the northern woods if you don't want to take the fall.
Daryl stared at you intensely for three seconds that felt like an eternity, processing your words, and deep within his blue eyes a spark of pure respect, awe, and a savage devotion ignited—something he had never felt for any human being before. You had accepted the sin completely. You were crossing the line into criminality holding his hand, destroying your perfect life just to keep him safe.
—You're a fucking psycho —Daryl muttered with a half-smile that stretched the scar on his lip. But he didn't waste time. He snatched the canvas bag from his brother with a hard yank, grabbed you firmly by the back of your neck with his large hand, and planted a quick, violent kiss—loaded with sweat and pure adrenaline—on your lips—. Let's go to the car. Moving now.
Ten minutes later, you were gripping the steering wheel of your family car, driving over ninety kilometers per hour down a pitch-black secondary dirt road, kicking up a thick cloud of red dust in your wake. The flashing blue lights of the state police cars patrolled in the distance, cutting against the highway horizon, searching for ghosts that were no longer there.
Beside you, sitting in the passenger seat, Oglethorpe's official criminal, Daryl Dixon, sat low in the fabric seat, his left hand resting firmly on your right thigh, squeezing your muscles with a constant force that transmitted all his heat, his silent gratitude, and his relief. His other hand held a lit cigarette butt that intermittently illuminated the scars on his face in the dimness of the vehicle.
You glanced at the rearview mirror, remembering what was hidden away in the trunk of your clean car. You were a criminal in the eyes of the law. You had helped conceal stolen goods from an armed gang. You had officially become his accomplice for life, his most faithful shadow, and at that precise moment you knew, with absolute and cold certainty, that no matter what happened from that night on with the town, with your family, or with your future, your life would never be the same again