a man who adjusts to your every need. who kisses you every morning. who never lets you go to sleep angry with him. a man who knows every inch of you, every scar, mole, bump.
a man who never raises his voice at you. who lets his body language talk when he's angry. whose skin bubbles with heat as he crosses his arms and tilts his head, listening to your rant before nodding. "you're right, sugar. im sorry."
a man who practically begs you to let him make it better, kissing from your toetips all the way up to where your night shorts stop, barely covering any of your brown skin. who takes them down with his teeth because even though he's sorry, he's still got his pride.
a man who doesn't let up on your pleasure. who stays nursing on your clit like he's a baby. who makes you cum three times before even thinking about fucking you, your thighs sticky with sweat as he settles between them.
a man who fucks you in heavy, slooooww strokes that drag every vein through your walls. whose groans are low and sensual, driving fire to your clit and ovaries as he sweats, his body hot against yours. he notices how your stomach twitches softly as he lays his hand over it, how your walls suddenly close tight enough for him to halt his movements.
"like it when i lay my hand here, honey? when i feel my cock inside you? you like that?" his voice is taunting. he knows you like it. he knows because your moans suddenly pick up in volume, and your feet next to either of his ears nearly fall from his shoulders. he doesn't let you run from him, though. he wraps one of his arms around your knees, keeping your feet hopelessly in the air as he thrusts into you with debaucherous vigor.
a man who overstimulates every nerve in your body at once, sending you floating off as you come. who holds you through it, watching as your eyes roll like you're possessed. he can't get enough of it, not until you're practically choking, stumbling over how good it feels, how you can't take it anymore. the screams of his name into the heavy air of your bedroom just egging him on to make you cum again. to push your limit. to watch your soul wander from your body for a moment.
a man whose job and life purpose is to please you, a man who's intimate.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Tired of silence, safety, and being Hershel Greene's innocent middle daughter, you traded prayer for provocation on a watchtower shift with Daryl Dixon. You pushed him, taunted him, and tried to force him to see the survivor you'd become—but what you got was more than acknowledgment...
A secret he made sure you'd carry back inside the prison.
The Georgia heat didn't give a damn that the sun had gone down hours ago. It just made your shirt stick to your lower back and your hair curl slightly at the ends. You were up in the watchtower—the one overlooking the field where the walkers tended to herd up like cattle waiting for a slaughter that never really came.
Usually, this was Maggie and Glenn's shift. You'd see them heading up here with that look in their eyes, the one that said they weren't planning on doing much… watching. But Glenn was on a run, and Maggie was helping Beth with Judith, so the usual shift had changed.
Tonight, it was yours and Daryl's.
There wasn't even a chair up here, just the cold concrete and a scratchy blanket you'd thrown into the corner. You were sitting on it now, knees pulled up slightly to your chest, fumbling with the rifle Rick had given you earlier. It felt heavy in your hands, even though you'd been carrying weapons for months now.
Your thumbs traced the scratches on the stock, a nervous habit you always had when you were feeling uncomfortable, though somewhere between the fall of the farm and the discovery of the prison, it got worse.
Shifting the rifle again, you stole another glance at Daryl.
He wasn't looking at you. At least, not openly. But every few minutes, he moved his gaze sideways, and while pretending to adjust your bootlace, he looked again.
Not obvious. Not even enough that anyone but you would notice. But you'd spent enough time watching him since the fall of the farm to recognize his tells: the slow blinking, the twitch of his jaw, and the way his fingers gripped the crossbow stock. Measuring distance, threats… and you.
"What?" You asked under your breath, though you knew he wouldn't answer.
And he didn't.
It should've irritated you, but you were a little too tired already to care right now. Blinking slowly, you tried to fight the urge to just let your head fall back against the wall and drift off to sleep. However, your main problem was that, in the silence, your brain began to wander to places it shouldn't. Back to the farm.
Back to home.
God, it felt like a lifetime ago… A different universe entirely.
Trying to distract yourself, you looked up, watching the silhouette of the man standing at the window. Daryl hadn't moved in almost thirty minutes. He was just as still as a statue, his shoulders tight under that leather vest he seemingly never took off. He even held his crossbow like it was an extension of his arm, not a weapon he could just set down if he wanted to.
It was quiet up here. Too quiet. And again… it gave your brain too much space to wander back to places it shouldn't go.
It went back to the barn. Back to the porch, the smell of tea, and the sound of your dad's voice reading scripture in the living room. You were so different then. You remembered that girl as if she were a stranger—Hershel's middle daughter. The innocent one. The one who wore sundresses and braided Beth's hair and prayed for forgiveness if she even thought a curse word. You were obedient. And you were terrified.
Looking down at your hands, you noticed that there was dirt under your fingernails that no amount of scrubbing could get out and even calluses on your palms from knife handles.
You hadn't prayed in months. Maybe God had stopped listening when the barn burned down, or maybe you just stopped talking when the world started eating itself alive, and you realized there would be no cure.
The time on the road had beaten the obedience out of you, ripped it away bit by bit, until all that was left was this exhausted, tired girl in a new world that was never meant to be.
Shifting on the blanket, you felt it itching against parts of your skin, making you snap out of your thoughts, and you let out a quiet, frustrated sigh, trying to adjust the rifle so the barrel wasn't digging into your hip.
Daryl still hadn't moved an inch.
He didn't look tired like you, and it was almost annoying, honestly. How could he stand there, perfectly alert, while you felt like you were too tired to even stand up, fumbling with your weapon like a child playing soldier?
To keep your eyes from sliding shut, you focused on him again. It was the only thing to do, really. There were not a lot of walkers at the fences right now, and there was no wind rustling the trees, but only the silence and the shape of Daryl Dixon standing guard.
You watched the way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, some kind of restless movement that gave him away.
Everyone else in the group treated the prison like it was the promised land. They had the bunk beds that didn't smell like mildew and the walls that kept the dangers out, as well as a quite regular food supply. You were all settling in, just not Daryl. You'd think he'd finally unclench that jaw of his, but if anything, the prison seemed to make him worse.
Out on the road, he had a purpose—hunt, track, kill, protect. In here? Between the concrete walls, the schedules, and the Council meetings? Well, he looked like he was itching to crawl out of his own skin.
The walls didn't make him feel safe; they made him feel trapped. You'd seen him pacing the cell block at three in the morning when he thought everyone was asleep, checking the locks, checking the perimeter, looking for the threat that his gut told him was always coming.
He couldn't settle and didn't know how to just be without looking over his shoulder.
Now he checked his crossbow again. Probably the fifth time in ten minutes.
It was almost funny, watching him be so careful. Especially in the way he was now with you.
Since you'd arrived here, since you'd survived the time on the road, he'd started treating you like you were made of glass. Like one wrong move, one loud noise, and you'd shatter into a million pieces right there on the concrete.
And he was always near you, or at least close by. Opening doors. Checking corners twice before he lets you walk down a hallway. Checking out your weapons after you cleaned them. And he always made sure you were in the middle of the formation on runs, shielded on all sides.
It was pissing you off. Because it just wasn't how it used to be.
Thinking again, he had been such an asshole back then. Loud and angry white trash. But looking back, with everything you know now, maybe that was just... him.
You swallowed hard, and your eyes looked back at him.
"Daryl?" You said his name softly, but he still didn't move.
"Daryl!" This time, your voice was louder.
His head twitched—but it was not enough to count as acknowledgment or an answer.
"You used to talk to me," you continued. "Even if it was just to annoy me."
Silence.
You remembered one afternoon by one of the wells, the summer heat beating down. You'd been trying to carry a bucket of water, struggling with the weight because you were much weaker then. Daryl had walked past, with a string of dead squirrels hanging over his shoulder. He didn't offer to help. Instead, he'd stopped, spat on the ground near your boots, and smirked.
"Need a hand there, sugar?" He'd drawled, his voice sounding more than just sarcastic. "Careful, 'cause ya don't wanna break a nail. Bet yer daddy won't like it."
He'd stood there and watched you struggle, smirking at you, until you'd gotten so mad you hauled that bucket up out of pure spite, splashing water all over your dress. And Daryl had just huffed a quick laugh—dry and mean.
He used to mock your prayers, leaning against the porch railing while you tried to read your Bible outside, something you always liked to do in the early morning sun, making comments about Jesus and God just to see your face turn red in anger. He'd even make fun of your clean clothes and your quiet voice. If you tripped over a root, he wouldn't help you up; he'd just snort about how girls didn't know how to walk on dirt. He'd even toss gross parts of whatever he was skinning in your direction just to hear you squeal when you were walking to the chicken coop.
Daryl Dixon was mean. He was rough. But he looked at you, and he saw you. He didn't treat you like a porcelain doll that needed to be put on a high shelf; he treated you like a human being and not as if you needed any protection from the world that was about to drag your beliefs down to hell with it.
Now? Now Daryl wouldn't even look you in the eye for more than a few seconds.
It was like he was terrified that if he talked with you, if he acknowledged that you'd toughened up, that you were harder now, he'd lose the only version of you he knew how to handle. Maybe he wanted to keep you innocent. Maybe he wanted to keep you as the farmer's daughter, because that girl might need him sooner or later. This new version of you—the one fumbling with a rifle in the dark, the one who didn't flinch at the sound of a skull cracking—confused him. Scared him, maybe…
But right then and there, you decided that the silence was enough. If Daryl wasn't going to look at you or talk to you anymore, if he wasn't going to acknowledge that you were now a living, breathing person capable of killing a walker just as fast as he could, then you were going to force him to.
You were bored. You were annoyed. And honestly, looking at his back while your own brain replayed the burning barn, the walkers, and everything else you'd lost back then was driving you crazy.
"You know," you started, your voice sounding too loud in the small space. You didn't bother to soften it. "For a guy who acts like such a loner, you sure do stand there like decoration whenever Rick isn't around to give you orders."
Smirking to yourself, you realized that Daryl still didn't turn around. He didn't even tense up. He just tilted his head a bit of an inch to the side, a small movement, and his eyes still looked down on the dark yard below, completely dismissing you.
"Ignore me all you want," you grumbled, feeling a little irritated again. You shifted your legs, letting your boot kick the concrete wall on purpose. "Doesn't change the fact that you look ridiculous. You're trying so hard to look dangerous, but honestly? You just look like a dog."
Still nothing. Just the rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath he took.
It was making you angry. It was like talking to a brick wall that breathed. And Daryl not even trying to react stung more than an insult would have. Standing up, you let the rifle fall away completely to the floor, not wanting to pick it up as you finally walked over to him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to be even more annoying. You could smell him from here—the dirt, the sweat, and his own personal scent that clung to his vest.
"Is this really it?" You then asked, leaning your hip against the window frame, turning your back to the danger outside just to watch his face. You stared right at his profile, searching for any hint of rage. "Is this Daryl Dixon now? Just… standing? Staring? Acting like the group's favorite guard dog?"
You saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Gotcha.
"I remember when you weren't," you continued. "Back home, at the farm. You were such an ass. Always spitting on the ground and looking at us Greenes like we were religious little idiots who would've tried to go to church with a walker if we found a prayer that sounded as if it might've helped! But at least you were… I don't know. Alive."
Nothing… Daryl was doing a good job of pretending you weren't there.
"Now look at you," you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's pathetic. You are pathetic. I bet you don't even remember how to be anything else but a babysitter for Judith."
Pretending to check the perimeter, you turned and leaned forward so your arm brushed right against his vest. It wasn't an accident, and you both knew it. You even felt the muscles in his back stiffen, which was quite a hard, involuntary flinch, but he didn't step away.
"And it's not just with Rick's daughter," you continued, right near his shoulder. "I see the way you trail after Carol. It's sweet, really. Like a little lost puppy that finally found someone to care about. Does she scratch behind your ears, Daryl? Does she tell you you're a good boy?"
He let out a sharp breath through his nose, a sound like a bull getting ready to charge, but you pressed on.
"You used to walk around with that crossbow like you're some kind of dangerous animal," you laughed. "Scowling at everyone. Only grunting instead of speaking. And then I saw you with Judith. 'Little Asskicker…' God, you were practically so happy to hold her! But the vest, the anger, the attitude... Yeah, you're just some white trash redneck playing pretend."
You moved again, stepping around him slightly so you were in his vision, blocking his view of the treeline, and looked at him with pity, though not real pity.
That—somehow—hit. His head jerked to the side, and it wasn't a full turn but a clear sign that was meant to send you a message.
"Ya gotta lot t'say, Greene," he finally spat out, and it sounded like a full, genuine threat, but he still didn't move his body. "Maybe ya shoulda go back t'readin' that damn bible of yers."
You felt a thrill of victory but also a genuine bit of fear. The old Daryl was finally showing up. At least you hoped so.
"Why?" You asked him, refusing to back down. "So I can pray for you? I'm all out of prayers, Daryl. And frankly, the prison is boring. You're boring."
Moving your hand on his back, lower this time, you let your fingers trace part of his belt.
"Honestly, it's embarrassing," you continued, letting your fingers play with the edges of it. "I bet you wouldn't even know what to do anymore! You've probably forgotten how to touch anything that isn't a crossbow or a baby bottle."
You heard his breath hitch, only a little, but enough.
When you stepped an inch closer, blocking his view further, his body reacted before he could think. One hand moved off the crossbow stock, and his fingers flexed like he was about to reach for your arm—to grip you or push you back, you couldn't tell.
But he stopped himself.
"Embarrassin'," he repeated, and he finally, finally turned his head to look at you. Not a glance, but a full-on look. "That what ya think?"
"Looks like it from where I'm standing," you shot back, your heart pounding in your chest.
"A'right. Let's talk 'bout embarrassin'." He turned his body fully towards you now, crowding you without even taking a step. "Let's talk 'bout yer ass. Followin' me 'round since the farm... Think I ain't seein' that shit? Yer hoverin' when I'm cleanin' my kill. Lurkin' 'round me all damn day."
Your face turned red, proving how ashamed you actually felt now. "I never—"
"Yer a bad fuckin' liar," Daryl cut you off, his voice dropping to a growl. "Worse than ya are with that rifle. Ya been waitin' for a fight for weeks. But ya don't wanna fight, do ya? Yer just fuckin' bored. Daddy's little girl ain't got no fences to mend and no dumbass porch t'pray on, so she's gotta find somethin' else to feel useful for once."
Every word was a slap in your face. He saw right through you, past the pretending act and the rifle, straight down to the girl underneath. It was humiliating.
"You don't know anything about me," you hissed back at him, your voice trembling with a bit of shame.
"The hell I don't," he snarled in response, leaning in so close you could feel a few strands of his hair against your forehead. "I know ya still flinch when a damn twig snaps too loud. I know ya can't look at the walkers near the fence for t'long 'fore yer hands start shakin'. Yer ain't shit."
That was what pushed you over the edge somehow, even though you knew Daryl was right. With a choked cry, you swung your hand, aiming to knock that sudden smirk right off his face.
But you never stood a chance.
His hand moved faster than yours, and his fingers wrapped around your wrist, stopping the slap an inch from his cheek and making you gasp at the sheer force of his grip.
"Thought so," he grunted. "All talk."
Daryl yanked you forward, using your confusion against you. You stumbled into him, your free hand flying up to brace yourself against his chest and to push back.
"Ya wanna fight, Greene?" He asked, his face only inches from yours. "Fine! Let's fight."
He shoved you back then, not hard enough to make you fall, but enough to make you stumble. Your boot caught on the edge of the scratchy blanket, and you went down, your ass hitting the cold concrete with the rifle sliding away and toward the wall.
Scrambling back to your knees as fast as you could, you launched yourself at him. But you didn't aim for a slap this time; you went low, trying to tackle him down by his waist.
A grunt of surprise was forced out of him as you pushed him back a step, and for a second, you had him off-balance. Then his arms closed around you.
Daryl didn't even need to try to throw you off; he just squeezed, lifting you off your feet. You kicked and thrashed, your elbows digging into his sides, but it was still like trying to fight a brick wall.
Not being able to do anything to stop him, he dropped down, taking you with him. You both landed on the tangled blanket, the impact knocking the wind out of you. He was on top of you in an instant, his knees pinning your thighs, his weight keeping you from moving, but you still bucked around, trying to throw him off, your hands clawing at his arms, his vest, anything you could reach.
One of Daryl's hands caught not only one but both of your wrists, slamming them down onto the concrete above your head. The hold was rough, painful even, and you were trapped.
"Done?" Daryl growled, his chest heaving, but you yelled at him in response.
"Go to hell, Daryl!"
At your answer, he leaned down, his mouth close to your ear. "Been there m'whole goddamn life..."
You then tried to headbutt him, but he jerked his face back, avoiding it easily, now genuinely annoyed. Adjusting his grip, his hips were pressing yours harder into the floor, stopping your thrashing, and the hard edges of his belt buckle dug into your stomach. You were panting, your chest rising and falling ever so fast against his, but Daryl was breathing just as hard.
He was staring down at you, his eyes searching yours in the near-darkness before he finally felt your body go still beneath his.
"I ain't pretendin' nothin'," he grumbled. "'M just seein' what's gotta be done. And what's gotta be done is for ya t'shut yer fuckin' mouth and watch that damn fence."
"No!" You challenged him back, pushing against the weight of him with a tiny movement of your hips. "What's gotta be done is that you stop treating me like I'm still that innocent girl from the farm! I can handle this new life! And I can handle you!"
The lie was out, but Daryl's reaction was immediate. The hard pressure of his body intensified, pressing you down against the floor with a slow, grinding buck that wasn't intentional but was enough to make you gasp.
"Yeah? Ya can handle me?" He scoffed, though the sound was a little shaky. His gaze dropped, moving across your face, down your throat, where your pulse was jumping, and stayed near your tits still trapped beneath his chest. "Ya wanna prove that, Greene? Ya got a real stupid way of goin' 'bout it."
He didn't loosen his grip on your wrists even once. Instead, he twisted your hands just slightly, enough to make you wince, forcing your arms to stretch higher and making your back arch slightly into his weight. You were pinned down, completely under his mercy, completely pissed off, but also terrifyingly captivated by him.
You wanted this. You wanted him. Now. But what you didn't want was to give him the satisfaction of knowing. Of Daryl really knowing how much you desired him. No… You just wanted him to take you. Right there. Right now.And without any hesitation.
"What's wrong, Daryl?" You then taunted, trying to get your feet back on the ground. To win. "What? Is this more excitement than your little Carol-and-Judith daycare duties allow?"
His knuckles went white again, and he moved his head back, giving you a snarl of pure frustration, but he ignored your baiting question.
"When I tell ya to shut up, ya shut up. I ain't havin' ya annoy my ass 'cause yer bored and lookin' for trouble."
"And if I'm not looking for trouble?" You whispered, your heart now pounding so hard it felt like your ribs might crack. "What if I'm looking for you?"
Daryl froze. Every bit of anger left his eyes, replaced by a sudden confusion and then a shocking realization.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared down at you, his chest heaving against yours, his breath hot on your face. You could see it in his eyes, how the words you'd just said made him think too much and yet not enough all at once.
The realization didn't come gently; it literally crashed into him. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then back up, and the look there was no longer about winning a fight when his free hand suddenly moved to your face, cupping your jaw, his fingers roughly stroking the skin of your cheek. His touch felt dirty, without any gentleness, but it felt overwhelming at the same time.
"Shoulda shut that fuckin' mouth now, Greene," he breathed, his eyes seeing you not as the innocent farmer's daughter, but as the complicated, annoying woman who had just brought him to the edge.
Without giving you any time to answer, Daryl closed the final distance. His lips were on yours—slightly dry, rough, and tasting like cigarettes. He moved his head, grinding his lips against yours, wanting a response that you instantly and violently gave.
Freeing one hand of yours, it shot up, grabbing the back of his neck, holding him to your body as hard as you could, and Daryl finally let go of your remaining wrist, only to move one hand and grab the fabric of your pants, tugging at it.
"Off," he grunted against your mouth, his fingers fumbling with the button.
How could you deny a voice so deep and demanding that it made you shiver?
You didn't hesitate. While Daryl fumbled with your pants, your hands went to the hem of your shirt, yanking it up and over your head in one quick move, along with your bra, throwing it aside into the darkness of the watchtower.
The cold concrete hit your skin, giving you goosebumps, but you couldn't care less.
Daryl broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, just to look at you with eyes wandering over the naked skin of your stomach and your tits. It felt as if for the first time he'd truly look at you—the new you, the actual survivor—and his gaze felt more intense than any touch so far.
"See?" You panted, your voice trembling a little, even though you still wanted to prove yourself. "Not so innocent now, huh?"
Daryl didn't answer with words. He just shoved your pants and panties down your hips in one rough, fast movement, dragging them down your legs and off, throwing them somewhere near the rifle. You tried to kick your clothes away, your movements just as desperate as his.
While you were freeing yourself from your clothes, Daryl worked on his own, his fingers fumbling with his belt buckle. He never took his eyes off you, watching you beneath him, naked and waiting, until you heard his belt opening, followed by the sound of his zipper. He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, his cock springing out, hard, thick, and leaking already.
Leaning himself slowly back over you, his mouth found yours again in another rough kiss as he moved and positioned himself between your thighs.
You could already feel the head of his cock nudging against your pussy, which only made you wetter—if that was even possible. A choked gasp escaped you, your hips bucking off the blanket, desperately wanting more.
But Daryl pulled his lips away from yours again, his forehead resting against your own. "Look at that," he growled, pushing his face a little bit more toward yours, wanting to make sure you were listening to him. "Fuckin' soaked for me. After all that bitchin'…"
Rocking his hips, he was letting the head of his cock slide through your pussy folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you with what was about to come. The feeling was maddening—so close to what you needed, but not enough.
"Please, Daryl..."
That's when his hand came up again. Not to hold your face like before, but to wrap it around your throat.
Your eyes flew open wide, but there was no fear—only excitement. And Daryl's grip wasn't painful now; it was just right, his thumb pressing against the pulse pounding in your neck. He squeezed, just enough to make the blood flow louder in your ears, to make the world shrink to just his expression above you, his eyes looking into yours, and the slight pressure of his hand.
"This what ya wanted?" Daryl growled, his grip tightening a bit more, stealing your breath away while he stilled his hips, holding himself right at your pussy. "This what ya been followin' me 'round for? T'get yerself fucked by some white trash dick?"
You couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but nod frantically in response, your own hands coming up to grab at his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him still again.
Shit… His hands… They were so big and rough… And that one hand was feeling more than perfect around your throat.
Daryl released the pressure just as your vision started to blur ever so slightly, allowing you to gasp and breathe in air again. He watched you quietly now, seeing the effect he had on you, only to do it again—a slow squeeze, holding you on the edge, his thumb stroking almost gently over your pulse on your throat. And each time he tightened his hand, your body would twitch, your hips bucking up to finally get him to take you.
"Ya really ain't that innocent girl no more, are ya?" He smirked down at you, but you knew it wasn't really a question. Then he finally, finally, notched the head of his cock against your pussy properly, applying the slightest, most torturous pressure.
You shook your head, sobbing a little out of frustration that he wasn't fucking you already. "No... Guess I'm not."
Daryl leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as his hand then relaxed around your throat. "Good..."
That was a promise and a threat all in one. And then Daryl began to push inside.
It wasn't the fast, punishing thrust you'd expected, no… hoped for. It was slow. The thick head of his cock pressed into you, stretching you open inch by inch. Your back arched off the cold concrete, with a broken, whimpering moan torn from your throat, and your nails dug into the bare skin of his forearm, but he didn't speed up. He didn't even flinch.
Daryl just watched you.
His eyes were still fixed on your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, and every helpless gasp. He was buried to the hilt now, so deep you were panting, your body waiting and begging for his movement—for more.
But Daryl didn't move.
He stayed perfectly still, with his weight holding you down and his forearms right beside your head next. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent moan of a few walkers outside.
"Fuck… Daryl… please," you begged, your voice a choked whisper. You tried to roll your hips to get some kind of movement, but he pressed down harder, pinning you completely.
"'Please' what?" He grunted in amusement, giving you a tiny, circular grind with his hips that made you see stars already. "Thought ya could handle me. This it? This all it takes?"
He pulled out just as slowly as he'd pushed inside, the drag of his cock inside your pussy a different kind of torture, and you whimpered in response, a sound of pure desperation.
"Just—" You whimpered again, trying to adjust, trying to move once more.
But his response was a hissed inhale of breath through his teeth. "Did I say move?"
"P-please…"
All of a sudden, he pushed back in with that same torturously slow pace, filling you up all over again. "Yeah, 'please what,' huh? Use yer damn words, Greene. Y'had so many of 'em 'fore!"
"Please... fuck me," you begged, your voice cracking with need. "Just... move."
"'M movin'," he huffed, pulling back slowly again. His eyes were devouring you, watching the pure frustration in your eyes and the way your mouth fell open, only to close with every dry swallow of air.
One of Daryl's hands moved away from the side of your head, trailing slowly down your trembling side, along your ribs. He watched his own hand as it moved, his calloused fingers scraping a little over your skin, making you shiver. He slid up along one tit next, his finger brushing over your nipple, and you arched into the touch with another gasp.
"Ain't even doin' nothin'. Just bein' inside ya. Y'like that? Like havin' my dick in yer cunt?"
The words from his mouth, so… honest, should have made you feel ashamed. But you could only nod, your ability to form words completely gone by now.
"I asked ya a question."
"Yes! Fuck!" You sobbed in return. "Yes, God, Daryl, please! I'm sorry! Just—"
He rewarded you by pushing deep again, a single, hard thrust that would make you beg for every single inch of what he was about to give you.
And you were. Oh God, you were.
"Daryl... please," you begged again, your voice trembling. "More... shit, just... do it."
He stopped again, his whole body tensing above you. "What was that?" He asked, wanting your words, wanting to hear them louder, once and for all. "Didn't quite hear ya."
"I said, 'Fuck me!'" You cried out, the words tearing themselves from your throat, making your mouth feel dry. "Just fuck me, Daryl, please! I—"
A low, deep growl was his answer—a sound of his satisfaction. It was the sound of him winning and you surrendering, and both of you knowing this was exactly how it was supposed to be in the first place.
Then his hand clamped over your mouth, silencing any other plea you might have had. And the way he thrust back into you with a force that stole the air back from your lungs, the wet sound against the silence of the night, despite the few walkers outside still clawing at the fences, made your choked scream sound muffled against his palm.
Each thrust was moving your entire body, pushing you up the blanket with every buck of his hips.
Daryl's mouth left your ear, moving down your throat next. But he didn't kiss. He bit. A sharp, quick bite on the skin where your neck met your shoulder that made you twitch and cry out against his palm. It was going to leave a mark, a blue and purple bruise you'd have to hide soon, and the thought alone made you shiver.
Daryl was everywhere—his smell, his taste, the weight of him, and the sound of his own ragged grunts in your ear.
"Y'know why I was nice to ya?" Daryl suddenly said, not even stopping his movements. He was teasing you. "Huh? Ya wanna know why I stopped spittin' at yer feet, Greene?"
Wanting you to answer him right away, he gave you a deep, grinding thrust that almost made you go crazy. You nodded, desperate for any piece of him he'd give you, even if it was just words.
"'Cause I saw ya," he answered, his hips never slowing their pace. "Saw ya that day we cleared C-Block. Walker had ya cornered. Ya didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just stuck yer knife right through its eye." He smirked, nipping at your jaw. "Wasn't yer daddy's little girl no more."
He shifted his weight, angling his thrusts differently, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your legs tremble and your eyes roll back.
"Started thinkin'... 'bout what Hershel'd say," he breathed. "Seein' his good, church-goin' daughter... takin' a redneck's dick. Bet he'd pray for yer damn soul."
Those words, the sheer blasphemy of it, with the image of your father, only made your pussy clench around him tighter.
Daryl groaned at the feeling, his rhythm breaking for a second. "Shit... feel that? Y'like me talkin' 'bout yer daddy while I'm fuckin' his little girl's cunt?"
The leather of his vest scraped against your hard nipples with every one of his thrusts; it was almost painful, but you loved it. You loved every moment of it. This was him—all of him that you'd wanted—the dirt and the sweat and the anger, and it was terrifying, but everything.
"'N I had t'be nice, didn't I? Wantin' t'fuck Hershel's daughter. As if ya were a damn preacher's kid. Gotta be a gentleman... Opened doors for ya. Checked yer goddamn weapons. Even made sure ya ate." He said, and suddenly fucked into you faster as if it was nothing. "All I was thinkin' 'bout was this. 'Bout how yer cunt would feel. 'Bout how fuckin' pretty ya'd look with my cum drippin' outta ya."
Daryl had cared, in his own way, while he'd been protecting you because he wanted you for himself, and the thought of anything else touching what he'd already decided was his was unacceptable. This was the man you'd been trying to provoke. And he was fucking you like he was trying to exorcise his own demons right into you.
You could still only moan in response, your body arching and bucking beneath his, desperately meeting his thrusts as best you could.
"Got so damn hard always watchin' ya…"
He finally ripped his hand away from your mouth, needing both hands to grip your hips, his fingers digging in hard as he yanked you toward him with every deep thrust.
"Yer damn daddy," he panted further. "Shit… if he ever looked at me? Would kill my fuckin' ass."
"God, Daryl," you gasped, your head moving from side to side, completely lost in him.
"Shut up," he growled in response. "Needa make sure tomorrow, when yer walkin' past me, all ya can think 'bout is how I feel inside ya."
You were beyond words, beyond any reasonable thought. And it only pushed you closer to the edge. Embarrassingly fast.
"Y'close?" He growled, and it wasn't really a question. He could sense it, the way your body was feeling around his, tightening, ready to shatter like glass. "Yeah, y'are… Gonna come all over my dick, ain'tcha? After all that..."
You swallowed in air, your voice wrecked as you tried to confirm his suspicion. "Daryl... Yes! I'm about to—"
"Yeah," he growled, panting louder as he got closer to the point of no return himself, losing his control. "C'mon. Let me feel it."
And you did.
Your back arched off the blanket, a silent scream stuck in your throat as you came around him, with your fingers gripping uselessly against his vest, your pussy clenching down around his cock in quick pulses. It felt like dying and being reborn all at once, and the only thing holding you back from crying out too loud was the weight of Daryl on top of you.
He was fucking hard into you now, his rhythm completely gone. There was no way he would stop.
"W-wait… Daryl…" You whimpered anyway, your hands pushing weakly at his chest. The reality of what was happening—where you were, what he was about to do—crashed down on you. "Don't… don't, please…"
It was too late.
His body was already tensing up above you. With a final, deep thrust inside of you, he let out a broken groan against your neck. You felt the sudden twitches of his cock and the pulses of his cum shooting into you, making his whole body shudder violently, with his hips giving a few last, helpless jerks as he came inside you.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing. And as a tear you didn't even know you'd cried escaped, Daryl, still buried deep inside you, went still. He felt the tiny, wet tear against his cheek where his face was pressed against yours now and pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching your face and noticing the tear.
"Hey," he started, his voice still rough but quieter now. Still, he didn't try to wipe the tear away with his hand. Instead, he lowered his head and swiped his tongue over your skin. He was tasting your emotion, taking that too for himself.
"Shut up," he growled against your skin, his lips moving to your jaw, then to the corner of your mouth. They weren't kisses, not really. They were more like bites—soft, nibbling bites meant to calm you down and mark you at the same time. "Yer okay… Promise."
You could feel his heart hammering against your own, but it was beginning to calm down when you nodded. A tiny, shaky movement, and your hands, which had been pushing him away moments before, now came up to grab at his shoulders, holding him there.
He growled in approval, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing starting to even out completely. The distant moans of the walkers outside were louder now, making you realize that the new world was still there, waiting. Only then did Daryl's hips give a tiny, involuntary buck, a reminder that he was still inside of you.
"S'alright," he then said, staying like that for a while longer until your trembling finally began to go away too.
But the reality of what he'd done—filling up Hershel's daughter with his cum right there on the watchtower floor—seemed to hit him the second his head cleared.
He pulled out of you slowly, and the feeling of him leaving, followed by the warm dripping of his cum, made you gasp. Your eyes, wide and a little shocked, went right away to his face.
Daryl saw it again. He saw the farm girl in your eyes, the girl who'd cared for him after Andrea had shot him, the girl who was always so kind and nice, but also the one who'd probably never had a man finish inside her, let alone without a second thought. Right now, he looked quite guilty and ashamed. But that was gone fast, leaving only a somewhat defensive scowl on his face.
"Shit," he scoffed, looking down at where his cum was already starting to leak out of you, unable to look you in the eye. He wiped his softening cock with one hand on the edge of the blanket, standing up just as fast. "Hell are ya lookin' at?"
You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your body still trembling a little. "You… you just came inside me!"
"Ya got a problem with that?" He shot back, challenging you as he tucked himself away and started fastening his belt. "Ain't like yer damn daddy's gonna find out. 'Less ya run and tell him his good girl got herself filled up by—"
That was it. The mention of your dad again, the sheer audacity of him throwing it in your face now, made you lose control.
With a cry of pure rage, you launched yourself at him, still naked, but furious. You didn't care that you felt his cum slowly slide down your thighs or that your legs were shaking. You just moved.
One of your fists found his shoulder, but it was a weak, pathetic punch that didn't even make him flinch. It just pissed him off.
"Goddammit, woman!" He snarled, and his arm shot out, his hand catching you easily.
The fight was over before it even started. Daryl spun you around, your back slamming against his chest. One of his arms slid across your upper body, pinning your arms to your sides, while his other hand moved across your lower belly, holding you against him.
"Let me go, you bastard!" You yelled, thrashing in his grip, your bare ass grinding against the hard edges of his belt buckle.
But Daryl moved his head, his mouth finding your ear, growling and whispering into it. "Fuckin' stop it," he said, but his voice was not full of anger. The hand on your belly slid lower, his fingers digging into the skin just above your pussy. "Y'want 'nother fight? This how ya wanna get it?"
You went still, panting, and he took full advantage of it. His head moved lower, his teeth finding the same spot he'd bitten into earlier on your shoulder. You cried out, and your head fell back against his shoulder, your eyes closed, and your lips parted on command.
"That's it," he growled against your skin, keeping his lips pressed against it. "Just like that. Fight me all ya want. Just gets me all hard again."
Daryl's hand on your lower belly moved, his fingers sliding through the wetness between your legs, through the mess he'd made that was dripping out of you, and he groaned deeply. "Fuck… Yer daddy's gonna kill my ass."
"Stop… stop talking about him," you begged, but your words sounded way too weak. Your body was betraying you, arching back into him, seeking the feeling of his fingers.
"Why?" He breathed out with a smirk, his middle finger finding your clit, rubbing ever so softly over it, until you jerked in his arms, moaning. "Ya still wanna go prayin' in a church, just t'be spreadin' yer legs for a damn redneck who pisses you off next?"
Daryl's words stung a little, but you knew he was right. He was right in a way that made you want more of this—of him.
"Bet he's sleepin' right now," Daryl whispered, his other arm tightening around your chest, holding you up as your knees began to tremble again. "Dreamin' 'bout his sweet, innocent daughters. Never woulda dream 'bout how I got my cum drippin' outta one of 'em."
You were sobbing now with little broken whimpers, your hands gripping his forearm as the lust was building again.
"Y'gonna come again?" He grunted, his finger moving slightly faster and pressing a little harder.
You couldn't speak. You could only nod frantically, your body twitching in his arms.
"Damn right y'are," he snarled, and that was all it took. Your orgasm came fast, silent, and violent this time, your body tensing in his grip as you shook against him, a long, broken moan finally escaping you. Daryl held you through it with his face buried in your neck, his lips sucking and kissing your skin, bruising it further.
Once it was over and done, your legs gave out completely, and you both sank down to your knees on the scratchy blanket, his arms still locked around you, holding you against him.
"Yeah…" He then said, with his face still nuzzled against the back of your neck. "Ya can handle me."
"And you couldn't just—" You laughed with an exhausted tone in your voice. "You couldn't just... let it be. You had to... had to prove a point, huh?"
Daryl huffed against your back, but what you didn't see was his smirk when he held you tighter. "Point was proved when ya came on my dick the first time."
"I'm—" You answered, trying to squirm, but his arms kept you from moving. "I'm just saying! You didn't have to be such an asshole..."
"Y'started it," he shot back before he shifted behind you, and suddenly, he moved you both once more, back down on the scratchy blanket, your naked skin scraping against it. Daryl then leaned down over you again, trapping you with his body, but that made you angry again.
"Y'shoulda've just asked for it from the start. Woulda saved us both the helluva trouble that ya are."
You tried to kick him somehow, but your leg flopped back uselessly onto the floor. "Go to hell already, Daryl."
"Told ya. 'M already there." He didn't even try to deny it.
You opened your mouth to respond, to call him every name you could think of, but he was faster. His head dropped, and his teeth were finding the already bruised skin of your neck again. Gasping, that sharp bite of his was silencing you instantly while he was kneeling between your legs, and when he pulled back, his eyes were still focused only on you—the bite marks on your shoulder, the sweat on your stomach, and the trail of his cum on your inner thighs.
That's when you saw it. Daryl's one hand was moving past your face, searching for your discarded panties from the tangle of clothes on the floor. He held them up, letting you look at them, before bringing them to his mouth, putting the fabric between his teeth, his blue eyes locked on yours.
"What are you doing?" You asked, trying to sound defiant but only managing to sound confused but ever so curious.
He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back down lower over you.
What the hell was he doing now? And what exactly was he about to do next?
You found out a second later. Daryl's other hand, the fingers still wet from playing with your clit, moved down your throat next. You thought he was going to touch you there again, to tease you further. But he didn't. His hand slid slowly down your body, right to the sticky wetness on your inner thighs. You felt his fingers, two of them, press against your pussy.
And they didn't tease. They pushed inside you in one move, burying themselves deep.
It was an overwhelming feeling. Daryl's fingers inside you, pushing his own cum deeper, stretching you open all over.
"Feel that?" Daryl growled, the words muffled around the fabric in his mouth as his fingers pumped into you once, twice… several times, making you moan and squirm. "Makin' sure it takes... That it stays in ya."
"Stop—" you begged, but it was a lie, and he knew it. Your body was arching into his touch, your hips making tiny, helpless circles. "Stop… talking like that."
Before you could even form another reasonable thought, his fingers slid out of you, dripping and wet. Your mouth fell open, but he didn't give you the chance. His hand moved to your face, and those same two wet fingers pressed against your lips, making you stare up at him in shock until he tilted his head ever so slightly.
For a second, you resisted with wide eyes, your lips pressed shut in a rather pathetic attempt, thinking you could escape this. Him.
Hesitantly, your tongue darted out, tasting yourself and his cum on his fingers. Then, driven by the shiver that went through your whole body, you opened your mouth and took his fingers in, sucking them clean.
Leaning in closer to you, not to kiss you, but to bury his face against your chest, his nose was brushing along your tits, watching as your nipples hardened again, so close to his lips where he still held your panties between them. But Daryl continued to only watch, though his own breathing was already growing heavier again.
When he was truly satisfied, he slowly pulled his fingers away from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. Still holding your gaze, he dragged those now-clean fingers down your chin until he finally leaned back, pulling the panties from his teeth with his other hand.
"Told ya t'shut yer mouth," he said, his voice rough but still amused. "Now y'know how. And y'ain't bored no more, are ya?"
Daryl's eyes immediately dropped from your face to between your legs. He still held your panties in one hand, looking at them, then back at your pussy, so wet and only his.
With a grunt, he shifted down your body, and you thought he was going to fuck you again, making you tense up in anticipation. But he didn't. He only moved lower until his head was between your thighs, his strong shoulders pushing your legs apart.
"What are you—" You started, but the words died in your throat when he buried his face in your pussy, his mouth letting go of your panties.
It was a rough press of his lips and tongue against it, making you cry out when his tongue licked through the mess as it still leaked out of you. The feeling was so shocking that your hands flew to his hair, not knowing whether to push him away or hold him there forever.
"Fuck, Daryl," you groaned, your hips bucking slightly off the blanket. "God…"
He growled against you, the sound a clear command for you to be still. His hands came up to grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin, holding you open for him before his tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it, trying to clean you out, or at least you thought so.
Then you felt it. The fabric of your panties. Daryl had balled them up in one of his fists and was now pressing them against your pussy with his thumb. His mouth then worked your clit, his tongue circling it, but his thumb was there, trying to push the fabric into you.
The shock of it—the feeling of the fabric—made your body seize up. Your legs, acting on pure instinct, clamped shut around Daryl's head, trapping him there and making him curse against your clit. He struggled for a moment, his shoulders bunching, but you held him tight between your thighs. For you, it was a stupid and powerless attempt to stop whatever was happening, an embarrassing move to get back some tiny bit of control.
To no avail, it all just lasted a few seconds.
With a snarl, Daryl ripped his head free, coming up over you fast. His face was wet and his eyes wild. Before you could even take a breath, one hand was around your throat again, not to choke but to hold you still, to force you to look at him.
"Tryna suffocate me, huh?" He asked, his breath hot against your face. "That what ya wanna try now?"
You shook your head, the tone of your voice only a desperate whisper. "No… I just… Look—"
The next thing you knew was that his mouth was on yours again.
This kiss was different. You could taste yourself on Daryl's lips, on his tongue—it was the taste of what he'd just done to you, and he was forcing you to share it. Moaning into his mouth, your hands, which had been in his hair only moments before, now clawed at his back, pulling him closer.
He kissed you like he was trying to win a fight all over again, his tongue moving against yours, stealing your breath and your sanity. All the while, his other hand—the one not holding your throat—was still busy.
It was almost embarrassing when you felt the fabric of your panties again, pressed against your pussy. Daryl broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged.
"Gonna plug ya up," he whispered with a smirk. "Keep my cum inside ya where it belongs. 'Til we get back inside. Ain't gonna waste a drop."
Your eyes widened. "Daryl, you can't—"
His hand tightened on your throat, just a little, cutting off your response. "Can… 'M doin' it already."
And then he pushed.
The feeling of your panties was a strange pressure, not like his cock or his fingers. It was dry against your wetness, feeling so unnatural, but Daryl worked only a tiny part of it into you with two fingers, shoving the fabric not too deep but still stuffing you with your own underwear.
It felt wrong.
It felt insane.
It felt so fucking good, you thought you might come again from the sheer wrongness of it.
Daryl pushed until a small part of your panties was deep enough inside you, and he held his fingers there for a moment, feeling your pussy clench around it, watching your reaction closely.
"There," he smirked as he slowly pulled his fingers away, leaving the plug of fabric behind. "Now y'ain't leakin' all over the damn place. 'N yer gonna keep that in 'til we get back."
He finally released your throat, his hand coming down to move along your waist, almost tenderly if you ignored the fact that he'd just stuffed your pussy with your own panties.
Every tiny shift of your hips, every clench of your pussy, reminded you it was there. Reminded you of Daryl. His cum that he'd left behind.
Then he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear one last time.
"Shift's almost over," he whispered. "Get yer ass dressed."
That was all he said when he stood back up, adjusting himself once more, only to grab his crossbow in silence. And of course, a nasty little voice whispered in your head…
What did you expect? He got what he wanted. You were just a distraction from the boredom.
The Daryl who had just owned every inch of your body, who had whispered into your skin, and who came inside you earlier was gone. In his place was the grunting hunter, already turning his back to you. There was the quiet statue again, the brick wall.
The feeling of shame came back. Daryl had gotten what he wanted, and now he was done. You were just… Hershel Greene's middle daughter again. The one he'd fucked on a dirty blanket.
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you pushed yourself up as well. Your body felt used, sore in places you didn't know could be sore. But every movement sure was a reminder. The scrape of the blanket on your bare skin, the bite marks on your shoulder, and most of all, the strange pressure deep inside you. Your panties.
Moving quietly, with your legs buckling as you reached for your clothes, every step you took as you gathered your bra and shirt, as well as the discarded rifle, felt awkward. But pulling your pants on was the actual, and new, kind of torture. The fabric rubbed against the panties sticking out of you, creating a feeling that was anything but comfortable. It made you walk with a slight, awkward hitch in your step, making you squirm in a way you couldn't control, almost making you let go of the rifle.
Daryl heard you dressing up, but he didn't turn, though you saw the way his head tilted a bit, listening to your unsteady movements and fumbling with the weapon.
A while later, you both went down the watchtower in silence, and the second your boots hit the ground of the prison yard, he was moving, not waiting for you, his crossbow slung over his shoulder.
You followed, trying to walk normally, but the panties shifted now and then with the motion, a maddening friction that made it impossible to forget what he'd done. You still felt part of his cum, warm and trapped, the fabric holding it all in.
Suddenly, Daryl stopped. He must have heard the frustrated sigh you let out, but he didn't turn around and just stood there, waiting for you to catch up. When you were a step behind him, his hand shot back, not to grab yours, but to shove you forward a little.
It made you let out a cry of shock, with you jumping a foot in the air at the sudden contact.
"Quit squirmin'," he growled at your reaction and kept walking as if nothing had happened, leaving you standing there, with your pussy slightly pulsing around the fabric inside you.
Hurrying to get inside, to clean yourself up and to pretend nothing ever happened, you were quickly falling into step beside him this time, forcing your legs to move as normally as you could manage. Just as you reached the threshold of the main door to the C-Block, putting the rifle down, his hand shot out again. But this time, it wasn't him grabbing your arm. His fingers hooked into the back belt loop of your pants, yanking you to a stop just outside the circle of light from the inside of the prison. You stumbled back against his chest with another small, surprised gasp.
"Yer walkin' funny, Greene," he growled quietly into your ear. "Like ya got a damn stick up yer ass."
Your face turned red, and you didn't really know how to answer. "I told you, just go to hell!"
"And I—" He started, but you cut him off with a glare.
"I swear to God… If you say that 'you're already there,' I will—" You didn't even try to finish your sentence, shaking your head in annoyance.
Before you could react, Daryl's other hand came around your front, his hand moving down flat and low on your belly as he pulled you back against him. He held you there for one endless, heart-stopping second. And his hand moved. It was so fast, so casual, how he reached down and touched you between the legs, his palm pressing against the seam of your pants, right over your pussy.
Your eyes opened wide, looking around the empty yard, terrified someone might be watching anyway, somehow.
But Daryl just held his hand there, feeling the slight bulge of the fabric inside you.
"Still there… Still mine."
The words were simple, but they made you shiver.
Suddenly, his body shifted again. His hips pressed against your ass, grinding and pushing you against the cold door in front of you. He held you there, not caring if someone might come out, letting you feel his belt buckle just like he did in the watchtower, as well as the undeniable strength of him.
Letting you feel that he was, unmistakably, already hard again for you.
Then, as suddenly as he'd pinned you, he pulled back, one hand grabbing his crossbow while his other hand moved from your body to the handle of the door, pulling it open for you, like all the times he'd done it before.
Quickly taking the rifle back off the ground, you walked inside, your legs shaking and your face still burning. You didn't even dare look back at him anymore. But as you headed towards your cell, the strange, full feeling between your legs felt like a secret only the two of you shared, and you knew one thing for certain now...
Daryl Dixon was nowhere near done with you. And despite everything, a terrified but also excited part of you hoped he never would be.
alexandria’s streets have never been quieter than in this moment, and thank god. you’re not sure how you’d turn up to any community events going forward if anyone saw you here like this, slutting yourself out for officer grimes the second he’s instated.
“r-riiick, fuck! someone’s gonna see—”
a particularly punchy thrust from him knocks the wind out of your lungs, cutting you off with your own gasp. you start to claw at the siding of the home he has you pushed up against, trying to find any solace from the way his dick splits you open. rick groans nice and long, taking a second to readjust you and to speak.
“such a sweet girl, y’know? mmh- who would’ve known… a uniform would get you this wet.”
he hikes up your hip, thoughtfully smoothing his rough hands over your exposed skin before fucking into you again. he drinks in your whines, head dipped down to watch the way you take him so eagerly, easily.
your hands grab at nothing before shakily finding rick’s arms, flexed under his jacket. his head shoots up, another taunt already playing on his tongue feeling you run your fingers over the badge embroidered on his sleeve. it brings a faraway, fucked out look in your eyes he’s obsessed with. the strength in his grip frees you to go limp, squeezing the life out of his arms, your cunt just drooling around his length.
“you like that.” rick purrs, not even bothering to ask. “is it the badge, honey? haah.. s’that what gets you this dumb?”
you try to nod, form a sexy, coherent reply, anything other than just moan and let him take you, but he makes it so hard. the curve of his cock sliding inside you so evenly is unreal, white is already beginning to blear your vision, and he’s absolutely right. this new authority of rick’s is making you very dizzy.
“don’t ignore me, sweetheart…” grabbing your attention, rick moves you all the way down his cock in one swift motion, bottoming out and holding you there.
you yelp followed by a string of curses, squirming while he exhales a dry chuckle. staying in tune with you, he moves in and catches your lips in a quick but steady kiss, his fresh stubble tickling slightly as he eventually moves his way down your neck.
“wasn’t… i wasn’t ignoring you, sir,” you start, regaining your wit. rick immediately reacts to the title, almost growling into your skin. he nips you before separating, those calculating blue eyes shifting all over your face with a dangerous smirk ghosting his lips.
“i-i don’t want any trouble.”
rick hums in faux consideration, massaging nicely at your sides before moving a hand to your lower stomach, right above where your bodies connect. holding you firm once again, he picks up his forgotten pace, fucking you like some kind of doll. all the heat of the moment bubbles frantically in your core, right where he’s pressing down on. you pathetically throw your worry of getting caught to the sun, whining your new constable’s name like a mantra as he breaks you in.
“yeaahh. cum like a good girl and there won’t be any trouble.”
— authors note. hiii im new here :p my first time writing for rick which is v suprising cause twd is my favorite ever. thanks for reading 💘
ㅤׂ࣮⟢ 𝆬 ㅤ︐𝐜.𝐰 ∗ 𓂃 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 :: talks of sex :: oral :: marking :: some rough sex :: est. rel .
𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝓵 ’s not big on words during sex, he’s more likely to let out some grunts and low moans from time to time paired with heavy pants and breathing, rather than saying dirty things to you. occasionally, he’ll say “fuck… c’mere” or “that’s it, baby”. but filth growled in your ear would be rare. he shows everything through touch instead.
touch starved boy but hesitant about it. 𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝓵 spent most of his life thinking he was unworthy of any kind of affection, so early on he’d be careful with you, scared that maybe you’ll change your mind. though once he trusts you completely, he becomes greedy. big, sturdy fingers caressing everywhere—gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, sliding up your thighs, dipping under the waistband of your pants.
loves, loves, loves skin-on-skin contact and pinning you down. therefore, missionary and prone bone are his favourites cause he can cover you completely, cage you in with his body and watch your face/ass depending on which one you’re doing. 𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝓵 ’s strong as hell from years of survival and he makes good use of it. pressing you into the mattress (or the ground, or the hood of a car) while he fucks you and leaves marks and bites all the way down your spine.
pussy eater through and through. he’s obsessed with eating you out and would stay down there all day if you didn't push his head away the moment your legs start shaking and your core’s raw from overstimulation. 𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝓵 enjoys giving head more than receiving, but definitely won’t deny the opportunity to have your warm mouth wrapped around his dick if you offer.
aftercare with him is surprisingly sweet. he may not be into pillow talk, but he’ll pull you against his chest, snuggling you up to his side until you’re comfy enough to his eyes and murmur stuff like “ya good?” , “didn’t hurt ya, did i?” he’ll share his cigarettes with you after and let you trace his scars without getting tense about it anymore.
i don’t really think 𝓭𝐚𝐫𝐲𝓵 ’s too much of a perv. he’s more vanilla to me, so most of your encounters have lots of lazy kisses and eye contact. his movements would be slow and deep, and his forehead would often be pressed to yours or your neck.
Summary: On the road you showed the shy and reserved archer a little piece of heaven - and now he can't get enough, which results in a few risky and intimate encounters in 'public' as you and the group arrives in Alexandria...
Set in Season 5!
Warnings: MDNI! 18+! SMUT (handjob, protected sex, semi-public sex, public sex - kinda, fingering, dirty talk? sub!Daryl/inexperienced!Daryl, erections, coming too early & inside pants), suggestive things and comments, almost getting caught, Daryl is also quite a bit desperate in this, some cute moments, nicknames, unestablished relationship, friends with benefits - kinda, swear words
Word Count: 5k
a/n: You decided, I deliver. 😊
I think this is probably the smuttiest thing I've ever written. I know, I say that all thie time, but... I keep on exploring writing smut. I'm still learning and I still try to get better at it - without crossing personal borders. I think I'm getting better. Well, I hope so...
MDNI divider by @jiyascepter <3
Love In The Rearview Mirror °☆• EoH Masterlist
You had felt his eyes on you the moment you walked inside the huge living room - freshly showered and clothed. You couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was. Perhaps your still slightly wet hair. Or maybe because you looked like an entirely new person now that you were able to properly wash off the dirt, sweat and... guts from the past weeks - or already months? Or it was your choice of clothing. A rather too tight t-shirt and comfortable pyjama shorts, which highlighted your curves perhaps a little too well. In your defence, it was the only clothes left you found fitting for sleep. Now that you had an actual roof above your head, you didn't want to sleep in jeans, shirt and shoes. Streetwear.
Anyway, you felt heavenly after the shower and definitely agreed with Michonne... Alexandria was something good. You had a very good feeling about this place as well - unlike others who were still a bit... uncertain and maybe even sceptical. Which was more than understandable after all the shit you been through. Daryl was one of them. You could tell. But right now, the archer was distracted by something entirely else; still too busy ogling you - what only made you smirk.
Things between you and Daryl hadn't always been that... 'harmonic' and good like they were now. It had only changed about two weeks ago after a little... 'collision' in the woods. Now everything seemed to be rather intimate. Sexual tension had always been existent between the both of you. Just like a lot of pent up frustration. And you helped him find some relief. Not much more, really. And now...
You didn't know how to label what you both were, though. It was rather difficult. Best friends? Nope. Was it sexual? Absolutely. Romantic? No clue. Something between fuck buddies and dating. Perhaps.
You were just helping Rosita to get some more blankets and pillows to make sure everyone had at least something like a bed on the floor, when you saw Daryl turning his back and leaving the newfound home. Rick had decided that you'd spend the first night in Alexandria all together in one house and rather not split up. Playing it safe.
You frowned slightly at his sudden departure; wondering what was going on. For a second, you caught yourself worrying about the tough archer - and decided to follow him. Subtly, of course. Your eyes scanned the room and made sure everyone was somewhat occupied, before you snuck out the main door as well.
You found Daryl sitting on the railing of the porch; staring aimlessly but attentively at the community. As if he was taking watch - or trying to distract himself. Well, whatever this was, you were going to find out.
"Daryl," you spoke his name to get his attention - successfully. His head shortly snapped to face you, but he quickly averted his eyes again. "You okay?" He just grumbled and huffed. Your frown deepened. "Daryl?" Another huff left his lips. "Nah, 'm not," he snapped; voice filled with annoyance and something you couldn't pinpoint.
You took a step closer. "Why? What's wrong? Can I help you?" "Help me?" He scoffed. "'S yer damn fault." Now you were entirely confused - until Daryl rearranged his sitting position on the wooden railing; now facing you. "Look wha' ya do 't me, woman. You 'n yer damn looks. Ya chose 't wear this on purpose, didn't ya? Tryna get me all riled up, huh?" Your eyes followed the gesture of his hand and landed on the quite obvious bulge at the front of his rather shabby and ragged jeans. Sudden realization dawned on you. It fell like scales from your eyes. "Oh...," you stated; mouth forming into a perfect 'o'. "Yeah... Yer givin' me constant hard-on's since tha' handjob in the woods. Ain't the first time."
You listened to his words - to the sheer annoyance and yet absolute neediness in his voice. You bit your lip; trying to hide a smirk. But your body decided to compensate that with a giggle. "Tha' ain't funny." Daryl wasn't very amused - obviously. "Sorry," you apologized instantly; finding it beyond cute how one single intimate encounter lead to such an 'addiction'. He seemed to be starved - and you were more than happy to help out.
What you didn't like, though, was the rather angry scowl he casted your way. That had to change. You looked around and quickly scanned your surroundings; checking if anyone was around. Since that wasn't the case, you crossed the remaining distance between you and the archer with three strides. Before Daryl was even able to realize what was going on, were your hands already on him. Caressing the insides of his clothed thighs, to be precisely - and it didn't fail to make his breath catch in his throat.
You smiled; satisfied with the instant reaction. You loved how sensitive he was for you. One touch at the right spot was all it took to really get him going. "Y/N..." Daryl breathed; wide blue eyes locked on your hands. Watching them how they got closer and closer to where he needed your touch most. You shook your head. "Behave. Don't scowl at me. Be a good boy and I give you what you need." His gaze flickered shortly up to meet yours. He nodded eagerly. "'M good. I promise. Jus' please..."
You smiled once again and leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his stubbly cheek. "That's what I wanted to hear," you praised him and finally touched him where he needed you; rubbing him over his jeans. Daryl whimpered and squirmed; visibly trying to get more. He was apparently already a mess. "Look at you, sweet boy... That desperate and needy, huh? You need me that bad?" Once again he nodded. "P-Please..." "Mhm," you hummed, "And what do you want?" and gave him a teasing squeeze. The archer growled lowly; head thrown into his neck. So sensitive. "Words, sweet boy." "A-Anything," he stammered and swallowed hard. You could see how his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "W-Wha'ever yer willin' t-to give me." You smiled again - almost proudly, "There you go." and instantly worked on getting the belt and button of his jeans undone before you were able to slip your hand inside.
Incoherent curse words tumbled past Daryl's lips as your hand finally made contact with the hot, pulsating flesh of his hardness. "Shh," you instantly 'scolded' him. "You have to keep quiet, baby. We don't want the others to hear us, right?" He nodded and bit his lip; trying his best to keep quiet. The problem was that your touch just felt so fucking heavenly. You had showed him paradise and now he didn't ever want to leave again. Daryl was an addict - and you were his drug.
Your hand worked him slowly and steadily - as best as you could inside the confines of his boxers and jeans. Nevertheless, the archer seemed to thoroughly enjoy it. His eyes were closed shut; mouth hanging open. You smiled.
"Good, baby?" All that Daryl was able to answer with was a low grunt. It was confirmation enough for you. So, you kept going; pumping him slow and steady and - hopefully, getting him closer and closer to his high.
After barely a few minutes, Daryl started to squirm again. "'M close, fuck, 'm so close," he almost whimpered and tried to rut up into your hand. "N-Need more, please, Y/N, n-need more," he begged; lower lip quivering and sweat rolling down his temple. He was so worked up and desperate - a state you didn't see him in often. Yet.
You nodded. "I know, sweet boy, I know. I want to give you more - I'd love to give you more, but I'm afraid I can't. Not here. It's too public. Too risky. Anyone could see us." Even though it sounded kinda thrilling - doing something 'risky' and knowing the possibility of getting caught any second existed, but you didn't want that for Daryl. You knew he'd probably never get over it if somebody would walk in on the both of you; of getting seen in such a vulnerable, intimate state. The archer, though, was way too far gone to care - that's why you had to do it for him.
Daryl shook his head. "Dun care, please..." Gosh, he was adorable. You wanted to give in. Really. You'd have gotten on your damn knees right in front of the man to put your mouth on him to give him more - but as a sudden voice cut through the air, you were very glad you didn't.
"Daryl, Y/N." The voice wasn't entirely familiar yet but nevertheless distinct. Deanna... You instantly stopped in your movements as you saw past Daryl's sweaty biceps how the elder woman approached the porch with a smile. "Good evening," Deanna continued and started to climb the few steps. You turned; shielding Daryl's... 'misfortunate' state from her eyes. It was a little awkward for your arm - given the fact that your hand was still shoved in his pants, but well... Anything to look 'decent'.
"Enjoying this summer evening?" The woman asked as she came to stand in front of you and Daryl. You nodded and gave her a smile; hoping the scenery didn't look too strange... Daryl, sitting on the railing with you standing between his legs - close to leaning against his body. Could be easily wrong interpreted, you caught yourself thinking. Deanna might think now we're romantically involved... But then again... Better that than her, catching me sucking him off...
"We are, yes. It's nice out here. Still very warm, though."
While you acted blazingly fast and saved the situation with casual small-talk, the archer was like frozen behind you. The sudden interruption caused at least his brain to fall from cloud nine and rather harshly come back down to earth. His cheeks were flushed. Deep red in embarrassment and arousal. The sweat was still rolling down his temples and pectorals; heart hammering in his chest. He tried so hard to act 'normal' and not let Deanna notice what was really going on here. That your hand was currently firmly wrapped around his rock hard dick and that you'd been jerking him off only a few seconds ago. And yet he was also utterly annoyed and frustrated since he was so close to reach his peak.
He didn't even register half of the conversation you had with Deanna; too lost in his own head trying to keep it together. Until he heard a door close shut and felt how your hand vanished around his throbbing erection. He whimpered. He didn't intend to, but it just happened. His eyes instantly flicked up to meet yours. You held a compassionate look. "I know, sweet boy, I'm sorry... But Deanna just almost caught us. We don't want that to happen again, do we?" Daryl swallowed and shook his head. "Nah," he whispered; voice cracking. "See?" You said and buttoned his straining jeans; not forgetting to buckle his belt as well. Daryl watched your fingers work and swallowed again. "S-So yer jus' gonna leave me like tha'? 'M still-" "Painfully hard, I know," you finished his sentence and gave his thick thigh a pat. "I won't," you shook your head, "Go inside and take a shower upstairs. I'm gonna come and visit you," and offered him with a smile and a wink.
The archer grumbled under his breath but knew he didn't have a choice and that it was better that way - even though he wanted you to finish what you started right here and now. "Fine." You smiled, "Good boy." and reached for the left side pocket of his vest in which he kept his cigarettes. You took one out, alongside the lighter and put it between your lips to light it. Then you jutted your head at the door, "Go, Daryl. I'll finish the smoke and join you." and took a drag of the cigarette; blowing the smoke right into his face. Something that managed to turn on the already riled up man even more - only God knew why. Daryl clenched his jaw to stop another needy whimper from slipping past his lips. Without another word, he adjusted his jeans and stepped back inside the house. You smiled; eyes ogling his backside.
Like promised, you finished your smoke - taking your time, and more or less snuck inside and upstairs to join Daryl in the bathroom. Scanning the hallway a last time to make sure nobody was around, you slipped inside the room, closed the door and locked it.
"Wha' the fuck took ya tha' long? Had another smoke or wha'?" Daryl snapped; standing in front of you with his arms crossed over his chest and visibly frustrated. It looked like he had already showered, since he wore a fresh shirt with the sleeves torn off. His wild, growing curls were wet. His lower half was bare, except a very low hanging and tenting boxer shorts.
You casually shrugged your shoulders, "Had to make sure enough time passed. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect anything, right?" and started to get rid of your pyjama shorts and panties without missing a beat. When Daryl just stared at you almost speechless and didn't move a muscle, you raised an eyebrow. "What is it, handsome? We're doing this now, or not? Thought you wanted more? I'm giving you more." You gestured down yourself, then reached inside a drawer of the bathroom cabinet and threw a condom his way which Daryl caught just barely. Yeah, you came prepared. "You gonna get going now, or need an extra invitation?"
Your boldness caught the bowman a little off-guard, but it also sent a delicious spark of desire down his core. He nodded and rather awkwardly tugged at his boxers to shove them past his hips and down his legs. "Yeah, 'm- 'course..." "Good," you said with a smirk and turned to steady yourself against the lavatory; pushing your hips back. "'Cause I don't think we have much time before anyone notices that we're both gone and not on the porch either." Daryl swallowed hard; eyes stuck on the prize. The vision of you half naked in front of him was straight up overwhelming. Sure, he had a few girls in his life before. But not many. And certainly not like that. This was different. You were different.
"C'mon, handsome. Don't be shy. Take what you need. I gotcha," you almost cooed; trying to reassure the man standing like rooted to the floor behind you. He nodded - more to himself than to you. No matter how nervous Daryl was, he couldn't deny how much his body demanded this. After ripping the small quadratic wrapper open with his teeth, he took out the safety measure with slightly shaking hands. Rolling the condom over his sensitive, kinda already edged length made him suppress a moan. Instead he gritted his teeth; hoping that he was able to last at least a few minutes and give you some pleasure as well. Then he stepped closer; shy and clammy hands reaching for your hips and grabbing them gently.
Taking a deep breath, he adjusted himself and was about to connect your bodies, when he suddenly stopped with hesitation. You frowned; had been already waiting for the incoming stretch and pleasure. "What's wrong, Dar?" Daryl swallowed again. As much as he wanted to have sex with you, the least thing he wanted was to hurt you. He accidentally did that way too often when he was younger and Merle made him 'screw sum' hot bitches he knew'.
"A-Are ya, uh...? C-Can I...? D-Dun wanna hurt ya," he whispered - feeling like a young, inexperienced man who had his first time. You gazed over your shoulder to look at the archer. Face flushed, a few damp strands of hair in his face. He looked so cute being all shy and embarrassed. You gave him a nod. "Yes, sweet boy. I'm ready. Was since I started to jerk you off. Get going."
"'Kay," he mumbled almost inaudible and finally slipped inside; slow and gentle. "Oh my gosh, yesss," you giggled - already enjoying yourself very much, while Daryl tensed. He had such a hard time keeping it together and not blow his load already. It took him all his willpower to not start rutting into you like a wild animal. It had been so long and he was so damn sensitive.
"You can move, Daryl." You told him; having adjusted to his size. To hear you say that was utterly reliving. Now that you officially gave him the go, there was no holding back. Daryl was so desperate for you. He needed this. Otherwise he might as well drown and die in his own unanswered pleasure.
The archer started to move. It wasn't perfect. Rather clumsy and... wild. So, you pushed your hips back; trying to guide him a little. With success. He was a quick learner and fell into rhythm fast.
"T-Tha' okay?" Daryl asked in between thrusts; wanting to do it right. "Mhm," you hummed. "Making me feel very good, sweet boy. Don't stop." The man behind you whimpered at your praise; hips stuttering a little. "D-Dun wanna stop, b-but 'm so close. D-Dunno how long I can hold-" You unintentionally clenched around him. "O-Oh fuck," Daryl whined, and you instantly felt his rhythm falter before he entirely came to an halt. Panting hard and with satisfying pleasure running through his veins, he almost collapsed on you; forehead pressed against your back. Daryl's palms were still holding on tightly to your hips; grounding him.
You looked once more over your shoulder; watching the spent archer. Another smile darted across your face. Yes, he didn't last long and came prematurely. Yes, you didn't get to reach your peak. But right now in this moment, you couldn't care less. This had been about him. Not you. He was going to get better at this - with time and patience.
Daryl had barely caught his breath when you started to move 'beneath' him to slip away. You could've sworn he winced a little at the sudden loss of body contact. Almost dazed, the archer watched you getting dressed again - rooted once more to the ground and his lower half still entirely exposed.
When you came up to him and pressed a kiss against his cheek, he instantly blushed - as if flipping a switch. "See you, handsome." You walked to the bathroom door - which seemed to 'wake' him finally up from his trance like state. "Y-Yer goin'?" The man whispered; looking at you like a puppy in the rain. Cute.
You nodded. "Have to. Don't want our cover blown." Daryl chewed on the inside of his lower lip and nodded as well; another few wild chestnut bangs falling into his face. You gave him another smile as you unlocked the door. "Great sex, sweet boy," you added with a wink and left the still utterly dazed archer behind.
Daryl spent almost the whole night on the porch to keep watch. It felt safer that way. He and Rick still didn't trust this place entirely. Being on his own for several hours gave the archer a lot of time to think. Too much. No matter what he tried to think of, his thoughts always ended back on you and especially all the things you were able to make him feel. Your hands all over him. Your lips. Your mouth. How heavenly you felt wrapped around him - as if you were made for each other. He swallowed hard and cursed under his breath as he noticed how much he had been drifting off again. Daryl felt like a horny teenager. "Damnit," he whispered; noticing the tightness of his pants again. What was wrong with him? What had you done?
The archer desperately tried to redirect his dirty mind and think of anything - just not you. But without much success. The seed had been planted and now the plant grew.
Since it was in the middle of the night and therefore quiet and especially dark, he grabbed his junk with one big palm; trying to give himself some relief and get his 'little friend' to calm down again. The problem? His hand just wasn't yours. It was not enough - and he soon learned that he needed more. He needed you.
So, with a rather frustrated, needy growl, he made his way to you; tiptoeing around all his sleeping family members. The only good thing was that you were sleeping at the far end of the room but at the edge - so if anyone would wake up, he could easily just roll away from what he had planned to do. Hopefully.
The archer carefully laid down behind you - not to startle you awake and pressed his pelvis against your behind; hand on your hip. "Y/N," he whispered gruffly. "Y/N, c'mon." His hand squeezed your hip as he tried hard to not grind against you. He certainly wouldn't do anything before you didn't give him his go. "Wake up," he whispered a notch louder. "Please..."
That seemed to do the trick. You stirred and shifted. "Daryl?" You mumbled; voice thick with sleep as you lifted your hands to your face in order to rub the sleep out of your eyes. "What's wrong? You okay?"
He straight up whimpered at your kind and caring words; shaking his head - something you weren't able to see. "N-Need you," he whispered in a hoarse voice; "Please..." proving his point by grinding his hips against your ass and making you feel him. You gasped; certainly not having expected this. "Oh, Daryl... Got yourself worked up all over again?" He just whined - and it was all the confirmation you needed. "Okay, okay, I gotcha. What do you need, handsome?" You turned your head to look over your shoulder at him. "My hand? Mouth? Sex?" He shook his head - at all the three options you gave him. "What then, huh?" The bowman swallowed hard; Adam's apple bobbing. "W-Wanna play," he rasped out. "Lemme play. With ya." You raised your eyebrows - a little surprised. "You want to...?" He nodded. "Please. I-I know I didn't make ya come when we... I know I blew 'm load too early 'n... I wanna make it up 't ya. Please. Let me try."
His words and almost sheer desperation sent a delicious tingle straight to your core. Who were you to deny him? Especially when he asked so sweetly. "Okay, sweet boy - but as always... We have to keep quiet, yeah?" He nodded quickly against your shoulder. "'Kay," you whispered. "Give me your hand. I'll show you how you can make me feel good." Another soft whimper left the archer's lips and within seconds slid his palm from your hip into your hand. You lifted the blanket to tuck it over his arm and then guided his hand southward until his big palm was cupping your crotch. "Rub me like you'd rub yourself over your pants. Go ahead. I know you can do it. You know how that works, handsome."
You felt him nod again before he cautiously started to do as you asked. It felt... different. Jerking himself off was one thing, but jerking you - a woman off was something entirely different. It wasn't his body and so, of course, he didn't know exactly the... mechanics. He never did it before. This was a first for Daryl. That's why he asked you to teach him. He was familiar with your anatomy - but not with the buttons he had to press.
"T-Tha' good?" He asked after a few moments; keeping his voice down. "Mhm," you hummed and started to slowly grind against his hand. "Keep going." Daryl kept going - until you tapped your fingertips against the back of his hand. "Need more, handsome. You ready to learn more?" "Please," he pleaded; voice strained and husky. "So eager..." There was an audible smile in your voice as you rearranged his hand again; slipping it inside your shorts and panties this time. The moment Daryl's fingers connected with your heat, a low moan escaped both your lips. You shifted your leg a little for better access and guided his hand; letting his fingers glide through your folds.
"F-Fuck, sunshine... Y-Ya always tha' ready?" You had to suppress a giggle. "Only for you, sweet boy." He whined; hips rutting involuntarily against you. You smiled and bit your lip; his desperation turning you on even more. "Concentration, baby, c'mon. Keep your hand were I want it. You said this is about me - not you." "S-Sorry," he whispered hoarsely and kept going; rubbing you. It was delicious - especially once Daryl got the nick of it, with the calloused, rough pads of his fingers caressing your most sensitive part as well.
"You're doing so good, sweet boy. Just keep it up a little." At your praise, the archer had to suppress a moan and did his utmost best to keep doing it right. But with Daryl helping you climb the ladder higher and higher, the need for more got more urgent as well. So, you grabbed his wrist again to slow his movements down and to reposition yourself once again a little. "A-Ain't good anymore?" The man behind you mumbled; slight worry swinging in his voice. "No, baby. It is good - just not enough. Need your fingers inside. Now."
Daryl swallowed hard at your words; feeling himself blush but also twitch in his way too tight boxers. "I-I ain't ever..." He started; too shy to spell it out entirely. "That's what I thought, Dar. Don't worry, you got this. I promised I'd teach you." The man nodded and let you reposition his hand again; sliding two of his thick fingers inside - which caused you to audibly gasp. "Fuck, sweet boy, that's it," you breathed and started to guide his hand; teaching him the right movements. "Just like that. Just like that." Daryl was a fast learner. And oh, boy was he good with his fingers. To he honest, you assumed nothing less - since he just was good with his hands in general, but that... You thought you unlocked a new skill of his.
"U-Use your thumb, too, handsome." You didn't need to explicitly tell him what to do with the digit. He connected the dots and added pressure to the bundle of nerves; rubbing in tight circles. You had to slam a hand over your mouth to not moan out loud.
From time to time you had to redirect his thumb a little, since he was going a little too hard, but beside that... He treated you so good and gave you so much pleasure - especially for a man who had never done this before. So, it was no wonder that you reached your peak quite fast.
"I-I'm so close," you whimpered. "J-Just a little more, handsome ." Daryl groaned lowly into your neck and pumped his fingers a little faster; hitting that one delicious spot repeatedly. The wet, obscene sounds this intimate encounter resolved in, got luckily mostly muffled by the blanket around you. But nevertheless, you tried to keep an eye on your surroundings in case anyone of your found family woke up.
"S-Shit," you cursed; feeling yourself tipping over the edge. "G-Gonna-" Your word morphed into a breathless moan. You squirmed against Daryl as you got swallowed by pleasure; hands gripping his wrist and forearm - probably leaving marks.
To feel and watch you fall apart didn't leave the archer unbothered. His hips rutted against you, before they came to an halt - just like the hand which was pleasuring you, with an incoherent curse that tumbled from his lips.
"O-Oh my..." You breathed in the dark room; recovering from your high and feeling Daryl's hand retreating from your heat. "W-Was it... 'kay?" You turned in his 'embrace' to face him. "Okay? Dar... I think that was one of the best orgasms I ever had." You could barely see the blush creeping up on the archer's face, since the huge room was only a little illuminated by the moonlight shining through the windows. "R-Really?" "Really. You did so good, sweet boy," you praised him and brought his hand up to your lips; licking and sucking his fingers clean and tasting yourself on his roughened skin. Daryl had to suppress a load moan as he felt your hot tongue against his fingers.
You giggled quietly and were more than ready to give him some relief you know he needed as well - but when your hand slid inside his jeans, you could feel a warm, sticky wet patch at the front of his boxers. "Daryl, did you...?" He nodded - ashamed. "C-Creamed 'm pants, yeah." You shook your head and retrieved your hand to cup his stubbly cheeks again. "Don't. Don't be embarrassed or ashamed. It's okay, handsome," you whispered with a small smile. "And actually beautiful. Because you felt so much pleasure by giving it to someone else that you were able to immerse yourself in it, too. It's so selfless and actually quite sexy." Daryl blinked and chewed on the inside of his bottom lip; mulling over your words. "Yeah?" You smiled at his absolute cuteness and nodded. "Yes." To proof your point, you placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. His cheeks became redder - and before things could get more intimate between you two, he carefully shifted and slowly got up. You let him, of course; didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable or something. "I-I, uh, should get into a fresh pair 'a boxers..." Daryl mumbled; rubbing his neck. "Sure thing, handsome. And thank you for this." He shook his head, "Gotta thank ya." and turned to tiptoe upstairs. "Daryl?" You whisper-shouted after him. "Yah?" "We're doing this again, right?" "Please."
You’d been following Shane around like a lost puppy all day. Again.
He was fixing a fence post—again—and you were hovering three feet behind him with your hands clasped behind your back, watching like he was putting on a show just for you.
“Shane?” you chirped.
He sighed. “Yeah, baby?”
“You want me to… go pick some berries or somethin’? Or maybe I can sweep the porch again? Or—oh! I can refill your water jug. It’s gotta be warm now, right?”
He wiped sweat from his brow, cast you a look over his shoulder.
You were smiling. Wide. Like it was the best part of your day just being assigned some meaningless task by him.
Shane ran his hand down his face and muttered, “Yeah, alright. Porch could use a sweep.”
You gasped, delighted.
“Yes, sir!”
And off you went. Practically skipping.
—
Ten minutes.
He got ten minutes.
Then:
“I swept it twice just to be sure!”
You were back, beaming, barefoot now for some reason, proudly holding the broom like it was a weapon you’d conquered.
Shane squinted up at you.
“You done already?”
“Uh-huh! Wasn’t even that dusty.”
He stared at you for a long second. Then sighed again.
“Alright. Why don’t you go check on the chickens. Make sure they got food. Might be some corn still in the sack behind the coop.”
You nodded. “Yessir!”
Off again.
—
Eight minutes this time.
“They’re all fed! One of them pecked at me but I think she was just confused ‘cause I smell like you.”
Shane looked up from his half-repaired post, jaw clenched.
You weren’t trying to be a pain. He knew that. You were sweet. Soft. Practically glowing with adoration every time your eyes met his. You looked at him like he hung the damn moon. And some sick, selfish part of him loved it.
But another part?
The part that was hot, sweaty, and trying to fix a fence post that wouldn’t set straight?
Was losing his goddamn mind.
“Alright, sugar,” he said, voice tight. “Think you can go… polish my boots?”
“Ooooh, yes.” You grinned like he just gave you an award. “I’ll even shine the little buckles.”
Of course you would.
—
Seven minutes.
He didn’t even hear you come back that time. Just looked up and there you were—knees dirty, holding his boots like a trophy, cheeks flushed from the sun.
“All done!”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
You blinked.
“What?”
Shane didn’t answer. Just stood up. Tossed the hammer down in the grass. Marched toward you.
You opened your mouth to ask something else—but before you could speak, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you back toward the house.
“Shane?”
“Inside. Now.”
Your heart fluttered. Your tummy did that little flip it did when he used that tone. You followed in silence, eyes big, breath shallow.
—
As soon as you were inside the bedroom and the door shut behind you, he had you up against the wall.
“Can’t give me ten minutes, can you?” he growled. “Not ten goddamn minutes to myself.”
You whined, eyes shining. “I just wanted to help—”
“You ain’t helpin’. You’re drivin’ me crazy. Baby, I love that pretty little smile and your sweet voice and that dumb-ass giggle—but fuck. I need a break.”
You blinked, mouth trembling just a little.
“Don’t… don’t want you to need a break from me,” you whispered.
Shane stared at you for a moment. Then something shifted behind his eyes. His jaw ticked. His hands gripped your hips.
“I’ll tell you what I need.”
You whimpered as he spun you around and bent you over the bed.
“Shane—”
“Shhh. Be good.”
You heard the buckle of his belt. The zip. The rustle of his jeans.
You wiggled your hips, needy, aching, brain already fogging from the sudden change in tone.
“I was bein’ good, I was—”
“No,” he snapped, yanking your shorts down roughly. “You were bein’ a damn nuisance.”
Your pussy clenched.
“You like bein’ a nuisance?” he asked low, dragging the head of his cock through your folds.
You whined. “N-no… I just like bein’ near you…”
He chuckled darkly.
“Course you do.”
He shoved inside you in one deep thrust and you cried out, clutching the sheets, breath caught in your throat.
“You fuckin’ live for this, don’t you?” he hissed, snapping his hips. “All day, followin’ me around like a goddamn puppy. You just wanted cock.”
You sobbed into the mattress. “I didn’t—I wasn’t—Shane—”
“You’re soaked,” he growled. “Don’t lie to me.”
He pounded into you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
“Take it, baby,” he grunted. “Take it like a good little fuckdoll.”
You mewled. “I am, I am, I’m bein’ good, I swear—”
“Say it.”
“M’bein’ good! Bein’ good for you, daddy!”
His hips stuttered.
You moaned at the sound of his groan behind you, the way he suddenly grabbed your hair and pulled you up so your back arched and you were crying from how deep he hit.
“You gonna be quiet for me now?” he rasped into your ear. “Let me finish my work without you draggin’ your cute little ass back every five fuckin’ minutes?”
You whined.
“Don’t know… need you too much…”
He fucked you harder.
You were close. Your legs shook. Your thighs quivered.
He slipped a hand down and rubbed your clit, fast and filthy.
“Cum for me,” he ordered. “Now.”
You screamed, head thrown back, toes curling, mind going blank.
And he kept going. Hips pounding until he slammed in deep and groaned low, filling you up.
—
You didn’t even realize when he pulled out. Or when he cleaned you up. You were limp, dazed, cheek pressed to the sheets, eyelids heavy.
Shane pulled the covers up over you gently.
“Go to sleep, baby.”
You whined softly, tugging at his wrist.
“Don’t wanna sleep unless you’re stayin’…”
He leaned down, kissed your forehead.
“I’ll be back. Just need to fix that post. You wore me out.”
You pouted, already drifting.
“’Kay… but come back…”
“Always do.”
—
Shane walked out of the room, finally getting the silence he’d begged for all day.
But even as he returned to the fence, hands to work, all he could think about was you curled up in his bed—barely able to keep your eyes open—dreaming about him.
And he knew you’d be back at his side the second you woke up.
a/n: I've been dying to write feral/creepy!Daryl and enemies to lovers. my brain supplied the idea of combining the two. it's indulgent and gratuitous as fuuuuuck, so enjoy. 🖤
tags: Alexandria AU, enemies to lovers, stalking/eavesdropping/peeping(Daryl), manipulation/gaslighting(Daryl), home intrusion(Daryl), panty stealing, masturbation (Reader), fucked into submission(Reader), verbal and physical fighting, sexual tension, hate sex, power struggle, p in v sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (both receiving), pussy spanking, impact play, face spitting, hair pulling, squirting, loss of consciousness
From the second you stagger through Alexandria’s gates, half-starved and asking for shelter, his attention latches onto you and doesn’t let go. It isn’t a passing glance, or even curiosity. It’s steady.
Unwavering.
The kind of stare that feels less like looking and more like measuring, like he’s trying to figure out what you are and hasn’t decided yet.
At first, it almost makes you smile. There’s something about the way his eyes narrow, the way his shoulders stay locked tight. He’s clearly got anxiety of some sort.
So you try to humor him. You lift a hand, offer a small wave, just an easy gesture meant to smooth over whatever tension he’s carrying.
He watches you do it, then turns away like you aren’t even worth acknowledging.
Huh.
Alright. Message received.
You chalk it up to attitude, to whatever brand of personality he’s got, and by the time Maggie’s tour of Alexandria starts to blur into a string of houses and unfamiliar faces, you assume that’s the end of it. First impressions made, filed away, done.
It isn’t.
Because you keep catching him.
Across the yard while you’re talking to someone else. Leaning against a post like he just happens to be there. Standing off to the side during introductions, quiet and still, doing nothing except watching. He’s never close enough to interrupt, never far enough to miss anything, always somewhere in that middle space where you can’t quite ignore him.
And every time you look, he’s already looking back.
You try to make sense of it. Alexandria’s small. People overlap. You’re new, and someone keeping an eye on you isn’t exactly strange.
But this doesn’t feel like someone checking in.
It feels like being tracked.
Over the next week, that feeling settles in instead of fading.
No matter where you go, there’s this quiet awareness trailing behind you. You’ll be mid-conversation, half-listening, and something in your gut will tighten just enough to pull your attention away, to make you glance up or over your shoulder.
He’s always there when you do.
The same expression, or lack of one. Mouth set, eyes narrowed just enough that everything about him reads a little too close to irritation, even when he’s doing nothing at all.
Maybe that’s just how his face rests, but it doesn’t make the weight of it any easier to ignore.
Especially since he still hasn’t said a word to you.
Not a greeting, not a warning, nothing that gives any shape to whatever this is.
Rick had told everyone to give you space while you settled in, and you’re grateful for it. After everything, the quiet helps.
You just wish someone had told Daryl.
You stay with Maggie and Glenn at first, drifting through those first few days in a strange, cautious haze, until ten days later you’re handed a place of your own.
It’s far more than you expected. Far more than what you’re used to, and you’re stepping through the front door for the first time when that familiar prickle crawls up your spine again.
You turn before you can stop yourself.
He’s across the street, sitting on the front steps of the house opposite yours like he’s always been there. Chin propped in his hands, elbows on his knees.
You flip him off and go inside.
Another day passes, and you’re coming back from the infirmary after helping Denise.
And there he is again, sharpening a blade on the stoop.
When he does look up, it’s subtle. Only his eyes move, flicking up until they land on you without hesitation.
Your neck prickles when they stay there, heavy.
The blade stills in his hand.
For a second, nothing moves. Not him. Not you. Just that stretch of space between you, pulled tight like a wire.
Then, without breaking eye contact, he slowly lifts the knife.
The pointed tip angles toward you, not quite level, not quite careless either. A gesture that could be nothing.
Could be everything he’s implying.
Your stomach drops anyway.
Especially when he tilts it slightly, inspecting the edge, turning his wrist just enough that the light catches along the blade. It flashes once in the sun, and for a healthy few moments, it lines up with you.
Like he’s sighting down it.
He drags his thumb across the edge, not enough to cut, just enough to feel it, then nods like it meets whatever standard he had in mind.
Only then does he look back down, returning the blade to the stone.
Shhk.
Shhk.
The sound picks up again like nothing happened.
Like you didn’t just feel the distance between you measured in inches instead of yards.
Like that wasn’t meant for you to see.
You retreat inside and lock the door. You stay there longer than you think you need to, back pressed to the door.
But that was terrifying.
After some deep breaths, you start moving through the house under the pretense of finally finishing with getting settled.
The kitchen alone feels surreal, stocked in a way that almost doesn’t make sense after everything you’ve gotten used to, and you end up making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just to prove to yourself it’s real.
Even as the afternoon slips toward evening, you’re still being watched.
You notice Daryl through the windows more than once. Sometimes he’s working, sometimes he’s just adjusting his crossbow, but his attention drifts back to your house again and again, like it’s tethered there.
It starts to get under your skin in a way that doesn’t dull with time. If anything, it gets more acute.
By the time you finish collecting all of your laundry in the back bedroom, your nerves are worn thin enough that you decide to shower before dealing with any of it, just to reset.
It’s been too long. Longer than you like to think about.
You’ve bathed in rivers when you could find them, used rainwater when the weather was kind enough, and you haven’t had anything close to proper soap for well over a year.
You cleaned up at Maggie and Glenn’s, but that was just a birdbath in the sink. You didn’t feel safe enough for a full shower.
So standing in a real bathroom again feels unreal. Clean tile beneath your feet, thick towels within reach, even a razor sitting on the edge of the sink.
It should feel safe in here. You have plenty more than what you even need.
For a moment, it does feel safe.
Until you notice the window.
Bare glass, wide open to the outside, with nothing covering it. No blinds, no curtains, not even the hardware left behind. Just an unobstructed view straight out into the side yard and the curving street beyond.
It feels wrong, immediately.
Not just because it’s missing, but because it was clearly removed.
The holes where something used to be secured are too clean for anything else.
A quiet tension tightens in your chest as you step out into the hallway, checking the rest of the house with a growing sense of certainty.
The living room is the same. The kitchen too. Every window stripped down to nothing but glass and frame, like the ability to block the outside world was taken out on purpose.
You don’t react right away. You just take it in, filing it away the same way you’ve learned to do with anything that doesn’t seem right.
By the time you reach the back bedroom, you already know what you’ll find.
Still, you check.
The windows are bare.
You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself as your thoughts start to align instead of scatter.
You’ve trusted people before. Taken things at face value. It never ended well, not out there where trust had a way of turning into a weapon if you weren’t careful.
Your attention drifts, inevitably, back to him. To how he’s always outside, always within range, always watching without ever saying a word.
You’ve known men like that before, even if the faces were different. The pattern isn’t new.
When you check outside again and find the stoop empty, your stomach drops.
God, you never see him move. He’s either there or he isn’t, and the absence feels worse than the presence because it leaves you guessing.
Leaves you exposed.
Of course he moved.
Because you did.
You head back to the bathroom, your knives already in your hands before you consciously decide to grab them. You press a towel up against the wall where the window sits. It takes a few quick motions to pin it in place, blade biting into drywall until the fabric holds well enough to block the view.
It isn’t perfect, but it’s enough.
You’re surprised by your own sudden sneeze as you shut the door. But then you undress and step into the shower, letting the water hit. It’s hot and steady and endless, and for a few brief minutes, it’s enough to pull you out of your own head as the last two years start to wash away in pieces.
Long enough for your guard to soften.
Long enough for the quiet to feel safe again.
But the second it slips, thoughts of Daryl careen through your mind. That alone is enough to pull you out of it.
You shut the water off and step out, reaching for your towel—
Then stop.
The bathroom door is open.
Not by much. Just enough.
You stare at it, your mind catching on the detail with immediate certainty.
You closed it.
You know you did.
Yeah, you sneezed before you did it.
You remember that.
For a second, that old unease tries to creep back in. That cold, distant sense of being watched from somewhere you can’t see.
But it doesn’t settle the same way this time.
It burns.
Because now there’s context.
The missing blinds, the open lines of sight, the way he’s positioned himself day after day. You blocked the only clear view he had, and the timing lines up too neatly to ignore.
Your grip tightens around the towel.
If he wanted a different angle, he had to come inside to get it.
The thought lands hard, and instead of fear, it sparks something hot inside your chest. Fury, cutting clean through whatever hesitation you might’ve had before.
Fine.
That’s the game here?
You can play ball.
You dress quickly, dragging your last dirty outfit from the basket without caring that it isn’t actually clean anymore. When you realize your panties are missing, the same pair you know you tossed in there earlier, it only feeds the same conclusion.
You haphazardly pull on your jeans and throw your shirt over your head. You stomp to the front of the house, your focus narrowing with each step until there’s nothing left but the need to confirm it.
The windows come into view.
And so does Daryl.
Back on the stoop, like he never left.
He’s on the same steps with the same posture, easy and rooted, a bucket settled near his boots.
Walnuts this time.
He cracks them open with a knife in quick, practiced motions, dropping the meat of them into a container at his side.
Busy hands. Relaxed body. Like he has all the time in the world.
Of course he’s back.
And you don’t stop to think any of this through.
You swing the door open hard, screen door cracking against the exterior. You glance down as you’re skipping down the steps and see your pants aren’t buttoned.
Or zipped.
You were a little distracted.
Oh, you forgot bra too.
Cool.
You curse under your breath and start to button, feeling exposed as hell.
You scoff.
Nothing he hasn’t seen before.
And really, you should’ve thought this through a bit more and been calm about it. But right now it’s fine, because you’re pissed as fuck.
You cross the street in a straight line, gravel crunching under your boots.
Daryl’s looking at you when your eyes come back up.
His gaze follows your hands as they zip the fly of your jeans, then drags up to your chest.
And lingers.
Oh, what a fucking creep.
There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he almost lets amusement show, and then reins it in. Tries to hide it with a lick across his lips.
You stop a few feet in front of him, breath sharp, anger simmering.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” you demand. “You get off on this or something? Watching people through their windows?”
The shift in him is immediate.
Whatever that almost-smile was, it vanishes so quickly you get whiplash, replaced by a defensive sort of anger.,
“What?” he snaps, sitting up straight. “The hell’re you talkin’ about?”
Oh.
His voice is nice.
This is the first time you’ve heard it.
The fact that you like it only pisses you off more.
“Don’t play dumb,” you fire back. “You think I haven’t noticed that every window in that house is bare?” A humorless laugh slips out. “I finally block your view, so you break in?”
Color climbs up his neck, fast and hot. “What are you—”
“Fuckin’ pervert, aren’t you? Turn out your pockets.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
"Hell no.”
“I’m serious.”
“Why?"
"So you can give me my underwear back."
That hits.
His shoulders go rigid, jaw locking so tight it ticks. For a split second, something flashes across his face, too fast to name—surprise, or perhaps closer to oh, shit.
“I ain’t a—” He cuts himself off abruptly.
Not because he doesn’t have the words, because he’s looking past you, focused on something else.
You wave your hand in his face, then hold it out.
"Hello," you lilt, voice rising. “Give me back my underwear, and stop staring at me. Please, thank you.”
His head turns, eyes flicking toward the rest of the community, scanning the conversations happening in streets, the houses, like he’s checking who might be listening.
Your stomach swoops in realization.
"Afraid someone's gonna find out that you're a pervert?" you make sure to really articulate that last bit. Loudly.
He steps closer, hand coming up in a quick, sharp motion, pointing in your face.
“Hey—” His voice drops, urgent now. “Keep it down.”
A warning.
Like you’ve just said something you weren’t supposed to say out in the open.
Your pulse spikes.
“Oh my god,” you laugh, louder if anything, the words cracking with disbelief. “You are a perv—”
“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you now, still scanning, still tense in a way that doesn’t match the argument. “Ain’t somethin’ you go yellin’—”
That’s it.
That’s the moment it locks.
Because he’s not confused.
He’s not denying it.
He’s trying to contain it.
To contain you.
“Are you serious right now?” you laugh. You take a step back just to look at him properly. “You’re only worried about people hearing?”
His eyes cut back to you, something dark flashing there, but it doesn’t matter.
You’ve already decided what that look means.
“You can’t even deny it,” you push, voice rising again despite the way he tries to rein it in. “You just tell me to be quiet.”
“Yeah, ‘cause it goes without sayin’—” he starts, frustrated now, but you don’t let him finish.
“No, no. See, I just find that really interesting,” you cut in, shaking with anger. “Not worried that I’m wrong, just that I’m being a little too loud about your panty kink?”
Daryl exhales hard through his nose like an angry bull, jaw flexing. He’s clearly trying to get a handle on you, and the damage is done.
Because from where you’re standing, it doesn’t look like denial.
It looks like guilt trying not to get caught.
You step closer, the edge in your voice biting with triumph. “You like peepin’ on girls, huh? Sniffin’ their underwear—”
“Enough,” he growls. “You got somethin’ wrong with you—”
“I’ve got something wrong?” you echo, incredulous now, your voice still rising despite yourself. “You’ve been following me since I got here, like—”
“Like what?” he snaps, pushing to his feet, the bucket tipping as he moves at you. “Ain’t my fault you keep lookin’ my way.”
“Yeah, because I see you looking at me!” you shoot back. "You're not my keeper."
His jaw works, fingers tightening around the knife still in his hand.
The lull in the argument makes you finally notice how the conversations around you have faltered. Voices have dipped, attention turning like a slow ripple.
Somewhere behind you, Rick’s voice carries in that low, steady way of his. No discernible words yet, just his presence closing in.
You don’t look.
Your focus stays locked on Daryl. Who’s glaring back at you now, breathing heavier.
But he’s also clearly humiliated. His eyes scan over your shoulders, then land on someone with relief.
Probably Rick. They’re fucking inseparable.
“Nah, I’m done with this,” Daryl mutters, rough and cutting, turning like he’s already checked out. He looks away from you, and that’s when you know it’s Rick.
Then Daryl adds, nonchalantly and distracted.
“You’re bein’ a bitch.”
It lands like a spark in dry grass.
Your hand swings before you think better of it.
The crack echoes across the street as your palm connects with his cheek. His head snaps to the side with a bitten curse.
Shit, that hurt. You hit him hard.
Ooh’s and ahh’s and laughs come from behind you.
For a second, everything stills. And now a crowd is really gathering.
Daryl’s fingers rise up slow to his face, pressing there in disbelief. He takes a deep breath, turning to look at you with a glare that doesn't waver.
You hate to admit it, but it does scare you a bit—
“And you’re stupid too,” Daryl grinds out, voice low. “Slappin’ a guy with a blade in his hand.”
Oh, wow. You miscalculated all of this.
Daryl steps in, closing the space, eyes narrowing down at you.
“Go ahead,” he adds, quieter, more dangerous for it. “Try that one more time.”
Your fists curl at your sides, anger masking the way you’re trembling.
“That a threat?”
“Is if you swing again.”
You step forward anyway, and so does he. Your bodies are close. And now you can smell him. Cigarettes and sweat and leather.
You hate how pretty his eyes are, too.
So much that you do move to swing again.
Movement cuts in from your periphery, fast and solid, and then Rick’s between the two of you before you get the chance.
One hand lands firm on your shoulder, the other plants against Daryl’s chest.
“Easy,” he says, steady but commanding. “Both of you, take it down a notch.”
Daryl bristles immediately, pacing behind him like something caged, but Rick doesn’t give him an inch.
“I don’t care what he did,” Rick adds, glancing back at you. “You calm down. I’ll handle him.”
“She came at me with this crazy shit,” Daryl snaps, trying to push forward again, his focus still locked on you. “You off your wacko meds or somethin’?”
“Daryl,” Rick warns.
He keeps leaning forward until he’s back in your face, nudging Rick off balance. “Maybe you’re on the fuckin’ rag—”
“Daryl!” Rick turns and shoves him back harder this time.
You drag in a breath, the tremor in it betraying you.
“Rick,” you start, forcing it steady, “there are no blinds in that house. And he hasn’t stayed more than a hundred feet away from me since I got here. And—”
Deanna steps in then, calm and composed, taking in the scene like she’s reading smoke before it turns to fire.
“The blinds were taken down years ago,” she says gently. “The previous owners were renovating before the outbreak. I never had the means, or the time to replace them. No one’s been inside that house since.”
The words settle, then turn sour.
Oh.
You might’ve just made a total fool of yourself.
It must show on your face because Daryl stills, tilting his head like he’s amused.
That’s all it takes for your anger to trickle back in.
“Guess all that bitchin’ was for nothin’, huh?” Daryl taunts, almost like he’s making conversation with you now.
It makes your blood hum.
“Daryl, if you don’t stop I’ll hit you myself,” Rick murmurs.
You don’t stay.
You turn and walk back to your home without another word, the weight of it pressing in as the adrenaline burns off.
An hour later, there’s a knock.
Gabriel, Glenn, and Maggie stand there with an armful of curtains between them, soft colors and heavy fabric. They help you hang them, filling the house in piece by piece until the windows stop feeling like open eyes.
They stay for dinner.
You ask them all what Daryl’s deal is, and while they admit that his apparent fixation seems a little odd, they claim he just... does that sometimes.
Zones out.
Which is so completely valid. You do the same.
But he is not zoning out.
He's zoning in.
On you.
You tell them that.
But they spend a long time assuring you that Daryl isn’t the creep you think he is. That he’s definitely an acquired taste in terms of personality.
First and foremost, all of them go on to stress his loyalty to this group.
Which also confirms your first theory about him: that he’s likely just sussing you out.
He’s not quick to trust.
Neither are you.
And you absolutely just made a fool of yourself in front of most of the community. The rest have likely heard about it by proxy.
The next day at the infirmary confirms that.
But everyone subverts your expectations. Mostly the women.
Tara gives you knuckles and calls you a badass, Denise praises the fact that you got a hit in, and Rosita says that she’s wanted to do that before, but didn’t have the balls.
Another month goes by, and you still have a shadow with a crossbow.
You start spotting him without meaning to, like your brain learned the shape of him and now pulls it from the background automatically.
You test it.
Throw a middle finger over your shoulder without even looking.
Wait a beat.
When you glance back, he’s already got two fingers raised right back at you.
“I’ve apologized countless times. What’s your problem with me?” you ask him.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nothin’.”
Like the word’s worn smooth from overuse. Like it’s the only one he’s willing to give you.
Nothin'.
Fucking douche.
By the third time you ask him for an explanation, you’re grinding your teeth.
Nothin'.
By the fifth, you’re imagining creative ways to shut him up indefinitely. You linger on the thought of his throat under your hand, the heat of his carotid pumping.
You swear to all that’s holy, if you hear that word one more time, you might actually try it.
He’d probably just smile at you while you did it.
Just to piss you off some more.
And the worst part is, you can see it. Clear as anything. The way his mouth would pull, just barely, like he’s in on something you’re not.
Another month bleeds into the next, days folding over each other in that quiet, relentless way Alexandria has.
Routine settles in, but he never quite becomes part of the background. Not fully.
If anything, he becomes a bigger focus for you.
You start noticing where he is without trying. Catching the shape of him in your peripheral before you even look. Listening for the soft creak of those steps across the street, the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice when he bothers to use it.
It’s irritating.
Like a tongue worrying a sore spot.
Three months in, you start noticing something new.
At first, you think you’re imagining it. That same prickle at the back of your neck, that instinct that tells you when he’s looking. Except now when you turn, his gaze isn’t where it used to be.
It’s lower.
You catch it once. Brush it off.
Twice. Coincidence.
But it keeps happening, so you know exactly what you’re seeing. One day, you’re on a supply run with Rick, Abe, and unfortunately…
Daryl.
And he’s staring at your ass. Again.
Just fixed there, like he forgot himself for a second and didn’t bother correcting it.
Hell, maybe he’s been doing it since you arrived, and he just doesn’t care if you notice anymore.
Your chest twists. Not quite anger. Not quite anything you want to examine too closely.
“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath the next time it happens.
Daryl doesn’t even bother to hide it as you turn, and you fully catch him in it.
He doesn’t turn away.
Doesn’t even look embarrassed.
His eyes merely lift, slow, dragging back up to meet yours like he meant to do it. Like he’s daring you to say something, head tilted back, looking at you down his nose.
The frustration is familiar now, but not entirely unwelcome. You latch onto itt before it can turn into anything else.
“You serious?” you snap, hands braced on your hips. “You gonna keep staring, or you wanna explain yourself for once?”
His shoulders shift in a half-shrug, casual as anything. “Nah. Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”
Nothin’.
Rick groans in annoyance beside you. “Guys, seriously. What part of stealth is so hard to understand?”
Abe leans over. “Ain’t your fault your mama blessed you with that ass, sweetheart.”
And you know what? Hell yeah.
It actually feels like a compliment coming from Abe. The mere fact that Daryl refuses to practice any introspection is what really infuriates you, because that just makes it all the more obvious that he’s trying to fuck with your head.
The arguments come easier after the ogling starts.
Small things at first. Sharp words tossed back and forth when you cross paths, irritation snapping quick and hot before either of you bother cooling it. Then bigger ones, louder, edged with threats.
You call him out. He deflects. You push harder. He pushes back just enough to keep it going.
It never resolves.
It just resets.
Over and over.
You have to be separated at council meetings so often that they stop inviting both of you for a few weeks at a time.
He’s contrarian, patronizing, and just a general jackass.
Like he’s made it his life’s purpose to test you.
The worst part is that he usually lets up, pulling back from the argument only once he’s got a rise out of you. Like that was all he wanted in the first place. To piss you off and make you burn red.
Dammit.
And your fucking panties start going missing again.
At first, it’s easy to brush off. You’ve been on your own for a long time, living out of scraps and half-systems that only made sense to you. It only makes sense that now that those systems are breaking up, things get misplaced. Left behind. Forgotten.
It happens.
Hell, maybe your washing machine just has a thing for eating black lace.
Except it keeps happening.
And that doesn't make sense either, because as itappears, they never make it to the washing machine.
They always vanish after they've been worn.
You notice it eventually. Not right away, not in some dramatic flash, but in that slow, creeping way where your brain starts pulling threads together without asking permission.
You remember putting them in the basket.
You remember it clearly.
And then they’re just… not there.
Gone.
Poof.
You stand in the doorway of your bedroom, staring at the half-filled basket in pure perplexity.
What the fuck.
You check the bathroom. The floor. The corners. Under the bed. In the sheets. Christ, even under the rugs. Anywhere they could’ve slipped or gotten caught.
Nowhere.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand over your face. “Fine.”
You tell yourself you dropped them somewhere else. That you’re tired. That your memory’s playing tricks after everything you’ve been through.
It’s a decent explanation.
Until it happens again.
And again.
Until it’s plain to see that it’s not an accident anymore.
It’s. a. fucking. pattern.
Screw this.
So you pivot. Plan a test.
You stop using the basket. Maybe you should start setting them aside somewhere else, somewhere hidden.
A drawer. Under your pillow.
How about tucked into the very back of your closet behind a stack of folded clothes? It feels asinine. Like you’re hiding them even from yourself.
You place them down. You look at them. You tell yourself, out loud, that “they’re here.”
You leave on a hunt with Michonne and Aaron.
You come back with two hares and a deer.
And the panties that you placed in the very back of your closet, are gone.
Not shifted. Definitely, absolutely not misplaced.
Gone.
At this point you’re just.
Just… tired.
Frustrated in a way that doesn’t have anywhere to go.
Because there’s no proof. No sign that anything’s been touched. The house stays exactly the way you leave it, neat and still and quiet.
Except for your underwear. Your favorite bra went missing, too.
You start checking the windows again. The locks. The doors. You take your time with it, methodical, hands steady even when your thoughts aren’t.
Everything is exactly how it should be.
Every time.
And that’s the part that gets to you.
Because if nothing’s wrong—
Then what the hell is happening?
You catch yourself standing in the middle of your bedroom one night, staring at the empty space where you know your pack used to be, and for a second, something ugly curls in your chest.
Doubt.
Not about the situation.
About yourself.
You press your hand to your forehead, hard, like you can force that thought back where it came from.
No.
You’ve survived too much, too long in this world to start second-guessing your brain now.
You know what you saw. Where you put it. What you remember.
Which genuinely leaves only one option.
Daryl.
You’re not crazy. He's got to be fucking with you.
A few nights later the air in your home is thick with heat and silence.
You’re alone in bed, or at least you presume to be, but the absence of proof isn’t proof of absence. You know that now.
The thought coils in your stomach, hot and restless, as you press your thighs together under the thin sheet.
You hate that it turns you on.
Daryl’s been gone for three days on a supply run, and the relief should be palpable. Instead, it’s just… hollow. Like the space he leaves behind is somehow louder than his presence ever was.
You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers twitch against the mattress, restless, like they’re waiting for permission you refuse to give.
But tonight, you cave.
You slide your hand down your stomach, slow, just to prove you can, then you quickly pull it back up. The fabric of your shirt skips under your palm and you bite your lip.
It’s not about him. It’s not.
It’s about the way he objectifies—
No. Nope, don’t finish that thought.
You press your fingers flat along your center, exhaling sharply through your nose when you feel how wet you are just thinking about it.
Pathetic. You’d laugh if you weren’t so fucking frustrated with yourself.
With him.
“Stop thinking about Daryl,” you whisper to yourself. You say the same thing twice more like a mantra.
Once you’ve convinced yourself that you won’t anymore, you firm your fingers and push on your clit.
It’s clinical. But when you get impatient and your hand dips beneath the elastic, the gasp that leaps out of you is anything but detached.
You arch off the mattress, hips lifting into, chasing the pressure.
Fuck. It’s been too long.
Your thoughts stutter. Images flashing behind your eyelids: rough hands pinning your wrists, breath that smells of cigarettes, hot against your neck, the sharp sting of teeth.
You squeeze your thighs together, trapping your own fingers. The friction burns just right.
Your shirt rides higher as you palm your breast, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple. Not teasing, not exploring, just kneading. The pressure sends a jolt straight down to where your other hand is already working in tight, impatient circles.
You’ve been worked up like this since you laid down. You really don’t have the patience for slow tonight. Not when every press of your fingers feels like scratching an itch you’ve ignored for years.
With a frustrated groan, you kick your pants and panties off in one sharp motion. They land in a heap on the floor.
The air feels like frost spreading along your bare skin, clinging to the sweat you’ve worked up already. You drag your fingers through your slick, hissing at the contact, and then you’re pushing two inside your cunt without preamble.
Fuck yes.
The stretch burns so good. You turn your head into the pillow with a whimper as you curl your fingers, searching.
Legs spreading wider, you hook a knee over your elbow, pulling yourself open as you fuck into your fingers into your cunt.
It’s not enough.
You add a third finger, biting back a whine when your muscles clench.
Fuck, you’re so wet. It’s so stupid and embarrassing.
And then—because you’re weak, because you’re angry, because you must hate yourself—your mind flashes back to Daryl.
You imagine his calloused fingers replacing yours, his rough grip forcing your thighs apart, his voice growling something filthy. Insulting you. Degrading you.
His cock ruining you.
The thought makes your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and yearning.
You press your heel into the mattress, lifting your hips higher, fucking your fingers harder—like if you just push, just take, you can get that feeling out of your system.
But of fucking course it’s no use.
The more you touch yourself, the clearer the images become: Daryl’s teeth sinking into your flesh, his hands squeezing your breasts, his cock filling you up so much better than your hand ever could.
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the betrayal of your own pulse joins the ache between your legs.
A whimper claws its way up your throat as your fingers speed up.
"Fuck you," you grit out between clenched teeth, your fingers working faster now, slick and desperate. "Fuck you, fuck you—" The words come out whiny, choked.
Pleading.
Your thighs tremble, your hips angling as you chase that crest, so close you can taste it.
Just a little more—just a little—
The sound splits through the air like a gunshot.
Floorboard.
Hallway.
You recognize it instantly, in the way your body knows hunger, or thirst, or the sting of a fresh wound.
That came from the hallway.
Your fingers go still inside you, muscles locking so fast it hurts. The wet sound of your own touch hangs in the air, obscene in the sudden silence.
Your bedroom door is open.
Wide.
You didn’t think you needed to close it.
Daryl’s not supposed to be here.
With your breath trapped in your throat, you don’t move.
Don’t blink.
All at once, the dark of your bedroom feels alive, pressing in from all sides. Your pulse kicks against your ribs, loud and fast like it’s trying to break itself out.
Then, another sound. A shift of air.
A small thump.
Slowly.
So slowly your muscles protest, you turn your head toward the doorway.
The hall is darker than your room, a void where the moonlight doesn’t reach.
Instinct takes over before thought can catch up.
You wrench a blanket around yourself and bolt upright, moving. You dash across the bedroom and flick the light on, the sudden brightness stinging your eyes.
The room is empty. Exactly as it should be.
Then—
Thump.
Upstairs.
A sound so deliberate it doesn’t even pretend to be accidental.
You know it’s stupid. You know running toward danger instead of away is the kind of shit that gets people killed in this world. Half naked, no less. But you don’t care.
You’re wired, adrenaline singing through your veins like a live current as you take the stairs two at a time, bare feet slapping against wood.
The upstairs hallway stretches before you, shadows clinging to the corners. You never come up here. The space up here is half, finished. The air is thick with the scent of sawdust and—
Cigarettes.
You whirl into the first room, then the next, checking corners, behind doors, under the bed like some frantic animal.
Nothing. No one.
The house is still. Too still.
Then you see it.
The curtain in the bedroom across the hall sways, just slightly, like someone brushed past it moments ago.
Maybe you did.
Maybe you’re imagining things again.
Your throat goes dry.
You step closer, every muscle in your body coiled tight.
The window is cracked open—just enough for a hand to slip through, to lift from the outside.
Or… for the wind to rustle it.
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides.
You don’t know what’s real anymore.
You slam the window shut and lock it.
To be clear, you should feel relieved that you didn’t find anything other than a cracked window. You should sag against the wall, laugh at your own paranoia, chalk it up to the house settling and your own fucked-up imagination.
But the heat under your skin doesn’t fade.
You storm back downstairs, your breath coming fast, your thighs and fingers still sticky with your own mess. You step back into your bedroom, then promptly freeze.
Your panties.
The ones you’d kicked off not even ten minutes ago—
Gone.
A laugh claws its way up your throat, jagged and wild, because of fucking course they are.
Hours crawl by in a slow bleed of shadows, your fingers clenched around the knife under your pillow until dawn streaks the sky in grays and blues.
You don’t sleep. You don’t even think you blink.
Every creak of the house feels like a taunt, every rustle of wind a whisper against the back of your neck. By the time the sun finally lifts over Alexandria’s walls, you’re already dressed, already moving, your body thrumming with a restless energy that demands action.
You leave Alexandria under the guise of going on a solo hunt, claiming you didn't sleep well. You also ask tersely about Daryl and when he’s returned.
Rosita’s quick to tell you that he’s still not back.
Which you’re still pretty confident is utter bullshit.
She pulls the gate open for you without asking any questions, and you make a beeline for the forest. The spot isn’t far, a mile or two beyond the eastern tree line, where the land dips into a shallow cliffside.
You found it months ago, back when you still bothered mapping escape routes, back when trust was a currency you hadn’t yet wasted.
The alcove is quiet, sheltered by a natural curve of rock that funnels walkers away like water around a stone. Today, though, luck’s run dry. A single walker stumbles between the trees nearby.
Your fingers flex around your knife as you stomp toward it to put it down.
The walker's milky eyes lock onto you, its jaw working like it can already taste your flesh. You roll your shoulders back, flipping your knife in your palm—a quick, practiced motion that should feel satisfying but just leaves your fingers twitchy.
Whatever.
At least this is something you can fix.
You take two steps forward—
Thwip.
An arrow—no—a crossbow bolt hits dead-center between its eyes with a wet crunch, sending the walker crumpling to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Your pulse rushes and thumps in your ears so loudly that you go half-deaf.
No.
There's no fucking way in hell that he actually followed you out here.
You whip around to see, who?
Daryl Goddamned Dixon, stepping out from between the trees, crossbow still raised.
That’s it.
Enough.
You snap.
The moss underfoot muffles your steps, but your rage isn't quiet. You stomp, snapping twigs under your boots like they're his bones.
His smirk is infuriating, like he’s won. When his mouth opens, you already know what’s coming before he says it.
"You're welcome," he drawls. The crossbow dips lazily in his grip.
Cocky fucking bastard.
Your fist connects with his jaw before you even consider the repercussions. The impact jars up your arm with sharp, satisfying pain as his head is thrown to the side, and for one glorious fucking second, you think he might actually take the hint.
But then his hand shoots out, fingers digging into your chin hard enough to grind your teeth into the inside of your cheek. You taste the tang of your own blood when he yanks you forward.
His mouth crashes into yours—no softness, no asking. Just heat and teeth and the taste of contrasting iron from his own split lip.
You bite back, literally, sinking your teeth into the affliction until he grunts, but he doesn’t let go. His other hand fists in your hair, pulling just shy of painful, and you growl as you arch, because fuck him, you won’t be the one to break first.
His crossbow hits the ground somewhere beside him, forgotten. You shove at his chest, and the kiss breaks as he stumbles backward.
His eyes lock onto yours.
Dark, feral.
God, it makes your pulse kick harder.
You barely have time to react before he’s surging forward again, closing the distance between you like a predator cornering its prey.
You swing again, fist aimed for his ribs this time, but he catches your wrist.
"Let go—" you snarl.
He yanks you forward so hard your shoulder protests and you collide with his chest. The heat of him burns through your clothes.
He leans forward, breath rasping against your ear.
"Have a little fun without me last night?" His voice is low, taunting, rough with something that isn’t just anger.
“Damn you.” You feel a scream building up in your throat. “I knew you were—”
Daryl slaps you across the face, and your scream comes out gritted.
You don’t dignify it with words. Instead, you jerk your knee up—aiming for his gut, his balls, anywhere that’ll wipe that smug look off his face—but he twists, taking the hit on his thigh with a grunt.
His hands move fast to your shoulders, where they grab fistfuls of your jacket, fingers digging into the lapels before he dips his thumbs beneath and shoves down.
Daryl gets your jacket off, and you only realize it’s off when you see him toss it aside. The fabric drapes over a log before crumpling to the ground.
For half a second, you both just stare. Chests heaving, lips parted around ragged breaths.
You can see the exact moment his gaze drops to your mouth.
Your neck.
Ultimately landing on your tits.
You shove at his chest again, but he prepares for it this time. He barely moves. Just rocks with it, steadies, and looks back at you like you’ve done something entertaining.
One hand finds your waist, molding to the dip there.
“Pervert,” you spit, but the word lacks venom when his thumb brushes the strip of bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’re foul—”
His mouth crashes into yours before you can twist away, and fuck, it’s infuriating how good it feels. How your body curls into him, how your fingers claw at his vest just like he did with your jacket.
Dammit, he groans against your lips, rough and possessive. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into your ass overtop your jeans. He yanks you forward against him.
You can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this when his hips nudge into you.
He's rock hard.
Your fingers push at his vest, fumbling in the heat of it all. He shrugs it off for you instead.
The shirt beneath is a button up flannel, and you don't bother taking it off the nice way. You just slide your fingers into the closure, grasp, and rip apart.
Daryl grunts as he looks down. He doesn’t help this time, just watches you tear his shirt open with that infuriating half-smile of his, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.
The fabric splits with sharp, satisfying pops, exposing his scarred skin beneath.
Your brain short circuits.
They’re really doing this.
You’re really doing this.
Why are you doing this?
You stop moving long enough that Daryl has a chance to hook his fingers into the neckline of your tank top, finger burying in your cleavage.
Then he yanks down, rough and impatient. The fabric stretches, then splits halfway down the middle with a sharp rip.
Before you know it, your bra is exposed and Daryl’s gaze drags over it.
It makes your skin burn. You don’t know whether to cover yourself or punch him.
You quickly decide to go with the latter.
Your fist connects with the side of his ribs hard enough to make him curse and cough. Daryl staggers, one hand clutching his side, but his grip on your tank top doesn’t loosen—instead, he uses it to yank you forward, off-balance.
Really, he just manhandles you.
You stumble forward, and before you can right yourself, he shoves you back again. Hard.
Your heels hit something solid—his fucking crossbow—and then you’re going down.
Your elbows hit the dirt first. The impact jolts up your arms, then your shoulders hit next, then your spine. The breath punches out of your lungs in a sharp wheeze.
Above you, Daryl’s shadow blocks out the sun. His shirt is gone and you don’t know when that happened.
One of his knees lands between your thighs, his weight pressing down into you before you can twist away. You buck around under him, snarling, pushing on his chest, slapping his face, nails scraping over his shoulders.
You put a hand in his face and push up.
“Get the hell off’a me,” you snarl, twisting sharply to the side.
It works—sort of.
Daryl thrashes to get your hand off his jaw, but he takes long enough for you to roll over. You crawl out from under him, scrambling to get up when his fingers wrap around your ankle.
You topple with your forward momentum just as he drags you backward. You hook your fingers into the soil and drag, but it’s useless.
You spin and try to land a kick on his nose. He leans back and avoids it, like he knew you’d try.
You start kicking the fingers wrapped around your ankle instead. He lets go.
Good.
You stand up and run in the direction of Alexandria, but he’s on you again, fast.
Then, ostensibly, you’re both rolling across the dirt, grappling like feral cats. You manage to land another punch on his cheek, but it doesn’t land right.
His knee catches you in the ribs instead, and you cough your air out.
But then you’re on top, straddling his waist with your thighs locked tight around him. You raise your fist—
And he catches it this time, dammit, fingers clamping down like a bear trap.
You snarl, trying to wrench free, but he flips you under him again. Leaves and sticks splinter into your back, and Daryl’s wedging himself between your thighs.
His free hand slides up your side impatiently, then his palm closes over your breast, squeezing and kneading you.
“Asshole,” you spit, arching into the touch despite yourself.
His mouth tips into that annoying smirk again.
You try to push him up, but he catches both wrists and pins them high above your head while his hips press down. The firm line of his cock presses between your spread legs.
Deliberate, taunting.
Hell, maybe even a fucking warning. Because he stops and just pushes against you and stays there.
Your traitorous body responds instantly, grinding back and forth, rubbing your clit wetly on the seam of your jeans.
You hate him for getting that reaction out of you.
So you save face by spitting on his.
Daryl whips his head away, then he turns, lip curled in anger.
Then he does the same right back.
It lands hot and wet on your cheek. You shrug your shoulder up to try and wipe it off, but you don’t get far because he’s leaning down to capture your mouth in a kiss again.
Messy. Rough.
All teeth and tongue.
And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Just his tongue shoving into your mouth like he’s trying to choke you with it. You suck, then drag your teeth along it while he retreats.
You’ve never heard someone actually growl before, but he certainly does. The sound rumbles against your lips, his fingers tightening around your wrists until your skin burns, but you don’t pull them away.
Mostly because you can’t.
Instead, you arch up and lock your legs around his waist. You grind and rub on his cock, because two can play at that game.
You’ll take what you want from this, too.
Daryl groans, pulling back to start kissing down your neck. Then he’s biting a line down your chest, teeth dragging until he reaches your exposed breast.
His free hand yanks at your bra, rough and impatient, the cup snapping down and curling under the swell of you. His palm is calloused, hot against your bare skin, and then he gives you a punishing squeeze.
A moan stumbles out of you once he leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth.
“Fuck you,” you grit.
Now you knee him in the ribs—same spot as your punch—and he grunts, his body buckling just enough for you to twist your arms out of his grip.
Your thighs clamp around his waist as you wrestle him until he’s flat on his back in the moss and dirt.
His belt is thick, worn leather, and you don’t bother with finesse. You jerk the buckle loose, knuckles brushing the soft swell of his stomach, and he slaps you, open-handed while you work his jeans open, sharp enough to make your ears ring.
It stings, but you don’t stop. You just punch him in the gut in retaliation. A quick, brutal jab.
Another slap lands on your face and you don’t react to it.
But God, it hurts. He does it again, then another lands on your tit.
Aside from the impacts, he’s not resisting you. Not really. Just smacking you around because he feels like it.
You pull the zipper next, and Daryl’s breath hitches when your fingers brush lower.
Then he puts up a fight again.
One hand fists in your hair, yanking you down and wrestling you onto your side. One of his arms is already under you and circles around your waist. He drags you on top of him this time, your spine to his chest and staring up at the canopy overhead.
“Let go of me,” you snap. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
His hips grind up against your ass. "Winnin'." His voice is so fucking deep it rumbles from his chest and right into yours.
Fuck.
His free hand slides down your stomach and digs into the button of your jeans like he's trying to crush it.
You writhe against him, twisting your hips sharply to get his hand to stop its assault, but Daryl just grunts at the friction and holds you tighter, forearm is like a steel band around your ribs.
You gasp when the button of your jeans pops free. The zipper rasps down next before you can do much else.
Daryl’s fingers dive into your jeans with no courtesy.
“I hate you,” you grit. You start thrashing around, but his arm is steadfast, holding you in place with so much force it's hard to take a full breath.
You hiss, thighs snapping together instinctively, trapping his wrist between them.
He’s already there though.
“No panties today, huh?” he chuckles.
God.
You scowl. “Gee, I sure wonder why—”
“Slut.”
“I hate you.”
"Fuckin’ liar," Daryl growls against your ear, breath hot and ragged. His fingers curl, pressing harder, dragging through the wetness he finds there like he’s proving a point. "Tellin’ me you hate me when your cunt’s drippin’?”
Fuck.
His finger drags along the seam of you regardless of the space you give him, rubbing rough and torturous.
You choke on your own breath. "I do hate you," you spit, but the words crack when he presses lower, and your legs part, because fighting him really just hurts more.
You whine and immediately despise yourself for it. The callouses on his palm grind against your clit like cat’s tongue while his fingers properly glide around through your slick heat.
It feels so much better than you thought it would.
You can feel how wet you are. He slips and slides in it, and you really hate giving him the satisfaction.
So you grab his wrist and pull on it.
Doesn’t stop him though, he's too strong.
You realize with a sinking feeling that you’re fighting a losing battle when you try to pull again, because he doesn’t flinch.
He’s rigid, immovable.
He lifts his knees and spreads them. The movement forces your thighs to separate wide just as two fingers plunge into your cunt.
"Shit," you hiss. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"
His teeth graze your shoulder, sucking and marking you, and God, your hips jerk into his touch like some desperate little thing. You keep fighting him in vain, even as his fingers piston inside you.
"You hate me? That why you’re grindin’ on my hand?" Daryl's breath hitches, like he's just as affected by his own touch.
His fingers curl, dragging out a slow, filthy stroke that punches a ragged noise from your throat. You buck against him, nails scraping skin from his forearm, but he just tightens his grip around your ribs with a grunt.
Your scratch makes him bleed.
He doesn’t care.
You feel helpless.
So for a short while, you just let his fingers fuck into you, let his breath sear the back of your neck, let the weight of his arm hold you atop him like you’ve surrendered.
Daryl’s grip on you gradually loosens, his rhythm slowing like he’s caught off guard by your fawning.
And that’s all you need.
You twist violently, wrenching your hips sideways, and his fingers slip free. Just when Daryl thinks he has you pinned again, you throw your head back.
The back of your head collides with his in a rough crack—bone meeting bone. It sends white-hot pain spiderwebbing through your own skull.
Daryl yells a curse as his hold on you drops away. You’re able to scramble free, rolling onto your knees beside him in the dirt.
Daryl's groan is muffled behind his hands, fingers pressed to his forehead where you'd cracked into him.
He sounds pissed.
Good.
Pride flares just like the pain in your skull as you pull your boots off in quick, jerky motions. Your jeans follow, shucked down your thighs with rough impatience.
Daryl's hands drop from his face just as you swing one leg over his shoulders, knees bracketing his head. His pupils dilate when your thighs come together around his cheeks.
Confusion flickers and his lips just part, long before you even settle down fully. His tongue drags over his bottom lip like he's starved of you.
You dig your thumb into the swollen red spot on Daryl’s forehead, just because it looks like it would hurt him.
He grunts in pain, turning his head sharply to dislodge the pressure.
His arms snap up and surprise you, circling around your thighs with that same iron grip.
You panic, because you’re caught again, and he pulls you. You wanted some semblance of control, but he keeps taking it from you.
As much as you try to fight him and gravity, you know it’s a losing battle.
Your body drops abruptly toward his face, and he tilts his head up to meet you.
The first hot swipe of his tongue against your clit is a shock—wet, languid, and filthy. You try to get yourself back up, but his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, securing you there.
His mouth seals over you, tongue dragging slow and rough from your entrance to your clit.
Daryl’s laps at you, messy and drooling and moaning like you’re some fucking delicacy. You stare down at him, and you really hope he can’t tell how much his enthusiasm turns you on.
He chuckles deep in his throat the second it crosses your mind.
You tremble involuntarily, spine bowing. “God, you’re a jackass.”
You suck in a shaky breath and it comes back out as an equally shaky moan. His nose presses into your clit with every rough drag of his tongue.
You hiss through your teeth, fingers twisting tighter in his hair—not guiding, just taking, grinding down against his face like you want to suffocate him with it.
Drown him in your cunt.
Daryl’s groan vibrates against your skin, hot and ragged. You dig your thumb into the bruise on his forehead again, pressing hard enough to make him growl.
Not in pain apparently.
His eyes roll white and flutter shut, and the bastard still doesn’t stop. If anything, his tongue works harder, slides up and flicks against your clit like he’s spelling his name on you.
You whimper his name without meaning to, and his eyes fly open, brow scrunching in concentration as he looks up at you.
His hands slide up your thighs, callouses catching on your skin. They skim higher over your hips, one palm traveling around to grip and smack your ass. You jerk forward with a gasp, thighs tightening around his head.
His hands don’t stop their paths. They continue upward, fingers digging into the dip of your waist. Then higher, clumsy and bumping over the cups of your bra.
One hand squeezes roughly over the fabric, fingers pinching your nipple until you react with a hiss. The other cup flipped back up over your breast, and he tears it down again like he’s reclaiming the lost territory.
You don’t bother fumbling with the clasp. Instead, you yank the whole damn thing off, bra and the torn remains of your tank top, flung somewhere beside you into the dirt.
Cool air ghosts over your bare skin, but the heat of Daryl’s gaze burns you hot again.
His eyes move between your face and your tits, dark and hungry. And the sound he makes.
Fuck.
A low, throaty moan rumbling against your clit.
You grind down harder, riding his face like you’re trying to discipline. Daryl disciplines you right back, hands engulfing your breasts, squeezing, and pinching your nipples.
That’s how you play with them—
You gasp and cant your hips down along his tongue.
“Ohh, oh fuck—” Your voice cracks when his tongue slides upward, lapping at your clit with insistent licks in the off-tempo of your grinding.
What the fuck. This is how you touch yourself.
And that little slip up just gave you away.
Daryl's tongue works you over with brutal precision—like he's studied you, memorized the exact way you touch yourself in the dark… when no one's watching…
You gulp and shiver when you remember.
He did.
The realization makes your skin prickle with fury even as your thighs tremble around his head. You yank his hair, then the bastard laughs—mouth still pressed wet against your cunt. The vibration sends a jolt up your spine.
His hands keep palming your tits like he owns them, then he pulls your nipples.
You jerk forward with a gasp.
Oh.
His lips seal around your clit, then he’s sucking, and your focus wobbles. A broken noise punches from your throat, body jolting as bliss lifts you higher.
No.
No, no, no.
You try to get his head away, palm shoving at his forehead, the other hand clawing at his scalp, but he holds firm.
“You c-can’t make me—come—” Your words dissolve into a ragged moan, your hips stuttering against his face as the heat in your belly coils tighter.
Shit.
Maybe he can.
His fingers twist your nipples sharply, and the pain-pleasure of it makes your cunt clench. You snarl and twist your hips to get away, but Daryl growls, his grip lowering quickly to circle around your thighs again.
He locks you in place. Tongue returns, faster, rougher, trying to ruin you with it.
You’re close. Too close.
And he knows.
He leans his head up into you, eyes locked on your face.
“Daryl, I’m—“ You jerk backward with a snarl, but his grip on your thighs stays locked, fingers digging bruises into your skin.
The bastard laughs again.
And that’s what does it.
The coil in your belly snaps, and you're coming on his mouth with a gritted, angry groan.
Once that familiar warmth floods in, you forget the fighting and just chase it, grinding your hips down against his face in wild, jerky movements.
He doesn't let up.
Not even a little. He takes it. You look down at him and he stares right back up at you.
His tongue works you through it, dragging your pleasure out until it borders on painful. Until your thighs shake and your fingers twitch out of his hair to brace on the ground beside it instead.
Only when you start to slump forward, breathless and trembling, does he finally pull his mouth away, but not far. His breath puffs hot and wet against your oversensitive skin.
You sit upright overtop him again, panting. Tiredly, you look over your shoulder to see Daryl’s… cock.
Oh, shit.
It’s out of his pants now. You don't know when he did that.
Your pulse scatters when you see the full length of him. Red and thick, throbbing in strong flexes off his stomach. Precum glistens and drips from the head.
You feel him pushing you.
You lag behind.
He grabs your forearms and simply moves you. You blame your afterglow when he’s already got you flat on your back, crawling over you like a big cat. His knees slot between your thighs before you can snap them shut.
One elbow braces beside your head, caging you in, while his free hand arrives on your cunt with a rough spank.
You yelp. Loudly.
“Girl, shut up,” he grumbles. He presses a hand over your mouth, then spreads your thighs with his knees. “You want this shit.”
He goes right back to spanking your cunt, fingers meeting your clit in snaps, searing through your nerves like fire.
There’s no rhythm. No warning between.
You wail into his palm and thrash, hands finding his shoulders and shoving, futile.
It’s so cruel. You just came and now he’s slapping your cunt like he’s mad at you for it.
You crack your eyes open to see him squinting down at you, pleased with himself. Like he’s conquered you. Like he’s got you all figured out and he knows just how to break you.
All at once, he stops slapping and starts rubbing, rough and wild, fingers dragging through the sore, wet mess he made of you.
His hand slides off your mouth and you suck in a breath.
“What’s wrong with you—” you snarl, but the words die when his fingers plunge inside your cunt.
Your hips jerk off the ground, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat.
"Fuck—F-Fuck you—" you whine, twisting violently beneath him, but Daryl hooks your knee in his elbow and he bends you in half, like he’s trying to bury you in the soil.
His fingers curl inside you, rough, relentless, dragging up against your walls so good your thighs tremble.
You feel your stomach coil again.
Unhelpfully, your mind supplies the image of his cock fucking in and out of you instead. You moan, and his taunting smile is what gets you to slap him across the face.
The crack echoes through the trees, but the bastard just groans, shaking his head like a dog with a bone. His fingers don’t slow. Every time you land a hit on him or catch him off guard, it makes him double down.
Your thighs try to clamp shut, but it’s useless. Daryl’s fingers plunge deeper, curling just right, and your vision flickers.
How does he keep doing this to you?
Fuck.
Pulse stutters.
Heat blooms.
No.
But then you get the sudden urge that you need to piss.
No, no, God.
You’re gonna squirt. Holy shit, you always struggle to get there on your own, but he’s about to pull it out of you like it’s child’s play.
You writhe violently, snarling curses, but he’s too strong. Too heavy.
The sound gets so obscene. You always get wetter when you’re about to cum, fuck, it’s especially humiliating right now.
You panic.
You buck.
You arch and squirm. Nails gouging his arms and wrists, but he doesn’t relent.
So your hands fly up to cover your face instead, dammit. You shake and tremble without control of it, then his fingers push up inside you one last time, pressing deep, and your body seizes.
Your second orgasm hits you like a brick on the back of the head.
He makes you squirt, the bastard. The hot rush floods between your thighs and up into his stomach. His palm slips.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes. He yanks his fingers free and rubs your clit back and forth, splashing in it like it’s fucking fun.
You go rigid.
It’s torture. It’s too much. Too sensitive.
And honestly, you might say something, but who cares?
You’ve never felt pleasure like this.
You drop your hands from your face to see him sucking two fingers in his mouth, cleaning them with his tongue like a freak, like some starved animal.
You scowl at him through your haze and—
The sharp crack of his palm against your cheek snaps your head to the side, the sting blooming hot and sudden.
Before you can even recollect your thoughts, Daryl grinds the thick head of his cock against your clit.
You gasp. "Don't even think about—"
Another slap cuts you off, harder this time. Your vision turns to static, and when it clears, he’s already sinking into your cunt, seating himself to the hilt in one solid push of his hips.
Daryl leans forward and grabs your chin. "You gonna shut up now, or do I need to keep smackin’ you around?”
"Just fuck me," you whisper.
He thrusts like he’s pissed. Each one punches a new sound out of you. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, teeth scraping your skin and marking you up, ruining you.
Then his hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your hands and knees. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head back.
“Doesn’t look like you hate me that much right now,” he taunts.
But you do hate him.
You do.
You promise.
His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp burn, and you just go willingly. One particularly rough snap of his hips knocks you forward and your elbows buckle.
Then simply Daryl shoves your cheek into the dirt.
Lifts your hips higher in the air.
Spits in your face.
You don’t try to wipe it away this time. You just wear it.
"That’s real pretty," he breathes.
“Mhmm.”
Daryl growls and spits again. Smears his thumb through it on your cheek.
You find that you’re too dazed to even bite back anymore.
You just don't have the energy left.
Face down, ass up.
Cunt used and filled.
You take it.
For a long time.
Then you’re prone on your belly and he’s just drilling you. You think you come again, but it’s hard to tell.
You’re nebulous.
He must feel the shift in your fight, or lack thereof, because he redoubles his efforts.
You blink—once, twice—and suddenly you’re upright on your knees in the dirt, your hands limp at your sides. You don’t remember moving.
Him moving you?
You dunno.
Don’t care.
Daryl’s grip closes on your chin, tilting your head up. His thumb pressing against your bottom lip, and your mouth opens on its own.
Your tongue lolls out, wet and stupid, like some trained fucking mutt waiting for a treat.
Daryl doesn’t give you one.
He spits in your mouth instead, right onto your tongue.
You swallow.
You blink again—and his cock is in your mouth, dragging along your tongue.
Daryl’s fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you forward.
You don’t fight it. You don’t even gag. Your throat opens for him like it’s been trained to, swallowing him down until your nose presses into coarse hair.
His hips jerk forward once, twice—sharp, punishing little thrusts that make your eyes roll back.
Then he groans, low and ragged, and spills hot down your throat. You just keep swallowing, so far down your throat you can’t even taste it.
You’re so lost under the rush of your heartbeat in your ears.
When he pulls out, you slump forward against his legs. Your lips stay parted, slack and wet, tongue heavy behind your teeth.
Daryl’s breath is uneven above you, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hands are still tangled in your hair, holding you in place.
You blink up at him, your vision swimming at the edges, and for a second—just a second—he looks concerned for you.
Then your vision just sinks to black.
The world comes back in slow, aching pulses.
First, the dull throb between your legs, then the sharp sting where his teeth marked your neck, and finally, the bone-deep exhaustion that weighs your limbs down like lead.
You groan, eyelids fluttering, and the sound scrapes raw against your throat.
Everything hurts. Everything feels used.
Something scratchy and thick brushes against your bare skin—his poncho, maybe, wrapped haphazardly around your shoulders. The wool smells like Daryl, that warm, smoky edge of leather and pine and cigarettes.
Oh, yeah.
It is Daryl.
His arms tighten around you.
“Quit squirmin’,” he grumbles. There’s no bite in his voice. No anger. It’s rough, sleep-thick, like he’s been dozing upright with you slumped back against his chest like this.
The realization makes your stomach twist. How long has he been sitting here, holding you while you were out cold?
The thought should piss you off.
But, God, you have never been so tired in your life.
So you just forget it.
The next thing you recognize is the quiet. No birds, no wind, just the slow, steady rhythm of Daryl breathing against the crown of your head. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek, a muted but insistent pulse beneath his ribs.
It’s nice. Soothing.
His fingers twitch against your side, pressing lightly into the bruises he left earlier, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.
Never mind. Not nice.
The wool draped over you scratches at your bare skin, but it’s warm, and it smells like him, and right now, that’s the closest thing to comfort you’ve got.
You swallow again, wincing at the soreness in your throat.
"Easy," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. His thumb swipes over your hipbone, rough but careful, like he’s mapping the damage.
You want to bite him.
You want to lean into it.
Instead, you just exhale shakily, your breath ghosting over his collarbone.
"Fuck you," you mumble lazily.
Daryl huffs, and for a second, you think he might actually laugh. He doesn’t. But his chest vibrates under you, just a little, like he’s holding it back.
A canteen presses against your lips. He grips your hair and pulls your head back, and he pours it right into your mouth. You blink dazedly up at the canopy overhead and just swallow.
He’s being possessive, and annoying.
Normally, you'd wrench away—spit the water back at him, maybe—but right now, the weight of his hand on the back of your neck feels grounding.
For once, you don't fight him.
And he doesn't fight you.
You just drink what he pours until you’re dribbling a cold line down your chin.
It tracks down your neck and into your cleavage.
That feels good, too.
"I hate you," you mumble drowsily, curling into the curve of his shoulder.
"Yeah, whatever," he answers, pulling the poncho higher on your shoulders.
And you drift.
If you made it to the end, bless your freaky little heart. thanks for reading, friend. comments are very appreciated! 🖤
