SAMPERV prospect. I started out doing preferences (mainly for 1D and 5sos as my username suggests [don't judge]), and I'd like to get back to doing them, but right now, I'm writing fanfics and dribbles for SoA, Harry Potter, Walking Dead, Supernatural, Boondock Saints and actors/singers and so much more as long as I know some stuff about it. So please send in your requests.
The first thing he’d do is check on you to see if you had a good time and just enjoyed it overall
Study ur body features while you lay naked next to him
B= Body part (their favorite body part of theirs/you)
Tits, anything to do with tits. He’d bite them, suck them, tease them. Anything. Gives him a big hard on. Admires them a lot. He kinda just laughs at himself for it too.
C=Cum (anything to do with cum)
He likes it when you cum on his face, mesmerized by the end result of it. Would do anything to go down on you
When HE cums, he needs to literally suffocate in a pillow to control himself.
D=Dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)
Loves you using handcuffs on him. He will act in a panic about them everytime but secretly he wishes you used them more on him
E=Experience (how experienced are they?)
Pretty experienced, probably discovered ‘sex’ pretty young. Not wanting to miss the littlest fact about it
If you mention something that he doesn’t know (which is surprisingly a lot) he’d either bug you to show him or study his ass off about it
F= Favorite position (self explainable)
Just anything for him to be able to face you. Him being able to grab any part of your body and to just be able to caress what lays beneath (or on top ;) ) him. Just you riding him hard, and really fucking sloppy as there’s hair pulling and slapping noises leaving the room
G= Goofy (are they more serious or humourous?)
At the start of sexual intercourse with you he’d be kinda nervous? I guess.. but a couple hook ups in he would make jokes here and there on how you were doing. Sometimes making inside jokes in public just to annoy you
H= Hair (how well groomed are they?)
Not groomed at all, he does like, wash his dick whenever the chance is even to him but he’s always been a little scared of razors or whatever near his dick cause he thinks that there’s a chance that someone will walk in the washroom while he’s doing it, making him jump and boom bang. Accidentally cut his dick.
Also there’s proof that he doesn’t shave his pubes and washes his dick 👁👁
I= Intimacy (how are they during the moment?)
Tries to be as serious as he can, mostly taking the time to admire you. But would do it anytime, would say little hints to you all through out the day just so you are ready. If he really fucking horny he’d tell you how fucking hard you make him and how hard he’s gonna go. And that man tries to make his promises-
If you were a little shy he’d try to eliminate those feelings as much as he can.
J= Jack off ( how often do they masturbate if they do?)
I’d say two times a day, ig.. if his day is super fucking boring, that would be the only thing he could think about to keep him just in track with the day and what has to come ;)
He’d pleasure himself to pictures of you, feeling it’s wrong to go on a porn website when he’s with you~
K= Kink (do they have any?)
He encourages just doing vanilla sex, he’s super duper basic.
Doesn’t have many kinks cause he hasn’t had the time to discover them
Daddy kink?… cause Daddy issues and shit 🤪
L= Location (where to they like to do the do?)
Uhhhh prefers bed because he’s a little cautious with being caught by someone he knows… if it’s like,, a alleyway he’s here for that 100%, but he gotta make it quick
M= Motivation (what turns them on?)
Dirty talk mostly, anything gets him hard,, but when it comes to dirty talk he’d need those things as soon as it’s being told in his ears. He can’t wait.
N= No (something they won’t do)
Anything masochist-y he hates pain when it comes to sex, it’s a big turn off. Knife play is a big nono cause he’ll get all jumpy, thinking you’d draw blood
O= Oral (giving or receiving/are they good at it?)
I remember him giving it and it was magical to him, but he’s not used to it so I’d say receiving, cause most people give him. He’s pretty good at giving it though, I remember him making a women squirt and he was fucking MESMERIZED
P= Pace ( are they fast and rough or slow and sensual?)
As fast as he can go. He doesn’t let you adjust at all. He’ll make the experience go 1.5 seconds.
Q= Quickie ( do they care for them/ how often?)
Quickies is usually how he goes, don’t expect a whole round with him lasting an hour.
If he wasn’t hard, and was fucking you, he’d prove to you that he could cum. No stopping
R= Risk (are they willing to experiment?)
If he’s pushed, and pressured into it, he’d probs enjoy it in the end- but he’s super basic.
S= Stamina ( how many rounds can they go for/ how long?)
1-3 rounds, he’d push you go for as long as he can take it.
T=Toys (do they own any/use them on you or themselves?)
Not a big fan, he thinks they are useless when you both have a mouth with a tongue attached to it lol. He’d probably get jealous of you using a dildo or something cause he wants that to be his dick :(( </3
U= Unfair (how much do they tease?)
Teases you a shit ton like “you want this. Is this what you really want~” making you basically becoming a slave. He wouldn’t go really harsh on you, he loves to tease you anytime, any place. But it’s mostly you doing the teasing
V= Volume (how loud are they / what noises do they make?)
Not as loud as he can make you 😏.. little grunts leaving his mouth. He’d probably fake it just to make ur ego go 📈📈📈
W= Wild card (random HC about character)
Loves it when you lick his ear or the side of his neck, dirty talking him in a soft voice.
Also strip teasing is>>>> for him.
X= X-ray (how big are they?)
His ego says it all. 7-9 inches..? I feel like he is PACKING cause in one scene in season 7 his dick was called magical lmao
Y= Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Highhhh, any body part shown the littlest bit. There’s a 99.9% chance that he’d get hard, he would jerk off when lip is alone, just thinking about what he could do to them
Z=ZZZ (how quickly do they fall asleep?)
He’d be buzzed before and during but after a couple rounds he would be out, cold. Maybe lighting a cig after, taking it all in and checking up on you. He’d even cock warm you if he still had a little in him ;)
I like to say all my friends are friends with benefits, because after all, what is getting to fly in my private jet if not a benefit (also, I'd happily bang any of them).
Imagine being a warrior and helping to train Joxer.
You had seen warriors of every kind, loud and unruly blood soaked legends who carved their names into the world with a blade, and noble heroes with egos so big it almost diminished the good deeds they did.
And then there was Joxer. He tripped over a rock before he even reached you. You bit back a smile as he scrambled up, dusting himself off with all the dignity of a man who had just face planted in front of the very person he was trying to impress. “I meant to do that,” he said, chin lifting, confidence wobbling like a cart with a missing wheel.
“Of course you did,” you replied, far too warmly for mockery.
That was what set you apart from the rest, or so you like to think. In Joxer, you didn’t see a fool. You didn’t dismiss him. You saw someone trying —desperately, earnestly— to be something more. And you were going to make him into exactly that.
Training him became a personal mission. You corrected his stance, nudged his grip on the sword, stepped behind him to guide his shoulders when he forgot how to stand with the strength and stability of a warrior and not the weak kneed stance of a scarecrow caught in a breeze.
He listened to your instruction with singleminded concentration, tongue poking slightly between his teeth as he put your words into practice. He still missed swings, still stumbled, still occasionally yelped when he startled himself.
But sometimes, he got it right. And when he did, his face lit up like he’d conquered an empire.
“You see that,” he said once, breathless, eyes bright. “I did that.”
You laughed softly, pride curling in your chest. “You did.”
Joxer may never be the hero the bards would tell the great deeds of, but as you reached out, steadying him after another near fall, you realized something quieter, steadier. He may not be the world’s hero, but he was becoming yours.
Summary: Sneaking around with your secret relationship with Daryl proves harder and harder with each passing day. It wasn't that you were ashamed or embarrassed of each other - you just didn't want the others knowing that part of your lives when so much was already in the open. However, after a particularly rough night and awkward post-morning, the cat's out of the bag. But not in the way you'd hoped.
Main Masterlist
warnings: Sex injury, suggestive dialogue, smut flashbacks, graphic smut (blowjob, m!receiving), injury, swearing, probably. Kenny is an antagonist character I made up, which is basically a prob lol.
You woke to warmth. Not just the kind that came from the scratchy blanket tangled halfway down the bed, but the kind that breathed against your bare skin, slow and steady. Daryl’s arm was slung low across your waist, rough fingertips ghosting over your stomach in lazy, unconscious strokes, his breath brushing the curve of your shoulder. His leg was half-draped over yours, anchoring you to the mattress like he didn’t trust you not to up and leave.
The guard tower wasn’t exactly luxury living, but it had two things you both craved more than a decent mattress—privacy and a lock. After three days of him being gone on a hunting run, privacy had become very necessary.
Your thighs ached. So did your hips. And your voice, judging by the way it cracked the second you tried to clear your throat. Jesus.
You barely managed to blink your eyes open before Daryl stirred behind you, his mouth pressing sleepily to your shoulder blade, then lower—across your spine, trailing kisses like breadcrumbs. You shivered.
“Mornin’,” he rasped, voice all gravel, the low drawl rumbling through your spine as his hand slid up under the blanket to cup your breast—slow, possessive, and so damn familiar it sent a shiver down your aching thighs.
His thumb dragged over your nipple, coaxing it to a hard peak with infuriating gentleness. You sucked in a breath, your body twitching under his as his knee slid between your legs like muscle memory, his hips already starting that lazy grind against your ass.
“Daryl—” your voice broke off in a strained gasp as his teeth found your shoulder, biting down just enough to make your hips jerk. “Oh, fuck—baby…”
He groaned into your skin, rolling his hips again, slower this time, deeper. “One more time, cmon…”
You didn’t have the heart to stop him at first. The heat in your stomach lit fast—your body wanted him, wanted to forget how sore you were and let him take you again just because it felt so good to be under him, with him.
But your thighs trembled, already overworked, and there was a dull, nagging throb in your hip from how hard you’d gripped him last night—maybe from when he’d half-dragged you back up the wall after you’d collapsed around his fingers, begging for more.
“Daryl,” you rasped again, twisting to catch his face with your hand. His eyes were hazy, already half-lost in the feel of you, pupils blown wide as he kissed a slow line down your neck. “I can’t baby—I’m too sore.”
He froze mid-motion, forehead resting against your shoulder, panting quietly. You felt the exact moment guilt settled over him like a wet blanket.
“Shit,” he muttered again, softer this time. “Sorry. Didn’t mean—I thought…”
“You thought right,” you said with a breathless, teasing smile. “I want to. I just physically can’t.”
His face flushed as he leaned up, cupping your jaw to kiss you—slow, apologetic, worshipful. “M’sorry. Just—got home and you were already waitin’ in bed, lookin’ at me like that…”
“I was naked,” you reminded him, laughing weakly.
“Exactly.” He kissed your cheek. “What was I supposed to do? Be a gentleman?”
You laughed again, softer, eyes fluttering shut as he kissed down your chest, nosing at the curve of your breast like he wasn’t ready to let go of the idea just yet.
You turned your head just enough to catch his guilty expression. “Don’t apologize,” you rasped, still half-smiling. “Just… maybe gimme a day to re-learn how to walk.”
You gazed at him then; his hair was a mess—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other, the kind of disaster only deep sleep (and other activities) could make. Yours… probably matched. Longer, wilder, and currently hiding most of your face when you peeked up at him.
“I really thought we were gonna break that bed frame.”
“We did.” He grinned into your skin. “You didn’t hear it snap when I—?”
“Oh my god.”
“Yeah.” He pressed another kiss between your breasts, slow and warm. “Totally worth it.”
His voice softened then, the humor fading just slightly. His lips brushed over the faint bruises he’d left on your ribs, fingertips moving with featherlight reverence like he could soothe the ache from the outside. “You really hurtin’?”
“I feel like I got hit by a truck,” you murmured, combing your fingers through his tangled hair. “A very sexy, grunting truck that doesn’t believe in pacing himself.”
He snorted, the sound muffled against your belly. “Told ya I missed ya.”
“I missed you too,” you said, threading both hands into his hair and tugging gently to guide him back up. “But I swear, if you even look at me with that face right now, I’ll kick you in the balls to even the score.”
He grinned, and gave you one last, lingering kiss—soft and slow, all lips and breath and whispered apology—before finally pulling back and reaching for your shirt. “Alright, alright. You win. But tonight?”
“Tonight I sleep.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t even think about waking me up with your dick.”
His expression was utterly unrepentant. “I’ll be gentle.”
“You never are.”
“Takes one ta know one,” he muttered against your skin. “I ain’t never seen you like that. Was like you were tryna kill me last night.”
“I think we both tried to kill each other,” you murmured back. “Four times.”
“Five times,” he corrected. “You don’t remember the time where you bit me?”
You blinked, confused. “Bit you?”
He leaned up, pulling his hair back with one hand to reveal a faint purpling crescent just under his jaw. You stared at it.
“I don’t remember that.”
“Oh, I do,” he said with a crooked grin.
You groaned, burying your face into the pillow. “Oh my god I’m so sorry.”
“S’fine,” he said grinning.
Faint now—barely a shadow of purple—but when his fingers brushed that mark, fresh out of bed and still hazed in the best possible way, the memory hit like a fuckin’ freight train.
He could still feel it. The pressure of your teeth sinking into that tender spot where his neck met his shoulder. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just desperate.
You didn’t mean to. You were barely there.
One minute he’d had you on your stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow, hands curled into the sheets like they were the only things keeping you tethered. He was over you, in you, grinding so deep and slow it was less a thrust and more a claiming—rhythmic, relentless. Sweat dripping off his skin onto yours. His thighs snug to the backs of yours, his hand gripping your hip so tight his knuckles ached the next morning.
Your body was boneless, trembling, oversensitive from everything he’d already done to you. He’d taken his time—fingers, mouth, words. Wrecked you soft first. Had you sobbing into his chest with nothing but a hand between your legs and his voice in your ear telling you how good you were, how sweet you tasted, how long he was gonna take his time tonight.
And then he’d flipped you.
And then he sank into you.
He hadn’t even meant to go that deep. But your hips arched into it, seeking more without words. Your mouth had fallen open in a soundless moan. Your hands fluttered—reaching for him, for the pillow, for anything—but settling on nothing. It was like your body couldn’t decide what to hold onto because it was too busy falling apart.
You didn’t say his name. You whimpered it.
And he’d lost it.
“Yeah, baby,” he’d growled into your hair, the tip of his nose dragging along your scalp. “That’s it. Doin’ so good. Attagirl.”
Your only answer was a sob. Not from pain. From need.
And then it happened.
Your head tilted. Just barely.
And your mouth latched onto the side of his neck.
Not hard. Not deep. Just enough to bite. To mark him. To hold onto something solid while your brain turned to static.
It startled him. For half a second, he paused—not his hips, not the thrust—but in his mind. That flicker of shock. Of fuck.
But then he groaned. Deep in his throat. Low.
Because it was you. Biting him like that. Because you were so far gone, so soaked and soft and open for him, that you needed your teeth to ground yourself.
And he couldn’t stop.
Wouldn’t stop.
Your cunt clenched around him like a goddamn vice and he drove into it like he was trying to become part of you. His hand slid up to the base of your neck, not to push you away, but to hold you there. Keep you close. Keep you biting.
You moaned against his skin, mouth still open, teeth still sunk into him like you didn’t even realize what you were doing—like it was just instinct. Just need.
His rhythm picked up. Harsher. Filthier. The slap of skin, the creak of the mattress, your muffled cries against his neck.
“You want it that bad?” he’d rasped, eyes shut, trying to keep himself from blowing then and there. “That gone already, huh baby?”
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but bite down again, just a little tighter, and whimper something that didn’t even sound like language.
He felt you break around him right there.
Felt the way your whole body tensed. The way you gasped against his neck. The way your walls fluttered around his cock like your body was trying to keep him, pull him deeper, own him.
It undid him.
He buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name into your shoulder, chest caving in with the force of it. It was one of those orgasms that left him shaking—like his body didn’t know how to hold itself up anymore. It felt like it went on forever, the way he kept filling you—
“Daryl?” you mumbled, voice raw and sleep-rough, laced with that hoarse rasp that hadn’t quite left since last night. “You good?”
He flinched, blinking hard—ripped clean out of the memory, the phantom feel of your teeth still tingling beneath his skin. His hand dropped immediately, and he turned slightly, eyes darting anywhere but your bare, tangled figure behind him.
“Yeah. M’fine,” he muttered, clearing his throat a little too fast, a little too loud, like that’d somehow cover up the very obvious problem still tenting the blanket.
You stirred against the sheets, shifting slow and ginger like every muscle ached. “Where’re my clothes?” you croaked, trying to sit up before groaning and falling flat again. “Oh my god. I can’t feel my spine.”
Daryl still couldn’t look at you directly. Not yet. Not while his dick was throbbing against the fabric like it had plans.
Your eyes fluttered open, searching blearily for him. “Daryl?”
He glanced toward the window to avoid the sight of your completely naked body spread out like a goddamn painting—and that’s when he saw it.
Your bra.
Swaying gently from where it had somehow ended up hooked on the balcony railing, one strap dangling out into the open air like it was waving good morning to the world.
He stared at it.
Then blinked.
Then let out the quietest “shit” under his breath.
“What?” you asked, brow furrowed.
He didn’t answer right away. Just scratched the back of his neck and nodded toward the open window. “Uh. Found it.”
You followed his line of sight.
Saw it.
And groaned like someone had punched you in the soul. “Oh no. Tell me that wasn’t out there all night.”
“Dunno,” he muttered, already moving toward the door. “Wind must’a caught it or somethin’…”
“Or you threw it,” you countered, burying your face into the pillow with a muffled scream. “Oh my god.”
He got up, throwing off the blanket and stepping out completely naked without a care in the world, grimacing slightly as the morning sun hit his bare chest. He grabbed the bra and yanked it off the railing like it had personally offended him, muttering, “Least it didn’t land in the fuckin’ tomato patch.”
You saw the moment his mind wandered. He paused there, bare back rising and falling with each deep breath, cock hard and heavy between his legs, bobbing faintly as he stood in the sun.
You watched him cross the tower, completely bare and unbothered, like the sunlight wasn’t striping every muscle of his back in gold. His steps were loose, fluid, still heavy from sleep and the kind of night that left you both bruised and breathless.
Your body ached—hips sore, thighs humming with the kind of exhaustion that edged into satisfaction—but your mouth; that still worked just fine.
And you moved.
Blanket slinking off your skin, your knees dragging slowly over the cold cement floor, crawling towards him like some animal, naked and hungry. You knelt behind him, letting the early light warm your back, and reached around him with both hands—one to steady yourself, the other to wrap around the base of him, hot and pulsing in your grip.
He twitched.
You leaned forward and kissed the tip. Soft, reverent. He didn’t say a word—just braced his palms on the railing and let you have him.
Your lips parted and you took him in slowly, dragging your tongue along the underside, feeling him swell in your mouth as his breath hitched, chest tightening. You worked him deeper, steady strokes of your hand matching the hollow of your cheeks, spit glistening as it slipped down your chin, but you didn’t care. You loved him like this—quiet and coiled, trembling under your touch, too focused on keeping still to remember how to breathe.
And then—
“Daryl?”
The voice struck like a match.
Rick. Of course.
You froze. Only for a second.
He didn’t.
His hands flexed hard on the railing. You felt every muscle in his thighs tense, the sharp pull of his stomach, the way his cock jumped against your tongue.
But he didn’t push you away.
“Yeah?” His voice cracked and he coughed, tried again. “Y-Yeah?”
You didn’t stop. You licked a stripe from base to tip, then sealed your mouth around him again and sucked slow, just to see if he’d twitch. He did.
“What’re you doin’ up there?” Rick called. “Ain’t your shift.”
Daryl’s jaw clenched. You could see it even from below. One hand stayed planted on the railing. The other dropped down to your head, fingers threading into your hair, not to guide you—just to ground himself. You weren’t sure if he was about to come or pass out.
“Laundry,” he said gruffly. “Flew up here.”
You grinned around him. He could feel it.
There was a long beat of silence.
You slid down further, taking him deeper. Your nose bumped his skin, your tongue pressed firm and flat, your hand twisting in rhythm just below your mouth.
“I’m fine,” Daryl bit out, throat straining. “Hot up here. Sun’s right on the damn glass.”
You moaned, low and thick, letting the vibration hit the base of his cock like a shockwave.
His breath stuttered. His hips jolted forward.
And you felt it—the shift.
That sharp tremble that raced up his legs, through his stomach, into his hands. He was close. Fighting it. Losing.
Rick’s voice droned on in the background, something about the southern fence line, something about wood supplies, but Daryl wasn’t listening. Couldn’t.
His grip in your hair tightened—not rough, just desperate. His body hovered on the edge, every muscle locked down, trying to stay still while his cock twitched in your throat.
And then—
Rick turned. Walked away. His boots echoed down the pavement. The sound faded.
Gone. Finally.
And Daryl broke.
He came with a groan that shook loose from his chest like it had been trapped there, hips jerking forward as his release spilled hot and fast down your throat. You took all of it—held him deep, swallowed hard, one hand still moving, coaxing every last twitch from him until he was sagging against the balcony like it was the only thing holding him up.
His breath heaved in ragged gasps, body gleaming with sweat, legs shaking.
You pulled off him with a slick pop, wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, and kissed the sharp jut of his hip.
He looked down at you like he couldn’t decide whether to collapse or kiss you stupid.
You were already smiling.
Still on your knees. Still wrecked from the night before. But pleased. So fucking pleased.
You arched a brow. “Still hot up here?”
He swallowed thickly. “You’re an evil woman.”
You got up, snatched the bra from him, feeling his eyes on you as you walked away. “That’s why ya love me.”
He mumbled in response, something in between a a hum of agreement and ‘shut up’.
He gave you an exasperated look before shaking his head. You just sucked him off and you're acting like it's just another Tuesday?
"It is Tuesday," you said, still smirking.
Had he said that out loud!?
“We didn’t sleep,” he said with a shrug, tugging his pants on. “Ain’t my fault.”
“You’re the one who kept saying ‘just one more time.’”
“Yeah, well…” He looked down at you and gave the softest smile, all warm and wrecked and adoring. “I missed ya.”
You stared up at him for a long second, eyes soft, before reaching out and curling your fingers around his wrist. “I missed you too, Dixon. Just… maybe tonight we try sleep instead of cardio?”
“No promises,” he muttered, bending to kiss you once more—slow, sweet, and maddeningly deep.
He bent to grab his shirt from the chair, the morning light catching the planes of his back — and your breath caught mid-inhale.
“Oh… my god.”
He half-turned, brows drawing together, but you were already moving.
“Turn around,” you murmured, low but firm, your hands already finding his hips and guiding him to face away from you.
The sight made your stomach tighten — angry red lines raked across the breadth of his back, some shallow, some deeper, all raw against his skin, with the faintest shadow of a bite mark blooming at the base of his neck. You stepped in close, the heat radiating off him soaking into your bare skin, your palms smoothing over his sides before trailing up his back, fingertips skimming the raised welts like maybe your touch could erase them.
“Baby… oh my god, does that not hurt?” The words came out soft, almost guilty, your hands still roaming over his skin like you were cataloging every mark.
“Ain’t nothin’,” he said with a shrug, but that casual dismissal only made your chest tighten more.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, stepping around to face him fully. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under your palms, before you hid your face behind them. “I didn’t even realize I—god, that’s embarrassing.”
Before you could retreat, his larger hands closed gently around your wrists, pulling them down until your face was bare to him again. One hand lingered, cradling your jaw, his thumb stroking along your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’,” he repeated, quieter now, like he wanted you to believe it.
You huffed, half-guilty, half-bewildered. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
His other hand slid from your wrist to your hip, holding you close enough that the warmth of his bare chest pressed against yours. “Didn’t wanna,” he muttered, eyes darting away.
Your brows lifted.
“Not ‘cause it hurt—” he rushed to add, gaze skimming over your shoulder, “just… means you were feelin’ good.”
A slow smirk tugged at your mouth, and your hands smoothed up into his hair for just a second before you pulled away toward the shelf.
“Where you goin’?” he asked, following you with his eyes.
“Still getting the aloe,” you tossed over your shoulder.
He scoffed under his breath, but didn’t move — and you caught the faintest hint of a smile, like he wouldn’t mind if you came back and fussed over him some more.
⸻
The midday sun beat down hard against the metal fence as sweat slipped past your temples, soaking into the collar of your shirt. The walkers had been pressing harder against the perimeter lately, enough that the mesh was starting to bend inward, groaning under the weight of too many rotting bodies with just enough instinct left to keep pushing. Reinforcements were long overdue, so the plan now was brute force—wedging thick wooden beams against the metal at key points to keep the wall from collapsing entirely.
“Kenny,” Daryl grunted, his shoulder wedged up beneath the weight of the log, “if you drop this damn thing, I swear—”
“I’m not gonna drop it,” Kenny shot back, clearly straining. “This thing weighs more than a truck.”
“Then maybe you should’ve stayed with the tomato plants,” you muttered as you crouched low, ducking beneath the beam. “Hold it steady—I gotta mark where we need to dig.”
“Yeah, yeah, just make it quick,” Kenny puffed, the whites of his knuckles visible as he shifted his grip.
You dropped to lie down on your back in the dirt, fingers dragging through the dry soil as you carved out a rough guide with the blade of your knife. Daryl’s boot was inches from your head, the edge of his shirt hiked up just enough to expose the shallow curve of his lower back—and the faint red streaks etched into the skin there. Your scratches. Last night’s scratches.
And then there was also the very noticeable bite mark which he had tied a bandana around, which had now shifted to reveal it.
Kenny’s eyes landed on them.
The bite. The scratches.
And then everything went to hell.
“Holy shit—is that a bite?” he barked, his voice slicing through the air like a gunshot.
You didn’t even have time to react. The beam jerked violently in his grip, and before Daryl could rebalance it, the weight tipped sideways—crashing down hard onto your ribcage.
The sound that tore out of you wasn’t quite a scream—it was a crack, and then a wheezing grunt as the air got knocked clean out of your lungs. You folded instantly, body trapped awkwardly beneath the log, head lolling back into the dirt as pain shot like lightning in your torso.
“Shit!” Daryl bellowed, his voice already ragged with fury. “Get it off her!”
A blur of boots surrounded you—Rick, Maggie, Tyreese—all rushing to help. Hands grabbed the beam and heaved, straining against the weight until it finally lifted just enough. Daryl dropped to his knees and yanked you free, cradling your body to his chest like it weighed nothing, like you were made of feathers instead of broken bones.
Kenny staggered backwards, pale and jittery, eyes locked on Daryl. “I—I saw scratches, man! Guys, he's got scratches and a bite!”
“You dropped it on her—’cause of that?” Daryl’s voice was pure fire now, a sharp growl ripping from his throat as he lunged.
Kenny stumbled, tripping over his own feet. “I didn’t mean to—!”
“Daryl!” Rick barked, intercepting just in time, shoving a firm arm across Daryl’s chest before he could close the distance. “That’s enough! Where’d the scratches and the bite come from?”
Everyone froze. All eyes were on him.
Daryl’s jaw was clenched so tight the tendons in his neck stood out, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them now that he wasn’t throttling someone.
You sucked in a shallow breath from the dirt, ribs screaming, and rasped out, “It was me, alright?”
Confusion rippled through the group.
You forced yourself upright with a grimace, brushing Daryl’s hand off as you tried to sit but failing miserably. You collapsed halfway again, coughing, and Daryl was immediately back beside you, kneeling so close his thigh pressed against your hip.
His voice dropped to that soft gravel only you ever seemed to get. “Hey. You good? Look at me.”
You turned your face toward the sound, your expression pinched but dry-eyed. “Might’ve cracked a rib,” you muttered, only half-joking. “Feels like something’s doing jazz hands in my lung.”
His hand cradled the back of your head gently, fingers weaving into your hair as his thumb brushed along your cheekbone, eyes scanning your face like he needed to memorise every twitch and wince.
“Lemme see,” he murmured, already tugging your shirt up slowly, carefully, as if touching too fast might break you further.
The collective silence behind you stretched long. You were aware of every set of eyes watching as Daryl pushed your shirt up to reveal the angry red welt blooming across your side, his palm skimming up the bare skin of your waist to brace you steady while he looked.
And that was the moment it all clicked—for everyone.
Daryl’s hand was on your bare skin, thumb moving slowly, reverently over the rising bruise like he could soothe it just by touch. The way he held you—tender, intimate, like someone he loved—left no room for confusion.
You caught Rick’s glance toward Maggie, the slight raise of her eyebrows, and Tyreese's shuffling.
Daryl didn’t care.
“You should’ve stayed back,” he muttered, still crouched beside you, still holding your shirt like he hadn’t noticed half your stomach was on display. “Told ya I’d do the damn marking.”
“Yeah, well.” You winced, leaning into his touch. “Didn’t wanna make Kenny feel useless.”
“Think he managed that all on his own.”
“Still gonna punch him?” you asked, breathless but smirking through it.
Daryl’s jaw flexed, his voice low and flat. “Later. Let’s get ya to Hershel.”
Before you could protest, his arm slid around your waist, hauling you up from the dirt like you were weightless. His palm stayed warm and steady at your side, guiding you away without so much as a glance over his shoulder.
The three still by the fence just stared at Kenny.
“What?” Kenny said, holding his hands up. “Hey, how was I supposed to know those were not walker scratches?!”
“Because he got them while he was in the watch tower, dumbass,” Rick muttered.
"But the bite-"
"He would have gotten a fever by now," said Maggie.
Kenny blinked, then his eyebrows shot up like the penny had just dropped. “Ohhh,” he said slowly, a grin spreading. “Ohhh. So that’s what that was. Damn, Dixon—”
From up ahead, without turning around, Daryl growled, “Shut up, Kenny.”
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, leaning a little heavier into Daryl’s side. “Guess the secret’s out,” you murmured.
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, but his hand on your hip didn’t loosen one bit.
Do you remember that time I was so angry with my father and my brother, I went down to Earth and I held the whole of New York City hostage with an alien army? Tried to use the Mind Stone on Tony Stark. It didn't work, so I threw him off the building.
Character Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers
Word Count: 452
Rating/Warnings: M
It wasn’t that Steve couldn’t bruise - he could. He was human after all. Enhanced, sure, but still human. He could still get broken bones and concussions, and he still bled even if that bleeding was subdermal.
It just took the right amount of force, and god did Bucky like trying to apply that right amount of force.
He healed, of course - faster than most, but not so fast that it would be called a healing factor. Steve still had to go to work with Bucky’s artwork plastered on his skin. It filled Bucky with a special sense of pride to see Steve standing up at a press conference with a visible bruise on his neck.
Maybe it was juvenile, but Bucky thought he’d earned the ability to not act his age. Not just because of all the years HYDRA had stolen from him, but because he and Steve had been too scared to do this as teenagers. Bucky figured they were allowed to make up for lost time.
Besides, it felt good. Not just for him but for Steve too. After so much pain, he cherished the pleasure.
Making out with Steve lit up all his senses. The press of flesh against flesh. The taste of salt on his skin. The delicious moans and whispered words of love. It was too much and not enough all at once. Bucky’s body, so used to pain and torment, was never quite able to get used to the good. He twitched and his muscles rippled in the wake of Steve’s hand as he was tortured with pleasure, and he loved every second of it.
But amongst all that, he loved making a map on Steve’s skin of everywhere he’d been. The physical proof that they could now do this. This forbidden act that they had wanted so badly but held back from. This act had been stolen from them by societal pressure and HYDRA. Here they were, two men whose love transcended time, and they could have it all.
There was more though. Because, yes, he liked that it marked Steve as his. That other people would see it and know Steve Rogers was not for them. He had someone at home.
And he loved that this was special, just for them. Yes, Steve could be marked, but it took effort and strength, both things that Bucky had plenty of to give. Very few would be able to mark Steve Rogers like that. But Bucky could. And more importantly - he was able to. Steve trusted him, and that meant more than almost anything else.
Except one thing.
Steve loved him, and Bucky loved him in return. For Bucky, that was the best thing of all.
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