smutty-ki113r

[smutty-ki113r]

Hell On Earth

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader

Summary:

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—” “Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly. You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.” You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words… God help you, it does something to you. Or Lex is the worst boss, he's rude, demanding, and downright evil but... you think he's kinda hot.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, humping, degradation kink, masochist!reader, drunken confession, power dynamic

WC: 4.1k

A/N: Nicholas Hoult is just too fine as Lex, I had to click-clack on my keyboard and write this.

***

Your boss might just be the death of you.

Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.

He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.

So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth. 

“The coffee is cold.”

Fuck me sideways.

“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”

You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.

“Mr. Luthor—”

“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”

His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.

“I should just build an assistant.”

You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.

“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”

He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home. 

You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”

He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.

“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.

“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”

***

It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.

Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.

“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.

“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.

“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”

“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”

“Plus?”

You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.

“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”

Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”

You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”

“Seek help,” they laugh.

After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.

“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "Imma party till the sun down."

“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.

“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.

The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.

Lex Luthor.

“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.

“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.

You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right?

Silence.

“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.

“If you want to keep your job—”

“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”

A pause.

“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."

You hang up.

The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”

“Satan.”

You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.

“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.

“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”

There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.

“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”

And you hang up again.

The cab is silent once more.

You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.

***

Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.

You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.

Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.

It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.

The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.

“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.

The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.

“Satan!” you screech. 

Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.

Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.

Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.

The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”

He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.

“How…quaint,” he mutters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.

“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.

You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.

“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.

Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”

“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.

You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.

“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”

You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.

You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?

“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug. 

“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”

“Unhand me.”

You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him. 

“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”

You blink. “So… this is punishment?”

“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”

“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.

***

He definitely didn’t need you to be there.

He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.

Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it. 

“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.

You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.

He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.

“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.

“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”

The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again. 

He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”

You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”

That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart. 

“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”

You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.

“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.

“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.

You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”

He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”

“Crazy.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”

You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.

“I’ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”

The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.

***

After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it. 

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”

“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…

God help you, it does something to you.

You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:

Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM

Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.

The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.

Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.

To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.

He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.

“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.

“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”

“Sex.”

You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.

“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”

You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.

You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.

Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.

The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego. 

“Say what’s on your mind.”

What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.

“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.

“Remember what I said. Own it.”

You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”

He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”

Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.

It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.

Satan in a suit has it going on.

Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal.”

His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.

“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.

***

Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.

Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.

And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.

Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted. 

Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now. 

Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.

Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.

“Please!” you beg. 

“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”

Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.

“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”

You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all. 

“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…” 

“5.”

A five-count? He wanted you to fail.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.

“4…”

You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time. 

“3…”

Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close. 

“2…”

His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you. 

“1…”

He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.

There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.

“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”

“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”

“But I was… I was so close.”

The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.

You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”

He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.

“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”

You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.

Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.

“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…

“No. You lost that privilege.”

You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away. 

“Hands behind your back.”

Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?

This arrogant little—

“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.

He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole. 

“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”

He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.

“I’m begging you to look at me.”

The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.

“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.

“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Main Masterlist

[smutty-ki113r]

claimed | daryl dixon

summary. whilst in the company of the claimers, they take notice of you being the only woman upon them. you hadn’t felt safe prior to the prison being turned into a cascade of ruins, and their company only encompassed the paranoia that you felt. luckily, you weren’t alone, you had daryl. but will he help keep the claimers from arguing over of whom you belong to? (6.7k)

warnings. smut 18+ mdni, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), angst, mentions of death and violence, swearing, claiming a person, toxic men (the claimers, not daryl), harassment, some fluff and angst

MINORS DNI (18+), I DO NOT CONTROL YOUR CONSUMPTION ON THIS BLOG 👻

divider credits. @cafekitsune

A bed was something to be grateful for, there was no question about it. The firm yet malleable mattress felt like a cloud as you laid upon it, it was far better than the ground that you had been resting your head upon since the fall of the prison. “Claimed.” You barked to the claimers that you and Daryl had joined since losing Beth, ensuring that the bed was yours, and stupidly you felt prepared to fight for it.

“So it is.” Joe, the grey haired leader of the scavenging pack analysed, allowing his selfish eyes to scour over your splayed body for a second, until he trudged away, him and his miscreant followers going off to find their own sleeping arrangements for the eve. They were sick sons of bitches, and that one that went by the name of Len was a sleazy scoundrel, more so than the rest. Any chance that became opportune to begrudge you or Daryl with a punishment from the man in charge to him, he was willing to stick his neck out for it.

You hoped he died. Never had you wished the unkind deterrence of life of a person that wasn’t already infected and walking through the bloodthirsty vision of the afterlife since the Governor had struck against your people, and with wishful thinking and a whole lot of loss, including the emancipated prison that you had called your home for some time, that grubby, power hungry atrocity of a man was no longer alive. These claimers were no better, if they had charge of a citizenship likened to that of Woodbury, they would be stained with the same greedy fingers.

They wanted to take, rather than simply survive by any means necessary, as you had done, looting run down grocery shops and anywhere else that’d feed you for the day. It was pointless in mentioning Beth to them, it wasn’t in their souls to feel pity for her having disappeared, less aid you in locating her. And so you were stuck with the guilt and despair of being a witness to that car with the unknown driver whisk her to a destination that was incomprehensible.

You would find her, you tapped your temple with your knuckles in attempt to attain your attention span towards rest, which was difficult enough since most of the men that you were currently surrounded by were not trustworthy. The only one that was was Daryl. He had found you and brought you to the camp with the dormant rv in a time that felt long ago; the two of you had been hunting the same deer in the thick of the forest.

It ran before either one of you could shoot it down, at first you’d been pissed that he’d culled your walking menu, however he had found it in himself to offer to bring you back with him. Of course you were cautious of following a stranger in the woods, however you soon relaxed when you’d seen the residents that made up the makeshift community. There were families, mothers that were rightly protective of their children, a young boy and girl, one with a father and the other without. Daryl couldn’t have been so bad if his intentions were to bring the four legged herbivore back for them.

And he wasn’t, he could certainly been distant during his blistering moments, but you were glad that you weren’t by yourself in the aftermath of the prison’s attacked descent. A hand leant against the door frame you had yet to close to get some kind of privacy away from the grotesque excuses for humans, but as you stared straight ahead, you offered a small smile, it was all that you could muster up given everything that you had gone through and all that you had lost. It wasn’t a claimer, it was just Daryl who’d like you, put on the disguise of being one of them.

He looked disheveled, more so than usual, you could see it in his eyes that he was tired. His legs were probably aching too, you were experiencing the same sensation in your calves, and so you softly patted the mattress beside you, inviting your friend to join you. “Ain’t no beds left.” Daryl muttered, being quiet as he closed the door, stalking towards you with a weight of many things that put pressure on his shoulders. Of course you weren’t surprised, these men you were travelling with were selfish, and absolute jackasses, they’d offer him the floor to lay his head and that was it.

“There’s this one.” You offered, knowing that it couldn’t be that strange to share the bed considering you had previously slept side by side in the woods as an extra precaution due to the claimers. If you hadn’t, you dreaded that Len or one of the other greedy cronies would have tried something with you. And as a peace of mind for himself, Daryl had to make sure that you were safe, he couldn’t lose you too. That would be the last straw for him, your company and the diminishing hope that you would one day find the other members of your peculiarly arranged family was the only thing that was keeping him going.

“Thanks.” In your time living side by side, from the first camp to the prison, and then now in the middle of nowhere, somewhere along the way he had picked up on manners. And those manners were much appreciated as you drifted closer to your side of his bed so that he would have enough room to lay down with there still being some space between the both of you. The duvet was no doubt a little dusty, however you had each been covered in worse, such as walker guts and the insistent grime that living outdoors dawned on you. "Been tryna keep those creeps away from ya."

"They're quite persistent." You agreed with the nature of the claimers, turning to face him so that you were laid on your side and Daryl mirrored your actions, his large fingers digging into the pillow from the topic of conversation. It always riled him that Joe and his mindless cronies that acted like magpies eyed you as though you were a piece of meat. Sure, there had certainly been men at the prison that had cast attraction in your direction, however they would nevertheless treat you with the respect that you were a human being whom was surviving the tasking aftermath of the outbreak. "I'm scared D, I don't trust them."

Your voice was small, with fright hanging off of each syllable that you pronounced. Daryl had witnessed your fear in the past, such as in the imprisonment of the CDC when the impending self destruction was looming the large risk of death over your entire group. It was a no brainer that you had no intentions to die, albeit the likeness of some that had hopes to given the walking dead that had presumed certain demise over the planet and it’s inhabitants, you however were a fighter. You’d fight to your death if it gave you a chance, Daryl even had to drag you away from the falling prison.

When the Governor had attacked you had been adamant to protect the place that had become your home until the last breath, but the archer would not allow it. Now you could see that if you had remained at the sight of the carnage where the undead had earned free pass to roam through, you would be another victim of the cruel hand that the Governor had dealt the lot of you. It hadn't mattered to Phillip that those that had once been his people were consumed in the deadly result of his vengeful and violent actions, he never cared for any one of them; it was his fault and bloody hands that had lead to Andrea's faint hearted death.

"Me either." Daryl admitted, although it was an easy concept to realise considering that you had witnessed his distaste prominently since you had banded with him since the start of the apocalypse. You gulped, stupidly afraid of involving him in some of the details that you had heard whilst being in the company of the claimers. He would go ballistic from the truth that had weaselled its way around his peripheral, but the only route in which you could disintegrate the possibility of the plans that the crude men held in your direction was for you to confide in your overly protective friend.

"They were speaking the other day, when they thought we were chasing after that nest of rabbits." It was short of nothing new when it came to the brash men, they had their opinions and had enjoyment in sharing them to each of their own. The archer's eyes became awake and full of concentration as you spoke, shuffling closer to you as he reached for you hand. Daryl wasn't stupid, you wouldn't bring up anything that lacked importance, and the waver that staggered in your voice brought paranoia to his ears. "I'm the only woman here... And the topic of conversation was regarding who will claim me... I can't - I won't-"

A hand rushed to grasp your own, his avid temper rising as he realised what sick fucks they really were. They weren't considered gentleman, but at the end of the world their priorities sure were twisted. Tears slipped from your eyes as you attempted to continue, however there was no reason for you to, Daryl was already prepared to do whatever it took to keep you as safe as possible in the ragged state of the world. His form shot up, as his eyes darted around the room, before they landed upon your feeble frame again, his gaze softening at the sight of you.

"We can go. Get up an' leave. I ain't lettin' none of that shit happen to ya. I'll kill 'em before they even hav' a chance ter try." His tone was dangerous, laced with convicted agitation that bespoke that his threats were completely full of spite. Your head raised gently, as you ogled up at him with glossy eyes; nobody had dared to go to such lengths for you before, they’d never have ran from the bad in the old world with you, let alone be prepared to murder somebody for their triumphant disgrace. Your lips murmured the voice of nothing, wobbling uncomfortably as you attempted to verbalise your thoughts.

With conflict drawn knuckles, you grasped at your own knees that you had raised to be against your chest, rocking lightly as you let out a sigh of relief as Daryl refrained from pacing around the room - he knew that that stressed you out, he was assertive when it came to his realisations, and currently you were his priority, and it would kill him to bring you further distress. “I have an idea.” You croaked out, however you were quickly shut down. There was no need to be impulsive, Daryl thought, as he nervously raised his hand to your face to pat your strewn teardrops away with his thumb.

“Nah.” The tracker input his opinion, wishing to cocoon you in his protection. “We have ta go y/n/n, we hav’ ta.” He’d have to convince you, however you brushed his hand away, holding it between both of your palms, feeling every scar and crease that were sewn onto his fingers. “I can’t let anything’ happen to you, ya need to understan’ that peach.” With a piercing gaze of azure defiance, he shook his brunette head, still standing against your unspoken resolute.

“We can’t Daryl, we’ve experienced what it’s like out there.” A pang shot directly into your chest as inducing flashes of those that didn’t make it and the unknown destiny of others that had inhabited the prison shot in your vision. “I can’t lose you too, Beth’s already gone.” The lump in your throat felt unbearably heavy, the stern conjunction of terror and apprehension making it almost suffocating. “But the claimers can’t claim me… if you already have.”

“Y/n.” He had to talk some sense into you, to convert you away from this path that would only be a mistake. The scheme that you had conformed of the purpose of self preservation may have been to suffice the leering consumption of the claimers, and it angered him. You were no piece of fruit ripe for the picking, and if you were to call yourself his, then it would be of complete free will. You would want him for something more than to avoid being a trophy to one of those scoundrels, and it would mean more than your conveying control over your life.

"Daryl." His name left your lips, as you stared like a deer in headlights up at him, hand caressing the bare skin of his exposed arm which made pangs of electrical pulse fly through his stomach. "It's the smartest option that we have, unless we stumble across our friends. And I trust you more than anyone that I have ever met, please just do this for me. So that we can both breathe through this turmoil shit whilst we figure out a plan to get Beth back. We have nothing to go off to find her at the moment, but something might appear, and we have to be united for that, and if one of them claim me, they will never let me go... unless we kill them. And right now is not the time to have any more blood on our hands."

Even if you tried, the both of you would be severely outnumbered, and you had already escaped death one too many times. "Okay, okay." His tone was grave, full of surrender and failure, he had a habit to folding to you eventually, you were his weakness, and although he would have to traipse carefully, your stubborn streak repeatedly overpowered his. "Jus'- I um, I ain't jus' willin' to do this before I tell ya something." The time was now or never to reveal his feelings that he had hunkered down privately inside of himself, there never was a perfect moment to do so before, except maybe the prison. And when you thought you were safe and professed with security there, Daryl had convinced himself that you would reject him, and it would ruin any connection you shared.

There was no reason to hold back his emotions any longer, if it were to be his place to ‘claim’ you, his head ached as he built his mind up to one of the largest vindications of his life, that had the chance to have dire consequences. The implications could be hurtful, if you did not reciprocate the feelings that he was going to share with you, then the air would be unceasingly tense, and the last thing he wished for was to make you uncomfortable. He didn’t want you to see him as one of the men that were stalking you like a rabbit hopping from lurking danger, he was your friend, and if you recoiled from his love, then he hoped that you would still see him as your ally and comrade.

"You can tell me anything in the world Dar." With feathery touches that lingered in his heart, you wound your hand down his arm until you were holding his hand, with sweet tenderness. "I don't want to put any pressure on you, ever, so if you don't want to claim me that's okay too." Logically he was aware that your fail safe plan was the smartest, and he held in a complicated groan, he felt torn between running away from all of these problems or dealing with them, it was like a stand still that he was holding with himself. Daryl squeezed your hand, bringing the back of it to his lips so he could pledge a nervous skin on the thin flesh.

"Love yer, tha's wha' I wanted to say for so long." It was easier to rip the band aid off quick so that the mountainous sadness could wash over him as fast, his healing hopefully being a speedier process. But your reaction was not what he had anticipated, your gaze did not make him feel nauseous, rather it was contempt with a bright hue in your irises that sparkled with comfortability. Your lips twitched into a small yet powerful smile, which took his breath away for a few seconds, and he felt suddenly stupid for his expectation.

"I've been waiting to hear those words for a long time Dixon." You admitted aloud, rustling across the sheets until your body was brought closer to his own, your onyx pupils running across his mournful and tired face. "And I love you as well, how could I not?" He could think of a lot of ways, but it would burst the moment like a bubble if he were to begin listing them, and so he refrained, allowing you to continue on with your voice that was hushed so that the claimers couldn't listen in, but audible enough so that he could understand you. "I think I first realised it at the farm, I was in shock when Andrea shot you; I wasn't sure whether I wanted to kill her or kiss you. Obviously I did neither, but I wish I d-"

Your voice was drowned out from the pressure that Daryl placed on your lips with his own, he leant his head over, moving his mouth with languid motions, moaning lightly as you nibbled on his lower lip. You drove him crazy, and as calm as your company made him feel, he was getting worked up, and so he pulled away, raking a large hand through your locks as he kept his eyes closed for a moment until he slowly opened them, your face being the focus of his peripheral vision. To him you were a ray of all the things he had strove for in the events proceeding from the outbreak, you were the sun that scorched his skin during the day, and the whistling breeze that soothed said inflictions of the sun after it had rose beneath the moon.

He was the victim of love, he realised that now. And although you said those words back, he still felt like he was punching above his weight, as though he were reaching for the stars. "Don' wan' yer to think that's the only reason I sai' I love ya." You required no validation, if you had the will to go through with lovemaking with him, it would be your own choice, he didn’t want your decision to be swayed by the plight of feelings. “Need ya to want me like tha’ in yer own mind, we don’ have ta do nothin’.” He was perfectly fine with resting his head on the pillow and going to sleep beside you in the bed that you had offered to share with him, he had said his part and taken enough action to appease his internal instincts.

“I know it isn’t Daryl.” You admitted, and he knew that you never uttered around anything that was bothering you in the slightest, your straightforward attitude had at first intimidated him, hence the copious waiting time that it had taken him to confess. If you didn't love him, then you wouldn't have said it back. "And I do want all of you in every way, it doesn't have to be in that way, I could wait forever for you. I would if it came to it, I'd die for you if worse comes to worst." At the end of your heartfelt rant, Daryl winced, hating to hear those words leave your mouth. He had ensured your utmost survival from keeping an eye on you, even from afar, and he would not allow any living soul, or even a dead one to rid you from the earth.

Death was not in the books for you, unless the prospect of such a sentence was after you grew withered and old, full of wisdom and fond memories. “Don’ say tha’.” It was a command, albeit one that he wouldn’t physically force you to follow, however it was simultaneously a promise. He would not allow anything to happen to you, not in a million years, and if the only way to prevent any violence from condemning your life upon a noosed risk was by claiming you, then he simply could not reject the compromise. “Ya ain’ dying’ girl, not on my watch.” His eyes traced your the sweet harmony that your facial features composed, brushing the rough edge of his palm across your jawline, causing a wispy breath to escape your more than kissable lips.

It still felt surreal that his body had built up the courageous nerves to kiss you, and he was almost kicking himself for never having done it sooner. “Okay.” You agreed, all too aware that the fluid expense of death could not be decided by the mere human race, but you would try your best to live as many days as you could realistically manage just for him. Daryl was worth attempting the impossible for, he had proven as much through his countless loyal acts, and the fact that he never landed blame upon anybody with moments that could not be reversed. He’d never even been slightly pissed that Andrea had whisked a bullet across his temple, leaving a dangerous graze onto the vulnerable flesh. He still had a faint mark from the bullet engrained gash, and you ran the pads of your fingers across the light skinned line, realising how lucky you remained to still have him beside you.

“An’ don’ worry ‘bout the claimers,” it was difficult not to you thought in a solitary mental notes, cautious of how they would leer in whichever direction you surpassed, “I’ll do it. I’ll claim ya. Jus’ wanna ask yer to be mine first…” His way of asking you to be his partner was not traditional in the slightest, it was very Daryl like, and that made you smile. Your eyes were glazed with the reflection of love, claimed by the contortion of in the moment simply being a woman that felt for a man, and he was the suspect in question for being the thief that had silently stolen your heart and the arteries connected to it. You were like a love strung puppet, your arms noosed around his neck as you held the fixated archer closer, the tip of your noses crossing heartfelt paths in an affectionate notion.

“I already am Dar.” The simple yet confirming statement was the truth, you had reserved your amorous emotions for him alone, and there was nobody else who could capture your attention in such a way like he had. “I think I knew deep down that I did prior to me having the realisation of it.” As you spoke in a sultry tone that was hushed to give more definition to your words, your lips impulsively brushed against his own, until you licked inside of his mouth to explore it again. “So take me, claim me, anything. I just want to be close to you Dar.” To feel his lips coincide against the pressure of your own was still not enough, you rotated so that you were sprawled on your back, Daryl instinctively climbing upon you like a wolf that had began to feast on a vulnerable sheep that had already accepted its fate.

Hearing that you were his was a chronically inducing statement, it felt like he had injected a strong dose of adrenaline into his cordial veins, refracting an affect to take a masculine toll over his body. He had grown endearingly hard for you in his slack trousers, confined by the material that tightly hugged his aroused bulge, his balls felt as though they were being squeezed, driving him to impractical insanity. His torso rotated above you as he devoured your lips, his scuffed palm claiming it’s placement around your face. You had to breathe through your nose, as your eyes were screwed shut, your brows inclined in a distance closer together as your mouth attempted to keep up with the pace that Daryl had installed.

You felt strangely complete, having found a purpose to keep moving forwards in the hardships that were hurled sullenly in your direction. The two of you were alive, and almost strangely you had never felt so alive in your life beforehand, until those amorous words had left Daryl’s lips. No, not that he would claim you, but he loved you. It coiled your heart in tendrils of tender affection, to know that not only were your emotions most definitely reciprocated, but that he would do anything that was required to protect you. In the past, prior to the falling of the world, men had always sought power and held a regarded possessiveness upon anything that they wished, there were some profusely sick bastards out there.

And the pack of claimers were no exception, they’d seen you handle yourself and kill the walking dead with finesse and they still saw you as some sort of object. But you were a person, with shattered feelings and a stubbornness motivation to keep on striding onwards despite all that you had lost. There was a small inkling of a chance that not all of them had possibly have been such atrocious people in advance to the outbreak, though that was a heavy doubt. They acted depraved, and whilst they could physically take anything they saw fit without laws obstructing their greed, that did not mean that you were ripe for the picking. If they had been good men once, they certainly weren’t any more, not like Daryl.

“Ya alrigh’?” The question startled you from your trickling thoughts, grounding you in reality where you were overshadowed in the best way by Daryl’s body, and you reached your hands out, bringing them to his cheeks. You would be fine, his face told you as much without saying anything in regard to your troubles at all. He would be fine. Instead of replying in a verbal manner, you pulled him back down, causing his body to melt into one organism within your own. He sunk into your grip, loving how you tousled his messy locks between your fingers, wrapping your legs around his waist only with the intent to pull him closer.

He could practically quiver, you were both a weakness and a strength to him, there was not a single thing that he would not do in order to keep you alive, and rather than just keeping you breathing, he was making you feel impossibly safe, despite the masses of threats that you faced on the daily; there were obviously the saviours whose eyes roamed despicably over your silhouette, there was the threat of being parched and starved on the road, and of course the walkers that had stalked you both day and night.

All of that was forgotten for a moment of relaxation, as you began unbuttoning Daryl’s shirt, having already discarded the vest that bore angel wings on the back. Daryl almost wanted to object, for the significant scars that were forever painted on his flesh distorted his frame, though that impulse was swallowed down. Time was of the essence as it always was, and he wished not to waste a singular second of it that he had with you. It would be a sin, and whilst he usually did not care for the religious shit, he had to admit that this was rising to be a holy event in his life.

With him helping you, his shirt was tossed carelessly across the room, your own following soon after. There was no dignity held in your need to have your bare flesh entangled with Daryl’s, the hunger to be with him was too strong to restrain yourself. The kiss was messy, a furious sliding of tongues alongside each other, but you couldn’t care, you needed him in ways that you had never needed anything else. His hands scathed the flesh of your back, reaching for the clasp of your bra, though he staggered upon some difficulty in undoing it, so you granted him aid, easily releasing the fabric from its embrace around your form, slipping the straps from your arms and discarding it also.

“Fuck.” Daryl cursed aloud, pulling away from your lips to take in the sight of you half bare to his naked eyes. His hands grasped your waist in a gentle manner, as he regarded you with both admiration and loving lust that reigned his gaze. He was definitely in love. “Yer so beaut’ful.” His head dipped, littering a smattering of kisses along your bare chest, his chapped lips contrasting against the softness of your skin, until he finally got to your left nipple, taking the peak into his mouth, suckling gently causing you to arch your back. This instance had been long awaited, and it had been worth every agonising second of being without his touch. It was more sensual than you had ever expected, exceeding each dream that had occurred in your resting mind.

Your hands braced against the back of his head, gently combing through his hair, as you become wantonly lost in him… something that you had always wanted. “D.” There was an insistent impatience within your voice that made him look up. You were ready to surpass the foreplay and get straight to the main course, but Daryl knew that you deserved better than that. He had acknowledged you, though you refrained from reminding him of the urgency that was boiling in your veins as he began to kiss his way down your stomach, licking at your flesh as he descended.

He made your legs shake in their own spiral of suspense as he slowly dragged down the layers that conformed your lower half from your sights, deadly slow in fact. He was teasing you, leaving you on a jagged edge of screaming from the perilous waiting to be touched, although you couldn’t. You had to remain quiet to sustain a lack of suspicion from the saviours, the last thing you wanted was a singular one of the depraved men walking in, they’d most likely enjoy watching, which was a foul truth that tainted your mouth with disgust. “So pretty.” The scruff that outlined Daryl’s jaw scuffed at your thighs as his hands spread your legs, leaving you intimately vulnerable to his eyes.

This felt like this was the weakest that the man that you loved had ever seen you, despite the gruelling circumstances that you had faced in union, and the injuries that you had each endured that lathered you with the fear of death. You were exposed, and you whimpered at his sentimental statement, pressing your lips together as you watched him lean closer to your cunt. His breathing was laboured, he too needing this as much as you did. He inhaled your womanly scent, memorising it for a second before he leaned in to taste you, a light, restricted groan tumbling from his lips. A sharp inhale of air penetrated your lungs as you held it in, your hands still in his hair as he kissed your lower lips affectionately, spreading them so that he could suckle at your bud.

As he did, you felt his wide fingertips tracing your entrance, and then he slipped one inside of you, both his fingers and mouth bringing you to ecstasy. You just needed a little more and then you could reach that peak that ascended you into bliss, and Daryl seemed aware of that fact to, adding another digit within your walls as he reached inside of you deeper, angling his fingers so that they toyed with that heavenly spot that made you see stars. Daryl rode you through your orgasm, his pace slowed until he pulled away, bringing his cum coated fingers to his own lips, tasting your essence as though he couldn’t get enough of it.

“Ya taste so good.” Daryl confirmed your suspicions, leaning over you so that he could kiss you again, and you tasted yourself on his lips, making you hum in delight against his mouth. There was so much you wanted to say to him, so many thoughts you needed to share, but you dared not think about speaking them - if the claimers heard, then it would endanger your people if they were still out there, having survive the ruin that your home had succumbed to. As you leant away from the kiss, you reached your hand up to trace every line on his face, each warping of his skin that had battled the world long before it had ended. If he was the last thing that you would ever see, then you would die as happy as you could.

“I love you.” You reminded him, knowing that he hadn’t been told that enough in his life, and he repeated your words with a delicate softness that contrasted heavily with the subjected hardness that was pressing against your thigh. He kissed you again as, leaning down as he stood, removing his pants and undergarments to shed himself into full exposure, making you gasp as he clambered atop of you, his body weight pressing into you. It was almost serene, and it would have been if you knew that this blanket of safety would last, however you doubted it considering the companions that had taken you into their midsts. This was the solace that you had sought prior to the outbreak - Daryl. You weren’t willing to let him go any time soon.

Your fingernails dug with a bite into the flesh of his scarred shoulders as he sank into you, his length slowly sliding within your walls until you felt almost unbearable full. He grunted in his own abyss of pleasure, staring at you with eyes filled with love that you had long awaited to be the bearer of, and he leant back, only to thrust back between the apex of your thighs again. He was heaven and bliss rolled into the contrasting, angelic frame of the handsome archer. His movements claimed you with a reverent passion, your flesh pressing tightly against one another as you had the impulse to call out his name, but rather than uttering it loudly for everyone in the house to hear, you whispered it into his ear, like a mantra that you never wanted to stop repeating.

Their eyes continued to fixate upon you, as if you were prey, an animal for the killing and skinning. Len was the worst of them, he licked his disgusting lips with a feverish hunger, like an addict concentrating upon his next hit. It wouldn’t be you, you were secure in that as he traipsed towards you, his toxic demeanour making you wrinkle your nose in dismay. You didn’t like him one bit, any of them in fact. But you had to do what it took to survive, and for the time being it was forcing yourself to be in their presence until you could find a safe locale far away from their greedy hands, hopefully by then having found your friends, or at least the ones that were still living.

“Y/N.” Your name sounded like poison as it left his lips, and you held in your grimace, wishing not to cause more trouble than the group already inebriated like air, pausing your footfalls as you turned your stiff attention towards him. Joe stopped too, watching intently as his follower stalked towards you, grabbing your arm. His grip was too firm to pull away from without causing a fight, and the last thing you wanted was to provoke further bloodshed, despite your feral side wishing to kill him for simply laying a hand upon you. You clenched your jaw, nostrils flaring, as the air around you wafted a breeze.

The trees danced as in applause for the sickly balls that Len had grown since your presence within the claimers, and you resented nature for conforming to the scene. “Let me go.” It was an order, one that fell deafeningly short on the man’s ear, as his putrid grip only tightened, and you were sure that there would be fingertip bruises looming beyond the sleeves of your jacket. You tried to pull back, but it only made you strangle out a small cry of pain, Len selfishly not relenting. Joe cleared his cigarette smoked throat, as if telling him to back off without voicing the threatening tone that billowed in his eyes, clearly wanting to see where this went. Without much else to do, you kicked at his legs, foot landing upon his shin causing him to curse.

“I’m already claimed you fucking bastard.” Joe seemed unsurprised by your words, having witnessed Daryl to slink into the room that you had claimed for yourself. He was gladdened by the fact that Daryl was within the tree line, seeking out a rabbit or some other animal that would contend as supper, otherwise there would be another event to fuel the clear hatred that Daryl and Len regarded one another with. The leader was amused, watching you kick once more at Len until he finally backed off, the bone on his leg no doubt being sensitive from the feel of your boots pummelling it. He knew there’d be trouble allowing a woman within their ranks, and as much as he had the impulse to swoop in and proclaim that he had claimed you, he was far too entertained, and rules were rules, set by his example.

“Yeah?” Len’s teeth were on show as if he were prepared to growl at you from the tenderness and pain you had reigned onto his left limb. “By who?” He retorted, his eyes having gone wild and crazed from the retaliation that you had openly handed him. His gaze seared against your form, trailing down your body as if he were trying to find a name etched into your flesh. The bristle of bushes made his head dart to the side, ready to see a walker stumbling out from the shrouded clearing, but it was only Daryl. There was a rabbit attained to its holding at his waist, the animal helpless and dead, having been struck by a bolt that ended its life and creating a patch of blood upon its fawn brindled side.

“I claimed her. She’s mine.” Daryl had heard most of the interaction, unaware when Len had grabbed you, otherwise he would have revealed himself sooner, the last thing he wanted was for you to be harmed. He stalked closer, pulling you into his side, noticing how tense you were, and that you had your arm held out in flatulent pain. “She’s mine. I claim her.” He repeated, glad that you had fought back. He hadn’t initially wanted to leave you to hunt, but Joe had told him to do exactly that, he spat on the ground towards Len, physically showing his distaste for the man. You were not something to be claimed, you were a human being, one that he cared about, one that he loved. But he and you both would keep the charade up until you could get away, and hopefully return to the people that you belonged with.

It was going to be a gruelling journey onwards with these folks, with Len hissing in jealous spite, but you had each other; that would get you through this, you reminded yourself. You could still feel Daryl’s amorous kisses upon your skin, and it brought you a wave of comfort. Joe cleared his throat, diverting the attention of his men and you and Daryl towards him. “You heard that.” The grey haired man stated with control bordering his voice. “She is claimed.” They all knew what that meant, and they would have to respect the procedure that had you claimed as they would with any other object. Daryl’s hand touched your waist, and that look that he gave you alone was enough to give you something to fight for.

[smutty-ki113r]

Hey babe can I pretttttyy please request some Ben Drowned my queen my diva literally anything smut ;) or fluff is amazing with me if not it’s totally fine much loveee <3

bro i have so much shit with ben in my notes app from a few months ago when i was fixated on him it's not even funny. headsup that i hc him as a chill ass stoner with piercings because hot! 🤓☝🏻 kissiesss enjoy <33

(also can you tell i like the word molasses lmfao)

Wetware (BEN Drowned x F!Reader)

CW: drug use and sex under the influence, oral (f receiving), face sitting and rimming, light nipple play on ben, riding, creampie

summary: you and your weed bud get bored of smoking and lounging and decide to try something new.

wordcount 5.2k + a little bonus (epilogue?) at the end because i heart ben fr

Ben’s room is a black hole of time. You’ve gotten lost in it more times than you can count—somewhere between a third bowl and the fourth replay of whatever pixelated horror game playthrough he was hyperfixated on that week. There’s no clock in here. No windows, either, not really—just blackout curtains held up with thumbtacks and stubbornness. It could be 3AM or noon, it doesn't matter.

You’re sinking into Ben’s mattress like it’s got a personal vendetta against spinal support, the springs threatening to divorce the fabric entirely every time you shift. It’s not gross, not really—just lived in. The pillows are criminally soft, like they’ve been through a hundred late-night existential crises and held strong. The air smells like weed ghosts, synthetic berry vape, and Ocean Breeze air freshener that expired in spirit if not in can. It’s too warm, too humid, your skin already buzzing under your clothes—but it's comforting. Familiar. Kinda gross actually. Whatever.

This is where you always end up. When the world gets loud, when your head’s heavier than your spine can carry, when you both decide—without words—that it’s a “fuck everything” kind of night. No better place to waste time than this little cocoon of LED hell and lava lamp glory. Neon signs blink overhead in god-awful Comic Sans. One says “NO THOUGHTS, JUST VIBES.” The other one is just a glowing PNG of Shrek’s face, flickering like it's high with you. He swears they're ironic, but you don't really believe him.

Ben’s across from you on the bed, one leg draped lazy over the side, arms behind his head like he owns the place—which, okay, he does, but it’s more about how he owns it. Effortless. Messy. Cocky in a way that never tips into annoying. His eyes catch the LED glow like they were made for it—red pinprick pupils in oceans of black, alien and warm all at once. That shaggy ass hair always in his face, and he never fixes it. You don’t think he’s looked in a mirror on purpose in years.

You’ve been his smoke buddy since forever. It just happened. One shared joint on the porch after a rowdy party in the mansion you both bailed on early, and suddenly you were always crashing here. Sometimes in the same bed, sometimes on the floor. No weirdness. No expectations. Just easy passes of the blunt and lazy banter between coughs.

But tonight’s different.

You’re both cross-legged, facing each other like it’s a summit meeting, except instead of discussing treaties, you’re cradling two little capsules in the sweaty curve of your palms.

Molly. Because weed’s gotten too safe, too expected. Too routine. You needed something new. Something soft-edged and alive under the skin. And Ben just shrugged and said, “Sure,” like you’d asked if he wanted Taco Bell instead of McDonald’s.

He rolls his capsule between his fingers. His nail polish is chipping, some see-through black from last week still clinging to the corners. You feel the shape of this night settling over you just watching his fingers move. Not heavy. Just close. Intimate in that slippery way—like if either of you thought about it too hard, it might feel like more than it is. But you’re too chill to overthink. That’s the whole point.

“Bottoms up, bro,” he mumbles, voice thick with cotton and calm, and you both knock yours back like it’s communion.

Ben’s gone quiet. Not unusual. He’s a drifter when he’s high, floats between tabs and videos and zoning out completely. But this isn’t that. He’s on his back beside you, head pillowed on his arm, watching the LED lights morph from pink to blue to red again like they’re telling a story. You’re turned toward him, fingers curled loosely under your cheek, your body floppy in that too-much-sensation kind of way. Like every nerve ending’s been gently unsheathed and is just vibing out under your skin.

You feel it in the edges first—like your thoughts are melting down the inside of your skull, softening at the corners. Breath deepens without asking. Jaw’s a little tight, but not in a bad way—like your body’s clenching in on itself, holding on before it lets go. Your heartbeat thuds a little louder than it should, pulsing in your ears like background bass. You blink slower. The lights go smeary at the edges. You feel the mattress underneath you in high-definition, every lump and warmth patch suddenly personal, almost intimate. Your teeth feel good. Everything is soft. Everything is so fucking good.

The LEDs don’t flicker anymore—they pulse. Soft waves of color across the walls. Everything feels like it’s syncing. Like the room has a heartbeat, and it’s climbing up your spine.

You and Ben haven’t said much in a while. Haven’t needed to.

The silence isn’t heavy. It’s glowing.

It’s been—what, thirty-five minutes? Forty? Doesn’t matter. You feel him now. Not just his presence, but the gravity of him. Like he’s warmer than the rest of the room. Like your chest expands more when he breathes. Like his exhale brushes your skin even though he’s a full arm's length away.

You laugh, breathless, for no reason. He turns his head, sluggish and drowsy, and smiles like your laugh was a spell.

You blink at him. He blinks back. His pupils are blown, looking like they could swallow you whole and you wouldn’t even mind. There’s a line of soft blue light tracing the bridge of his nose, the slope of his cheekbone, the little dip at the corner of his mouth.

“Shit,” he says softly, like it’s a revelation. “You look crazy good in this lighting.”

You snort, eyes rolling but heart thudding, and it’s stupid how warm your cheeks feel. “Shut the fuck up. You’re literally glowing like a Twilight vampire.”

He just grins wider, and it’s lazy and beautiful in a way that doesn’t even make sense. You’ve looked at him a thousand times—lit by smoke clouds and YouTube autoplay and dying lamps—but now it’s like his skin is gold leaf. Like every freckle, every lazy shift of his lips, every breath is shining.

“You’re high as shit,” he says, voice honey-slow, syrup-lazy.

“So are you,” you shoot back, but you’re smiling stupidly. Your face feels too big for your skull. Ben lets out this slow, breathy laugh, and fuck, even that feels good. You watch his jaw flex with the smile, the little hitch in his shoulder when he shrugs like he can’t even be bothered to be cocky about it.

He shifts a little closer. Doesn’t say anything, just lets his fingertips brush the soft inside of your wrist, featherlight, and you both inhale like it’s the first time you’ve ever touched anything. You roll your arm a little, letting his fingers graze along the underside. Your skin sings under the touch, tingles that chase each other like static up your elbow, your shoulder, your spine.

“Dude," you murmur, voice wobbly with the hug of seretonin, "touching stuff feels insane right now.”

Ben’s grin goes lopsided. “Yeah?”

You grab his hand lazily, your fingers barely holding his, just enough contact to spark fireworks in your palm. “Yeah,” you whisper, and your voice sounds thick and sweet and sleepy. “Touch my arm.”

He does. Slow, dragging his fingertips up from your wrist to your shoulder, and fuck. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You feel each ridge of his fingerprint like it’s being engraved. You suck in a breath, involuntary, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Your fingers are still tangled with his. You roll onto your back and tug his hand with you so he follows, half-leaning over you now, both of you blinking slow, pupils so wide you’re practically seeing stars.

His hand finds your waist—slow and curious—and the second his fingers touch the curve there, you moan. Barely audible. Embarrassing. Real.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, pressing your face into your elbow. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Nah,” he says, voice dropped to something low and smooth and warm. “Don’t even trip.”

His hand spreads across your waist, fingers dragging up the fabric of your shirt, and it feels like lightning. You both start laughing, delirious and giddy, like you’re high on each other instead of this fucked up little pill you don't even remember where you got it from.

You open your mouth to say something stupid—probably “your hand feels like velvet, what the fuck”—but he kisses you instead.

And ohhh.

It’s soft. Like kissing in a dream, like your mouths are made of heat and velvet and instinct. No teeth, no rush. Just press and melt. His lip ring is warm against your mouth, smooth, the perfect little edge in all that softness. You let out this tiny sound—barely anything—and he presses closer.

His hand slides to your jaw, just his fingertips touching you, like he’s scared to press too hard and pop the bubble. His lips taste like whatever berry vape he’d been hitting earlier and maybe a little weed residue, maybe a little Ben—static? It doesn't matter. He kisses like it’s just something to do, like breathing, like gravity pulling him closer.

Your whole body is heat and nerves and cotton. You kiss back lazily, high and weightless, lips dragging open just enough to deepen it a little. Just enough to breathe into his mouth, and when you do, he shudders. Just a little. Just enough for you to feel it in your chest.

You murmur against his lips, “Is it just me or does this feel crazy good?”

His mouth brushes your jaw, his voice low and cracked open, “It’s not just you.”

Your lips find his again—hot, open, slower now. Tongue against tongue in a wet slide that feels like drowning in syrup and rapture. Your mouths fit like they’ve done this a hundred times. Like they’ll do it a hundred more. There’s nothing messy about it. No grabbing. No biting. Just this lazy, drugged gravity pulling you back into each other every time you drift a millimeter apart.

Every inch of him feels woven through every pore on your body. Every place he touches you, you feel ten times over, and it sends this slow throb through you—low, soft, but steady.

You hum against his mouth, light and dazed.

“Feel good?” he mumbles, lips brushing yours, voice scratchy like he hasn’t talked in a hundred years.

“Mmmhm.” You nod once, small. “So good I might cry.”

Ben lets out a quiet, surprised little laugh—breathy and deep, warm where it puffs against your cheek. “You’re such a lightweight.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, fingers skating under the hem of his hoodie, “you feel stupid good too.”

His breath catches, just slightly, when your palm flattens against the bare skin at his hip. He's so warm and smooth it almost feels fake. You trail your hand up, slowly, just feeling. Muscles shifting under your palm like slow waves, the stretch of them under soft skin. You feel like you could cry just from the warmth pooling in your gut.

“Jesus,” you murmur, “what the fuck are you made of?”

Ben groans, low in his throat, and that’s when he finally presses his hips just a little closer—barely a grind, barely a shift—but the heat of him slots perfectly against you and fuck. It’s not frantic. It’s not a need. It’s just there. Like his body wants to be against yours. Like it was always gonna end up here.

The throb between your legs tightens, sudden and thick, and the moan that slips out of you again sounds so helpless it makes his lips stutter on yours. He stills. Smirks a little, but his breath shakes. “That was so hot,” he murmurs, voice low and so close. “Fuck, you sound hot.”

His hands slide under your thighs, gripping just enough to guide, and you shift without thinking, letting him tug you upward and over until you’re straddling him. The movement’s effortless, but it feels like the earth tilting. Like gravity changed its mind.

Your hips start rolling before your mind can even catch up, like it just started happening. You’re barely aware of it, but the friction is fucking heaven, slow grinds over the hard line of his cock under his sweats. His hands are on your waist, guiding the motion—not pulling, just letting it happen. You kiss through it, drugged and soft and soaked between your thighs.

He’s looking up at you through drags of his mouth over yours like you hung the stars just by sitting there. He grunts, tilting his hips up into the drag of your cunt—just once, slow—and he murmurs low and sweet and way too casual for how hard he sounds, “Wanna sit on my face, pretty?”

You whimper. Like a full-body shiver that leaks out your throat. The words hit somewhere between your ribs and your cunt, hot and sudden and unbearable. You swear you nearly cum just from hearing him say it. The audacity. The casualness. You clutch at his shoulders, blink down at him like he just opened the fucking gates of heaven.

“Fucking—yeah,” you gasp, already shifting. You scramble up to your knees, laugh breaking out when you nearly fall sideways because your limbs are all molasses and light. Ben steadies you with a soft noise, then just lays back, arms folded behind his head, that stupid stoned smirk on his face like he’s the pillow now.

You pull your shirt off awkwardly—get it halfway stuck, then give up and shove it over your tits, braless and flushed and fucking glowing. His eyes drop there instantly. Lingers. His tongue wets his lower lip and he mutters something that sounds close to awe as you start crawling up his chest.

And when you do—when you finally get your knees to the mattress and your thighs cage in his face—you hesitate just long enough to process what’s happening. Just long enough to see his face under you—black eyes locked on your dripping cunt like it’s sacred, watching the sway of your tits, hands coming up to grip your thighs just under the curve of your ass, holding you steady.

“C'mon, pretty,” he groans, voice so fucking deep it vibrates through your whole lower body, “have a seat.”

Then you lower yourself—and his mouth meets you.

And holy. shit.

The second your cunt touches his mouth, it lights you up. It’s like being kissed by heat itself. His tongue drags flat and slow from your entrance to your clit, lapping with a pressure so lazy and steady it feels like it’s been happening forever. His nose presses right against you, his mouth open and eating like you’re ripe fruit—sweet, messy, tender. There’s nothing polite about it. He’s fully in it, no teasing, no precision. Exploring for himself as much as he's pleasing you.

You moan, broken and loud, hand flying to his head to hold on. His hair’s soft and sweaty, and you can feel the way his mouth curves into a grin under you.

“Jesus fuck, Ben—”

He groans, nosing deeper, sucking your clit just once—slow—and you swear your brain fractures. You jerk, thighs quaking, hands flailing for something to hold, something to feel so you don't yank on his hair because the sensation is so good it’s horrifying.

“Ben—fuck,” you gasp, breath snapping in half. “Fuck—”

His arms wrap around your thighs, strong and steady, pulling you down until you’re seated fully against his face. Sloppy, deep licks that dip and circle and press up into you with devastating slowness. He tilts his head just a bit and stays there, lips wrapped soft around your clit, tongue flicking slow, deliberate circles until your whole body is tightening.

Your body’s gone nuclear. Like your skin is lighting up, nerves raw and too alive, every drag of his tongue a lightning bolt that melts back into syrup. It’s lazy. It’s wet. You’re gushing on his mouth and he just takes it. Tongue buried, lips parted, devouring.

He hums low like it’s good, like you taste good, and the vibration punches right through your clit and lands somewhere deep in your stomach. You roll your hips once, instinctive, and a moan punches out of him right into your cunt, like you just gave him a hit of something purer than anything he’s ever smoked.

He noses up into your clit as he works, lips soft and open, tongue licking slow under the hood with maddening care. One of his hands slips up, palm cupping your hip like he’s grounding himself there, the other sliding back to your ass, pulling you closer, tighter, until your pussy grinds against him again—this time on his face.

He tilts his head just enough to suck your clit into his mouth—soft and slow and so fucking good—and your whole body jerks. Your hands tighten on the headboard, tits bouncing slightly with the movement, and Ben opens his eyes just to watch.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice muffled but needy, “ride my fuckin’ face.”

Your hips start to move without you thinking—just lazy little rocks, forward and back, riding his face like it’s the only rhythm left in the universe.

Ben’s hands tighten, fingers bruising in the best way, and his thumbs pull your cheeks apart just slightly, spreading you open so he can really lick you. You gasp again, voice wrecked. He laughs under you, muffled and arrogant and so pretty.

He watches your tits bounce softly with each breathless grind, eyes heavy-lidded and drunk with it, like he’s seeing a dream in real time. His tongue is relentless. Your thighs are shaking. And then, just to watch your reaction, his tongue slips lower, past your dripping hole, licking a slow, slick line across your rim.

Your whole body jolts like he electrocuted you. You freeze for half a second—but your pussy pulses in response, clenching around nothing so tight it aches. You can’t even speak. Your chest heaves. Your thighs twitch. And he hums, pleased, like this was the plan all along.

At first it’s just a breath. A ghost of a tease. He licks between your cheeks, slow and unbothered, casual as hell, just a lazy upward drag of his tongue over your ass. Your breath catches, whole body jolting, and you whimper—high and confused and wrecked.

You barely notice your hand creeping down your chest, palming your own breast like you need the grounding. He groans under you again, tongue still moving in sync with the tiny, wet grinds of your hips over his mouth and nose, slow and deliberate—back and forth between your soaked cunt and your ass.

You come like your body’s caving in on itself.

No warning. No rhythm. It cracks through you in pulses, long and drawn out, muscle-deep and fucking perfect—like it’s wringing you out. Your thighs lock around his head, hands flying to the wall to stay up, and your mouth drops open on a soundless moan as your whole body shudders. Pussy pulsing so tight you feel it squeeze his tongue. Brain splitting like lightning down your spine. Your muscles melt but your nerves won’t stop firing.

You feel crazy. You feel amazing. Like your brain doesn’t know what to do with all the good. The molly, the mouth on you, the weight of your body draped over his head while the room glows warm and golden around the edges. Your skin’s sticking to his in spots. Everything feels hazy and whole. Like this is the best place on earth to die.

His hands move with you—up, warm and slow, from your ass to the small of your back. One of them slides higher, fingers spread wide like he wants to hold your whole spine in his palm. The other comes around, smooth over your ribs, thumbing just under your tit before finally cupping one with lazy reverence.

Then, all slow grin and and eyes glinting redder, he mumbles,

“So, like… you gonna ride my dick too, or you need a nap first?”

You snort. Half laugh, half moan, rolling your hips once like your body’s answering before your mouth can.

“Jesus—Ben—”

But you’re already climbing back down his chest, already fumbling for his waistband like you’re drawn to it, not choosing.

He just grins up at you, eyes low-lidded and glowing.

“C’mon, dude. You gotta know I’m dying over here.”

And he is. His dick’s flushed and hard and slick at the tip, twitching against his stomach like it’s got a pulse of its own.

You wrap your hand around it, slow, just to guide him, and his hips lift like he can’t help it. You have to take a moment just to admire the throb in your hand, the flex of his stomach, the glimpse of teeth showing when they sink into his bottom lip. And when you sink down, when your pussy finally wraps around him, hot and soaked and still fluttering from your orgasm, your hips stall. His jaw drops. Both of you go still.

It’s like a fucking detonation. A slow-blooming, devastating kind of silence. It’s not even how tight you are—though you are—it’s how hot it feels. How slick, how intimate, how molly makes it feel like he’s not just inside you, but part of you. Like your whole body was waiting for this exact moment to exist. You clench once, and his hips jerk like you electrocuted him.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh.

You start to move eventually. Slow. Just a tiny grind forward, a slow circle back. Not even up and down yet. Just wet, slow drags. Like your body’s trying to memorize him from the inside out. You’re both gasping, breathing harder, but there’s no rush in it. No urgency. Just pleasure. Thick and consuming.

“You feel so fucking good,” he breathes, barely audible, like he’s praying to your cunt. And fuck, maybe he is with the way his head drops back to the pillow, throat exposed, jaw slack, brows furrowed like he’s on the edge of something just from the way you’re grinding on him.

You drag your hands up his sides, still moving slow. The friction is everything. Your clit brushes against his pelvis with every roll, every grind, and you can feel yourself start to tremble again, thighs burning but too high to care. His hands find your hips, not to guide—just to hold. Fingers twitching like he wants to tell you to slow down—if going any slower is even possible—but his body saying otherwise.

Your palms slide under his shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. The way it rides up under your fingers makes your mouth water. It bunches under his arms, revealing his stomach, his chest, and when his pierced nipples come into view—flushed and tight from the heat of you or both—you lean down, lips brushing over one.

He twitches. Breath stutters.

You lick. Just a soft kitten lick. Then another.

Ben chokes on a moan. Hips buck helplessly up into you, cock grinding deeper inside you.

“Fuck, dude—”

You do it again. A slow lick around the ring, then another just beneath it, teasing, playful. Your hips never stop moving, just grinding down into his cock like you know how deep he is, how he’s splitting you open and making you whole at the same time.

He grabs your ass tighter now, still not forcing, just grounding, needing.

“Gonna fuckin’ cum, what the fuck," he breathes, eyes fluttering open just to watch you mouth at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing to me.”

You grin against his skin, eyes glazed and happy and wrecked.

“Riding your dick,” you whisper, and he groans like you just blessed him.

You lean back slow, hands smoothing down his stomach again, and you plant your palms on his waist, arch your spine just to feel how your tits bounce with the motion—half for yourself, half because you know he’s watching.

His gaze stays on you like he’s seeing you for the first time and the thousandth all at once. His pupils are blown wide and bright, lips parted like he can’t even close them without gasping. There’s sweat at his hairline. His chest is heaving.

Then, for one perfect second, his face twitches. Just a shift—mouth curling up into this crooked, gritted-teeth grin like the sight of you fucking yourself on him is too much to bear but he loves it.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty it’s pissing me off,” he mutters, voice low and dazed and almost laughing.

You bark a breathless giggle and bounce a little harder on him just for that. And he groans, eyes rolling halfway back, hands flexing on your hips like he’s trying to be chill, but his body’s begging for more.

His hips roll up under yours with slow precision, timed to every bounce like a perfect rhythm only the two of you know. Slow. Deliberate. Meeting your movement with this thick, upward grind that punches a moan right out of you. Not fast, not rough—just deep. Skin slapping sticky where you’re soaked all over him now, the noise heavy and lewd.

“Yeah, fuck me, just like that—holy shit—"

He moans it like a prayer, voice cracking as you grind down harder to match his thrusts. Your clit’s catching on the base of him just right, and your walls pulse so tight around his dick you can feel the way he throbs inside you. Every drag is wet and obscene, every slide in so thick and hot it feels like your brain’s sloshing in your skull. The molly makes it bloom. Every sensation feels like it echoes, spreads, deepens.

Ben’s head drops back, throat arched, his hands gripping you firm but not forceful—like he’s bracing for impact. His abs flex under your palms every time he fucks up into you, low and slow, building the pressure like he knows you’re both about to see God in a minute or two.

“Jesus—” he breathes, jaw tight, “fucking Christ, love this fuckin' pussy, baby, ride it, c'mon—I'm close, fuck, please—”

You whimper and keep riding, chasing the drag, the slide, the stretch. The friction is everything. Wet and relentless and perfect. The way he fills you, the way your bodies meet with slick, noisy thrusts—it’s like being gutted slow, like a star collapsing in on itself.

You slam down once more and his hips snap up into you at the same time, so deep you choke, stars bursting behind your eyes, and you come. Together. Throb on throb, your bodies synced up like it's something celestial.

Second orgasm hits hard, violently soft, like you're being peeled open from the inside and having honey poured over every exposed nerve ending. Your whole body seizes up, mouth open in a silent scream as your pussy milks him through it, sucking him deeper. He spills into you with a whiny, cracked “fuckfuckfuck—goddamn—”, hips jerking, breath breaking apart against your neck as he holds you down through every pulse. You feel every throb deep inside you, feel the warmth spread between your thighs like it’s part of the drug, like it’s burning you alive from the core out.

You’re shaking. Still grinding just a little, just enough to ride out the waves. Your legs are jelly, your hands barely holding you upright as you collapse forward, sweaty chest pressed to his, your face buried in his neck.

Ben’s arms wrap around you, loose but strong, and he breathes through his nose, still catching up. One hand runs up your back, gentle, and the other smooths down to your ass again like he just needs to feel you.

Neither of you says anything for a long moment. Just breath. Just skin. Just that slow, echoing after of molly and sex and feeling way too much to care.

You don't even realize you’ve slumped off of him until your cheek’s mashed against his chest and he’s laughing, soft and breathless, palm skating down your spine with the weight of molasses.

“Bro,” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded and voice fried. “That was... unholy.”

You hum something between a laugh and a wheeze, forehead sticky against his skin. “I think I saw God.”

He snorts. You feel it rumble through his chest, and for some reason that makes your heart twitch. He lifts a lazy hand to push your hair out of your face, fingers catching in it but not bothering to fix anything, just letting it tangle. His other hand's still on your ass, more out of habit than intention. Neither of you move to clean up yet. Just breathing. Heavy and slow. Still connected in the heat of it, even if his dick slipped out somewhere along the way and left a mess between your thighs.

Eventually—slowly—you peel yourself up with a grunt and a stretch, making some squelchy sound that earns a quiet “ew dude” from him and a slap to his chest from you. He wheezes out a laugh again.

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up just enough to grab a crumpled hoodie off the floor. He tosses it toward your legs like a sad little towel, and you use it without complaint. Still giggling, still glowing.

Once the worst of the mess is handled with zero grace and zero effort, you both flop back down into the sheets. He groans, rolls over enough to reach into the drawer next to the bed, and pulls out a pre-roll like it’s a religious relic. Or more like something to dampen the horrendous comedown that's looming just around the corner.

“You’re disgusting,” you mumble, watching him dig around for a lighter with one eye half open.

“I’m thriving,” he corrects, sparking the joint with practiced laziness. The tip glows red-orange in the blue-pink lava lamp haze, smoke curling into the air like incense for a post-sex shrine. He takes a long drag, then offers it to you without looking.

You take it, hit it, let the smoke settle in your lungs like it’s a warm bath.

Then his voice, low and sleepy against your forehead, smoke soft in his exhale, "Yo. You wanna hit Waffle House in, like, three hours?”

You giggle into his neck.

“Absolutely.”

BONUS:

The Waffle House parking lot is mostly empty, just one tired cook inside and a waitress who gave you the side-eye when you walked in to grab your to-go order like you were smuggling out contraband. Ben didn’t step a toe out of the car—too many security cams, one too many people who’d ask why his pupils are glowing red like a demon on a bender.

He waited slouched in the passenger seat, hoodie up, tapping at the cracked dashboard with fingers twitchy from the tail-end of a serotonin flood. When you slid back into the car with a bag full of grease and sugar, he moaned like you just proposed marriage.

Now you’re parked under a busted streetlamp, eating waffles and hashbrowns out of styrofoam with plastic forks, legs up on the dash, his seat fully reclined. He looks like sin. Hoodie half-off, hair a wreck, the last of the weed still burning slow in the ashtray. He smells like syrup and sweat and sex and smoke.

You're still giggling at nothing.

"Why," you say, licking butter off your thumb, "does Waffle House always taste like it was made by someone who’s lived through war."

Ben stares at you like you’re the second coming. “Because it was, bro.”

You laugh hard enough to choke on syrup, and he takes the opportunity to steal a bite off your plate with no remorse. The light from the LED “OPEN 24 HOURS” sign flashes red across his face every few seconds, making him look even less human than usual. But to you, right now, it’s just... hot. You’re high and full and floaty. He looks sticky-sweet and stoned and so fucking pretty in that lazy post-fuck way, lips glossy with syrup and smiling like a troublemaker.

You lean across the console and kiss him.

It starts soft. Just sugar on lips, mouths sticky from breakfast-for-dinner. He tastes like maple and smoke and something a little burnt, and your brain short-circuits at how good it is. You lick into it, messy and slow, and he hums low in his throat like it’s better than dessert. Your fork clatters somewhere by your feet but you don’t care—your hand’s cupping his jaw, and he’s tugging you halfway into his lap.

His tongue drags syrup off your bottom lip like he’s starving. You moan into it, more sound than intention. He grins crooked, still kissing you, still high, mumbling against your mouth:

“We might have peaked tonight, can't even lie.”

“Mmm,” you breathe back, not even pretending to disagree.

Neither of you stops. Not for a while.

Eventually, when your food’s cold and your thighs are back across his lap and he’s kissing your cheek with lazy pecks just to hear you giggle again, he sighs through his nose and rests his head back against the seat.

“I think,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, “we should definitely fuck in this lot before we come down and contemplate suicide for the next week.”

You laugh into his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

[smutty-ki113r]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: protective daryl, reader is extremely girly and feminine, fingering, very light dom/sub, fucking on a motorcycle, daryl sucks his fingers, pet names, oral sex, cum swallowing, slightly rough sex, some dirty talk, true love

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a former sex worker, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

you’re known as the princess of your group - soft, feminine, a girly girl who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. despite the cruel new world you’re living in, you still hold on to whatever remnants of beauty you can find, hoping for a better tomorrow.

daryl is the opposite of everything you stand for. he’s hardened, rugged, ruthless - he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. despite your differences, you find yourselves drawn to each other in ways nobody, not even you two, can really understand. you bring softness to his strength, and in daryl you find a friend, a lover, a protector.

he’s everything you find warm and safe in this cold, scary world. you cling to him, and the best part?

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

The look Daryl gives you actually makes you crack a smile, and it’s a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since you smiled, now that you think about it - but it’s not like you’re keeping score. 

Because if you were - you’d probably be able to count the amount of grins that’ve graced your face in the last eight months on one hand. Life has been brutal to everyone this year.

“I know it sounds weird,” you explain, crossing your legs on the rock you’re sitting on. Daryl’s supposed to be keeping watch of the camp while Rick and a few other men from the group make a run into the neighboring town for supplies. The plan was, because even the smallest things need well thought out plans in this world, that the women and children of the camp would rest, and if Daryl saw any walkers, he’d wake everyone up. 

Sort of dumb, in theory, with how fast things happen when walkers are added to the equation, but it’s all this group has got. 

Plans and Rick’s hope. 

You’re supposed to be resting too, since yesterday was a travel day - long and exhausting. But you can’t sleep. You’ve got a headache, you’re hungry, and your sleeping bag is still a little damp from your water bottle, the plastic gone thin from having been dropped too many times, breaking while you drove from your last destination. Your tent is cold and you’re sharing it with a single woman who has a child, and their crying is really starting to bum you out. 

So you decided to join Daryl keeping watch. He’s perched on a little ledge that overlooks the rest of the camp, able to see anything coming or going before anyone on the ground can. You’re not great with a gun, but since the world went to shit, you can handle yourself pretty well.

You want to help protect the camp and everyone in it, especially since you asked Rick to pick up another reusable water bottle for you while he was in town. The look on his face was so priceless it actually made you a little sad. 

“Doesn’t just sound weird,” Daryl replies, shifting to get more comfortable on the grassy ground. There’s another rock for him to sit on, but it’s something you’ve noticed about him - Daryl always chooses to sit close to the ground, even if there’s a proper place for him to sit. “It is weird,” he grumbles the last part, busying himself with chucking a rock a few feet away while a squirrel scampers up a tree. He curses under his breath, no doubt pissed at himself for not securing another meal. 

You’re distracting him. You should feel bad, but you don’t. 

Before walkers and the end of the world as you knew it, you used to be so concerned with manners. Worried about what others thought about you more than you worried about your own well being. You’re not like that anymore. It’s a dark, although funny thought - that it took something as drastic as an apocalypse to finally rid you of your people pleasing habit. 

There’s a crunching sound a few yards away that has the both of you tensing up, frozen while you listen for the sound of growling, but it never comes. Daryl visibly relaxes after a minute, which is your cue to start talking again. He just listens, although from the angle you’re sitting at, you swear you see him roll his eyes. 

“You ever think about how weird it is, the stuff we miss?” You ask, but you already know he’s not going to reply. Daryl rarely replies, but you know he’s listening. You don’t have any real proof that he is - but what else would he be doing while you chat his ear off? He can stand up for himself, doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do - if he didn’t want you talking to him, he’d tell you to fuck off. 

It’s a small victory you hold close to your heart - the fact that he just puts up with you. You continue. “I mean, everyone always says they miss things like hot showers, electricity, or whatever. I do, but I guess it’s not the thing I miss the most. For me, it’s cookies. But not bakery cookies. The kind of cookies you get from the store, the cheap ones. When you flatten the cookie dough yourself, and no matter what, always burn them or undercook them,” as you talk about it, you can taste the ghost of cookies past on your tongue. It waters a little, your mouth, which goes to show you just how hungry you are. 

All you eat these days are protein bars and uncooked cans of whatever food the group can find. Sometimes, with your eyes closed and your breath held, you’ll try bits of squirrel or owl or whatever other animal Daryl hunts and shares with the group, but even the thought makes you nauseated. You never knew you’d be able to have preferences when the other choice is starving to death, but the difficult human spirit prevails, you suppose. 

Daryl glances at you, and although it’s pretty dark, the moon shines light enough that you can see his expression. You’d expect his face to be mean, aggravated - tired. Listening to a young woman ramble about baking cookies while his body is on high alert to protect an entire fucking camp - but instead, Daryl’s expression is soft. He lets you continue, although his reaction does remind you that you’re also on guard. But aren’t you always?

The gun strapped to your hip and the knife in the pocket of your boot feel extra heavy at the reminder. 

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice low. God forbid a fucking walker kills you or anyone else in this group because you couldn’t shut up about cookies. 

“Maybe it’s stupid, you know? I just,” you look down, playing with the zipper on your jacket. Suddenly, you feel really embarrassed. On the spot. Daryl probably thinks you’re a fucking idiot. Your face heats up. 

But it’s not just the cookies. You leave out the part where the cookies remind you of your parents. How your mom, when she was alive, used to make them for you after a rough day. That those cookies were the staple of every sleepover you’ve ever had with your best friends. How those cookies were -

“It ain’t,” Daryl’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him, brows furrowed. You catch his eyes for only a second, before he looks away quickly, pretending to be occupied by something on the dirty ground. “It ain’t stupid,” he finishes. 

You wonder that night, after Rick and the others come back to relieve you and Daryl of your duty, while you’re laid up in your sleeping bag that hardly protects you from the cold - what does Daryl miss? Sure, out of everyone in the group, he’s most equipped at living this kind of life. Knows how to hunt, can stomach raw fucking meat, isn’t scared of anything, or so he says. What reminds him of home? What thoughts comfort him?

Surely, whatever those thoughts are, they’re not as dumb as store bought cookie dough. 

But what Daryl said stuck with you. Not stupid. You fall asleep, albeit with one eye open, feeling a little less cold. 

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

“Gross,” you mutter, blood slashing on your face. You just shot a walker in the head, and your ears are ringing from the loud noise of the gun. You’ll never get used to firing that thing. How loud it is, the way your hand shakes even minutes after you pull the trigger.

Daryl comes from behind you, and he lets out a laugh. It’s low, short - if you weren’t trained to hear the noise, you’d miss it. Because really - it’s like you’ve literally trained yourself to look for little cues that Daryl is having a good time. Or, since you doubt anyone these days is having a good time, at least that he’s alright. That he’s not annoyed at you for hanging around him or talking to him or irritated at your presence in general. 

“Blood on your face grosses you out, but you’ll pick through walker guts for a bottle of nail polish,” he shakes his head, but it's not like he’s judging. In fact, Daryl actually seems a little…fond? He’s teasing you, and normally the reputation you have in this group as a girl that’s afraid to get her hands dirty, too girly to do anything for yourself - it stings. 

But not when it comes from Daryl. You can tell he’s teasing, and you roll your eyes playfully. 

“Didn’t dig in walker guts for that nail polish,” you remind him, even as he walks past you to lead the way. You glance at his back, the angel wings on his leather vest, and will yourself to stop the heat rushing to your face and the arousal pooling in your belly at how fucking strong he is. Big arms, muscles that look like he should be on the cover of a body building magazine instead of in these creepy woods with a crossbow. You gulp. “There was a little blood in the nail polish section when we did a run the other day. I cleaned it off the bottle I wanted. No biggie.”

Daryl scoffs, and you smile. “Yer crazy, girl,” he replies, and at that you look down at your nails. Baby pink, the same color you always used to choose when you’d get your nails done back at home. You could shiver with pleasure, just from thinking about the feeling of warm water on your hands, someone paying special attention to your cuticles - lotion, that you don't have to share with every other woman at the camp. The polish you’re wearing, painted just two days ago, is chipped and stained red with walker blood, but it’s better than nothing. 

Makes you feel a little more human. A little more like a woman. A little more like yourself.

Now, if only you could find some hairspray and a razor. 

You’ve been joining Daryl whenever he lets you - or, more truthfully, whenever Rick tells Daryl it’s okay for you to join him. Rick still doesn’t believe that you know what you’re doing, thinks of you as a liability, but you’re determined to prove yourself. You got to go on a run the other day, and today, Daryl went to check out the perimeter of the grassy hill the group is currently camping in, and you volunteered to go with him. 

“You sure?” Rick had asked when the plan was originally made, looking at Daryl with squinted eyes. He pretended like you didn’t exist, even as you were standing right next to him. Daryl nodded. “S’okay with me. I’ll look out for her. Bring yer gun,” he told you, and you nodded, skipping after him down the trail. 

Around Daryl, and maybe this is why you like him so much - it’s easy to feel like a woman. Easy to feel safe, too. Daryl just knows what he’s doing, and he’s so strong, big, can handle so much. Being around him feels good, but you know it’s all just a farce. 

You’re not safe and neither is Daryl, a fact that becomes even clearer when you almost trip on a dead body by a stream you’re both passing on the way back to camp, alerting a walker that was only a few yards away. Daryl was able to kill him with an arrow, but it was a close call. 

One minute, laughing and talking. The next, like you’re begging death to open the door after ringing his doorbell a few too many times. 

You walk back to camp in silence, walker blood splattered on the both of you. When you get back, it’s nearly dark, and you help a few of the other women finish some laundry and keep an eye on a few restless kids. Life sucks in this world as an adult - but you can’t imagine living like this as a kid. Although, you think, watching them throw dirt at each other and believe the food their mothers are giving them really tastes just like chicken nuggets, maybe being so clueless is for the best. 

After dinner, on your way to your tent, you see Rick and Daryl talking. You try to listen in, pretending that you’re just getting your sleeping bag ready for bed, but you don’t hear anything of importance. Meaning, you don’t hear either of them bring up your name. You feel like a highschooler, desperate for friends, eager to belong - hoping your crush notices you. 

Because that’s what this is with Daryl, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Butterflies, wanting his attention, looking for excuses to be around him. It’s pathetic but a little beautiful, you admit - that even in a situation like this, where death surrounds every person, no matter who they are - there’s room in the human spirit for a little love. 

A crush, you think again, fixing your nails in your tent. You can almost convince yourself that life isn’t so horrible, just for a minute, until the woman you share your tent with comes in for bed and complains that the smell of the polish is too strong and makes it hard for her to sleep. 

Okay, bitch, you say in your head. It’s not like the walker guts and dead bodies beyond our tent smell any better. You bite your tongue and walk out of the tent, making your way to the empty clearing a little ways away from the tents. It’s so quiet, there’s no way you wouldn’t hear a walker if one was to come around you, but you have a knife on you just in case. No gun, since the noise would just draw more to you. 

You think these things through. You just wish Rick, and the rest of the group, would see that too. 

It’s dark, except for the moon and the stars shining pretty above you. Maybe the little fact you read online years ago about the environment is true - people are the cause of everything bad and all the pollution. A little more than half a year into the apocalypse, and there’s no smog clogging up the skies. It’s a gorgeous night. 

You sit with your hands flat on the ground, waiting for your nails to dry. You get a good few minutes of silence, until the noise of footsteps has you nearly jumping out of your boots, reaching for your knife, only to realize that it’s not a walker, but Daryl coming to plop down next to you.  

“Gosh, Daryl. You scared me,” you complain, letting out a whine. He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to you on the ground, although he moves so his back is facing your back. Makes sense, so you're both safe from all angles. Daryl always thinks about little things like that. 

He’s quiet for long enough that you start to think of something to fill the silence. “Damnit,” you mutter, letting out a huff. “I ruined my nails.”

“Oh, quit it,” Daryl replies. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yerself? You got a death wish, girl?” You’re mortified that Daryl is scolding you like you’re a kid, like you’re an idiot, and coming from him it just hurts even more. 

You’ve always had an even temper, but in this new world, you lose it more often than you used to. It’s probably just the way life is now - the stress, the hunger, the cold and the dirt and the sweat and the lack of anything that used to bring anyone joy. It makes everyone crazy. 

“Yeah, well - ‘m sure your buddy Rick hopes a walker gets to me. Know he was talking shit about me earlier.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying yet - it just really hurts, that you feel like such dead weight at this camp. You’ve never really been insecure, but you feel like nobody likes you. Nobody understands you. And yeah, surviving is more important than being miss popular with a group of people in the apocalypse, but everyone’s always talking about this group being family. Does that include you? It doesn’t feel like it these days. 

Daryl is silent, as you expected. Normally you don’t mind the company, even if it’s a mute one, but tonight you’re feeling on edge. Until Daryl speaks. “Rick ain’t my friend. No one wants you to die, kid. Yer too much,” he mutters, and then you stand up, aggravated and not wanting to take it out on him. 

You begin to walk away when Daryl reaches out and grabs your ankle to stop you. “Daryl,” you warn, as if you’d do anything to retaliate even if he pulled you on the ground with him. But you keep up the hard ass attitude - it feels good, you admit, being difficult for once. You don’t get to be anything but accommodating at camp. 

“Rick and I were sayin’ how valuable you are to the group. How much you’ve grown,” he explains, and you roll your eyes, make a show of stomping away, knowing, loving that Daryl is right on your heels. Because there’s no reason for him to stay in that clearing - he’s not on watch tonight. He was only hanging around there for you. 

Despite acting like Rick’s comment meant nothing to you, on the inside, as you walk to your tent, you fight a smile. So Rick has noticed your effort. That’s all you wanted, except - 

You realize that maybe approval you wanted so badly never needed to come from Rick - 

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

Daryl fixes you with a look that makes you burst out laughing. 

You’ve only been at this spot in the woods for a few weeks, but so far, quality of life among the camp has improved. Almost a year in this new world, and this is the first time anyone’s ever slept with both eyes closed since before people turned into the living dead. There’s a river nearby perfect for fishing, and tonight at the campfire, you had your first taste of - what did Daryl call it?

Sushi.

“Just so you know,” you say, crossing a leg over the other on the little log you’re sitting on. The sun is going down, and the sky is a pretty shade of pink and even a little purple. You wonder if nature has always been this beautiful - you’d always just been too preoccupied to see it. You put a tiny piece of the fish Daryl caught and cooked into your mouth, surprised at the taste. You don’t have to fake your reaction. It’s not bad at all - but you wouldn’t necessarily say it’s good. Tastes better than another can of old spaghetti rings though, that’s for sure. 

Still, you can’t help teasing. You finish your original statement. “Sushi tastes much better than this.”

Daryl smiles, just slightly. And not the fake kind of smile he does when he’s just trying to be polite. Like when an elderly man from the group tells a joke no one else laughs at, or when the strap of your last bra broke and you started crying until Rick promised, cheeks red, that he’d look for your size on the next run.

Right now, it seems like Daryl’s actually having a good time. 

The thought makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you tell Daryl, and you swear you see him blush. “It's better than sushi, really.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl says, nodding. He’s grown uncomfortable with the compliments already. “It’s the best yer gonna get.” Others from the group join you around the campfire, and then Daryl takes off, but not before giving you one last lingering gaze. He has small eyes, you’ve noticed - a little hooded, but so beautiful. He’s incredibly handsome, in a unique way. A pretty, no, beautiful man. His stare burns you, warms you up even with the chill in the air.

It’s only later, when the rest of the group clears off and you and Daryl are alone again, that he speaks. He’s sharpening a knife, leaning on the side of a camper van for support, and you’re at a makeshift sink (bucket) washing the dishes. It was your least favorite chore before this new world, and it’s still your least favorite after. 

But, if you let your mind go there - something about the dynamic between Daryl cooking dinner and you cleaning the dishes up has you - 

No. You’ve got to stop acting so juvenile. 

On one hand, this little crush you have on Daryl is something positive that gets you through the day. Waiting to talk to him, excited to be around him - it shines light on a dark, terrible reality. On the other hand, getting attached to anyone at this camp is a bad idea. You just lost someone else a few days ago. 

The reality, that death really is lurking everywhere - that something could happen to you, or Daryl…it makes your palms sweat and your breathing become erratic. The reality of this new world is just so scary and cruel.

You’re done with the dishes and you dry your hands on an old flannel that the camp uses as a dish towel. You feel Daryl watching you, and you like it. 

“What are you looking at?” You tease, pushing some hair away from your face. “There a walker behind me or something? 

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t look at no walker like that,” he grumbles, but then he must realize what he said - what it really means. You’re so excited you’re almost vibrating, wondering, realizing now - that maybe this crush isn’t one sided. But you still try to play it cool, even as Daryl shakes his head, says, “Wasn’t lookin’ at nuthin.’”

You don’t know what to say to that. You begin to walk away, excited to spend the rest of the night in your tent going over this interaction until you fall asleep, but what Daryl says next stops you in your tracks. You freeze.

“Gotta get you a bra on the nex’ run,” he says, and your knees feel weak. “Those things almos’ poked me in the eye. You cold or sumthin’?’”

You fast walk to your tent, nearly crying from embarrassment - but your entire body is dizzy with excitement. It’s adrenaline, but not the same kind you get when you’re running or kill a walker and make it out alive - a different kind, one you haven’t felt since maybe even before the walkers. It lights you up inside, makes it hard to breathe - and the funniest part?

Daryl has no idea your nipples are hard because you’re aroused - all from watching him sharpen a knife. What can you say? A man who can handle a weapon like that can surely handle…other things.

────

The fire crackles as you sit back, the warmth from the flames doing little to ease the chill in your bones. It’s freezing outside, but you’re under a warm blanket, and if you delude yourself enough you can almost convince yourself that this is just a toasty evening with friends and not a risky fire that could very well lead walkers directly to the camp.

But there’s nothing the group can do - it’s simply too cold to go without a fire tonight. Even Daryl, king of having his arms always showing, is in a jacket tonight. Which sucks, because you really love looking at his arms…but this is survival.

There’s hushed conversation while Rick tells a story, a few pairs to the side chattering, and you feel left out until you notice that Daryl isn’t talking to anyone either. He’s just looking at the ground, then the fire, gaze flickering to you every few minutes. 

And you only notice that because your eyes can’t stay off of him. You can’t help it - it’s like you’re always looking for him. There’s something about that man, as dumb as it sounds, that makes him feel like your own security blanket. Even seeing him from across the camp, just a glimpse, can settle your nerves like nothing else. 

Suddenly, a voice from next to you tries to get your attention. It’s Derek, a decent looking guy about your age - but he’s pretty useless, as far as skills go. He accompanies the rest of the men for runs into town, can kill a walker if necessary, but he’s selfish and all about himself. Won’t even take watch at night, says it interferes with his sleep. You can’t stand him. 

You try to avoid his gaze and pretend to be busy, picking at your cuticles and hoping he leaves you alone, but no such luck. 

“Look at you, princess,” he teases, and you cringe so hard you wonder if it’s visible. It’s embarrassing, being referred to like that - so what, that you like the color pink and happen to be attractive? You’re not hurting anyone. The clothes you’re wearing, the pink clips you have to hold your hair back, the floral printed pillow case - those were all things you had before the world went to shit. 

You didn’t know the apocalypse had a dress code. 

You’re sick of being teased. Of being reduced to this overly feminine character - as if you don’t keep watch just as much as the men. As if you don’t kill walkers when they get close to the camp, while the other women hide. As if you don’t cook, and clean, and - 

Derek is still talking.

You sneak a glance across the campfire at Daryl, who holds your gaze for a minute before dropping it. You look back down too, play with your fingers on your lap. You’d go to your tent right now if you weren’t scared about the safety of falling asleep with no one actively on watch. 

“So, what’d you all do before this?” Derek asks, leaning forward. He’s asking the group, but he’s looking at you, which means - you’re supposed to go first?

You wonder if this has anything to do with what you told Cindy, someone you used to share a tent with before she found room in another one. There’s not much to do these days when you’re not cooking or cleaning or hunting or moving - lots of time to sit and talk. The apocalypse is so much more boring than you ever anticipated. You shared a lot about your past with her, but surely she wouldn’t gossip about you to the others in the camp?

You thought girl code was still a thing, even in these trying times. 

Everyone is silent, waiting for your answer. Even Daryl and Rick seem interested, which makes you feel even worse. You wanted to fit in, not be the center of attention.

You shift uncomfortably, before clearing your throat. You can feel Cindy’s eyes on you, sitting just a few people down. “Nothing special. Just,” you pause and shrug, unsure of what to say. “Whatever I had to. To survive.” 

Back then, surviving was all about money, and ever since your parents died when you were a teenager, money is the one thing you never had enough of. One thing you did have though, is your beauty. So you used it, to get the things you needed, and sometimes a little more - but it all boiled down to one thing, just like it does now - to survive. 

That’s all life is about, really? Take away the frills, the fun - people just want to stay alive, no matter how rough things get.

So - you had a boyfriend to pay your rent. A man that loved to take you shopping. A lonely guy who paid off your car. You’ve never lived in luxury, but you always made it. Always got by. Had the things you needed and a little bit more. Always -

“Yeah, well, we all knew you were a whore.”

The words leave Derek’s mouth and you’re frozen. Speechless - and that never happens to you. You’re so shocked at what he said that your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it’s only then that you realize the bottle of hard liquor on his lap. 

You glare at Cindy, who quickly gets up and runs to her tent, more scared of you than walkers apparently - good, you think, because she’s such a bitch for talking about you behind your back. You try to be cool about it, to laugh it off like Derek is so wrong it doesn’t even deserve a reaction, but you’re so embarrassed you feel your chest aching. 

Has everyone known about your history the entire time you’ve been at camp? You shared those stories with Cindy in the beginning, one of the first nights you arrived, desperate for some comfort. Is that why everyone treats you so differently from the rest? Is that why you’re the black sheep of a fucking camp formed during the apocalypse?

Does Daryl know?

You’re ready to defend yourself, but you don’t get to. Because Daryl is around the fire so fast you don’t even have time to blink, grabbing Derek by the collar of his shirt and pounding his fists into his face. 

The sound of knuckles against bone is excruciating, makes you want to hurl - but you don’t tell him to stop. You’re frozen, and anyway, Derek deserves it, doesn’t he? 

It’s Rick, and a few other men that pull Daryl off of Derek, who’s sporting an eye so swollen it won’t shut and a busted lip, a cheek that’ll be purple for the next few weeks for sure. “Whore,” he spits, still able to talk, even as someone drags him away. “Man, shut up already,” one of the guys says to him, but nobody eases the sting of what he says. 

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow while Rick walks off to talk to Derek, but he can’t get a word in with the shit the other man is spewing. “Fucking whore,” he keeps grumbling. “There’s no money to milk from men anymore, is there? Bet you put out for that fish Dixon caught for you. Did you do the same for that new bra? Or that water bottle Rick brought back for you? Almost died you know, getting that shit for you, maybe you can thank me with,” Rick kicks him in the ribs before he can finish and tells him to shut up in that leader voice of his. 

You run off, now that the rest of the group has scattered, but you hear Daryl yell out, “Yeah, man, you should’ve died,” with a string of curse words. “All you fuckin’ people looking’ at her. Yer all whores in your own way. Useless too,” he continues, but you don’t hear it because you get into your tent and zip it up.

Great. All this drama, and now nobody is ever going to fucking like you now. You’ll be the black sheep forever, won’t you? It’s a harsh wake up call, and you’re thankful you’re alone. Your tentmate must’ve taken her daughter out to be with the other kids, away from the rowdiness at the fucking campfire. You sniffle, and climb into your sleeping bag. 

A minute later, before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, Daryl enters the tent. He’s so big, it’s hard for him to fit, but he manages - cursing and crouching in a way that would make you laugh if this wasn’t such a depressing situation. 

He sits next to your sleeping bag. Knees bent, arms around his legs. He just sort of watches you. You look anywhere but his face, but you notice his knuckles are bloody red and torn, all because of you. 

“Didn’t have to defend me,’ you say, instead of thank you. “I wasn’t a whore, so,” but Daryl cuts you off. 

“Don’t matter what you were. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. Little prick deserves his ass kicked anyway. Can’t even shoot straight,” it’s like this moment is as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. You share a look, but you look away first, afraid of the intensity. You’ve never had someone stand up for you before - not like this. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do? 

You say nothing at all. A few more minutes go by, with your vision blurry as you stare at Daryl’s knuckles and he stares at the hole that shows the grassy ground in the bottom of your tent. Finally, he sighs, annoyed, and even though you’re not talking you’re still worried he’s going to leave. He’s your teddy bear after all, right? Your security blanket. Maybe you’re selfish - but you don't want him to go. 

And he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl adjusts his position so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out. It’s bright pink, satin looking - you wonder if he’s going to hand you a pair of racy panties just to seal the deal that he thinks you’re a slut. A whore. 

But is he wrong? The look of the muscles in his arm, at his sheer size - at the smell of him, so masculine and woodsy in this little tent it almost makes you dizzy with want. 

After what just happened, how can you be thinking about sex? Maybe you are a slut. A whore. You’ve done things for money before, but -

Daryl hands the piece of pink satin to you. “S’posed to be a ribbon,” he says, shrugging. He’s embarrassed you realize, and it’s cute. “Found it on a toy, er, teddy bear, thought you might like it. If you don’t, I,” but you cut him off, scoot closer to him as you tie it around your wrist. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say softly, sweetly - and it feels so natural to lean in and press your lips against his cheek. His body is warm, and when you grip his bicep every cell in your body is on fire with desire. He must’ve taken his jacket off after the fight. If it could even be called that, with the way Daryl jumped Derek. Fights are usually a two way street.

Your heart swells, at the fact that he protected you. Thought about you on a run. Saw something and thought of you. Men have bought you things before, of course - but never something personal like this. Never something you didn’t have to ask for beforehand, for nothing in return.

Daryl, he - he gives you feelings so fuzzy and pure in your chest that you almost forget you’re sleeping just a few feet away from a forest of dead bodies. 

He doesn’t wipe his cheek when you pull away after the kiss, which is a step in the right direction. You’ve seen Daryl lose his shit over the intimacy of a simple thank you hug with someone else from camp before.

You feel special.

“Was nothin,’” he says, before pausing. He looks at you, then away again, wringing his hands before continuing. “Don’t feel any typa way about doin’ what you had to do to survive, ya hear me? I know what it’s like to do what you hav’to to live, ya know? That fucker. He doesn't have a clue about makin’ it on your own. How tough it can be. Don’ listen to the shit he’s got to say. Don’t listen to none of these people,” he won’t look at you, but you look at him, the side profile of his face so handsome you want to reach out and touch him. But you refrain. 

Instead, you squeeze his arm, bicep tan and bulging. You lick your bottom lip. “Daryl,” you interrupt him and he looks at you, gaze on your eyes, then your lips, then to the pretty ribbon tied around your wrist. He visibly swallows, before looking back at your eyes. His eyes are blue, pretty. Too pretty for a man as rugged as him, but what’s the saying? 

A person who is good on the inside - their beauty shines through. You think that’s true about Daryl. At this moment, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as him. You breathe him in, going crazy over his pheromones - his smell. You can feel your body getting aroused at his closeness, and he’s not even doing anything sexual.

“Next time,” you say, teasing tone in your voice, “Can you bring the whole bear?”

────

“Look at us,” you say, trying not to skip beside Daryl. A mood this good feels eerie in this new world, but you can’t help the way you feel.

Daryl asked you to join him for a walk, and ever since that night when he gave you the ribbon in your tent - you’ve been closer than ever. You wear the ribbon around your wrist every single day, except for right now, when you’re wearing it to hold some of your hair back. 

You’re not sure what’s going on with you and Daryl, but there’s a freedom about it that fills you with joy. Helps you exhale easier in this crazy, cruel world - because he’s safe, and you like being around him, and he obviously likes you too, right? Or he wouldn’t ask you to go for a walk every single day, wouldn’t pay special attention to you during meals, making sure you’re eating enough - 

And he really wouldn’t have kissed you against a tree during his watch last week if he had any bad feelings towards you. 

Things at the camp are complicated, because that stunt Derek pulled separated the group. There’s people that hate you, because they’re really mad at Daryl - but nobody can be actually mad at Daryl, since he does so much for the entire group. Catches animals for food, is one of the strongest men besides Rick. You’re not exactly his girl, not even close, but you know that the only reason you haven’t been used as walker bait is because of Daryl’s status at the camp. 

When he kissed you, just a few weeks after that night in the tent - it was so much softer than you imagined. Because, yeah - you imagined what it would be like to kiss Daryl Dixon. Ever since you met him, really. He’s so tough, so crass, such a force. It’s always been an opinion of yours, that the toughest people really just need some softness. You wonder now, when he smiles shyly at you as you walk past a stream, if you’re that softness for him these days. 

“Look at us, what, girlie?” He asks, and you stifle a giggle, trying to remain serious for the bit of the joke. You brush your hand against his as you walk, wondering when he’ll grab it. Wondering when, if, he’ll ever claim you. But you’re trying not to rush things. It’s easy to get worried about time, when every single day is life and death - but there's something kind of beautiful about just going with the flow of what feels good. 

Living in the present, which is literally all you have now. All anyone has. And right now, your goal in the present, is to make Daryl laugh. 

“You’ve got your bow,” you say, gesturing to his weapon, “And I’ve got mine.” You flip your hair, showing off the pink, satin ribbon holding your hair away from your face. Daryl chuckles and shakes his head, but it only lasts for a second. 

Your face heats, pleased with yourself for making him laugh, and then your breath hitches when he grabs hold of your hand. 

“Yer sumthin’ else, girl,” he says fondly, and you walk into an area dense with trees before he nudges you against the trunk of one.

You don’t know what life was like for Daryl before walkers took over the population. You’re not sure if he had a lot, or a little, experience with women before this all happened. In fact, you don’t know a lot about Daryl at all. He’s closed off, he’s a little mean sometimes, too tough for his own good -

But god, the way he kisses. 

Hesitant, like he’s scared to take something he didn’t earn. You want to tell him that every single part of you, he has earned. You’ve known him for more time than your longest relationship. You’ve seen each other filthy, desperate, depraved. Covered in blood, covered in guts - starving, dirty, depressed. For a man that hardly talks, Daryl somehow knows you better than any man, maybe even any other person, ever has. 

He stood up for you. He tries to take care of you. He’s a good friend, he’s -

When he slips a hand to your hip and drops his crossbow on the ground, squeezes at your skin in a way that’s so possessive it makes your breath hitch, you literally let out a cry. Against your lips, Daryl murmurs, “Quiet, ‘less you wanna have a threesum with a walker.” His tongue tastes like cigarettes, a little bit like the apple juice one of the kids at the camp wanted him to try, because he’s a good sport, even if his resting bitch face might suggest otherwise. 

There’s something about him ordering you around that does it for you. You let him take charge of the kiss, but you grab his roaming hand and move it to your breast. He squeezes, but in your new bra, you don’t feel the friction you’re so desperately craving from him rubbing over your nipples. You want more, and you whine, trying not to be greedy but it’s just so damn hard. 

Against the tree, Daryl slips a leg between yours, and you shamelessly bend down to try to rub your aching core against it. “Daryl,” you whine, and he laughs, pulling away to look at you, his hair that’s getting longer plastered against his forehead with sweat. Everything about him is overwhelming. His smell, intense, his lips, delicious, his strength and size, so fucking hot you just want to curl up in the pocket of his shirt and stay safe forever. 

Because you don’t have a doubt in your mind - Daryl would keep you safe. You wonder, why you wasted your time with finance guys and entrepreneurs and men who’d never gotten their hands dirty, back when life was normal. Daryl, with calloused fingertips and his thick accent, a country boy through and through - he pleases you, makes you happier than anyone you’ve ever met before. 

Yeah, even in the apocalypse, you can find the romance. You kiss Daryl deeper. 

He moves his hand down from your breast to slip it into your pants, and he lets out a low noise in his throat at the feeling of your wetness already. Just from kissing him. You’re not ashamed - it’s been a long time since anyone touched your pussy like this, a long time since you even touched it yourself. There’s just no time alone, and you share a tent, and -

“Yer soakin,’” Daryl comments, and your entire body flushes with humiliation. But the good kind. You nod. “For you,” you whisper, and he leans his forehead against yours before capturing your lips in his again. 

Just as you expected, Darly is good with his fingers. He positions one of your legs over his hip so he has better access to finger you, rough hands, the calloused pads of his thumb dragging over your clit, so swollen after so long without cumming. It’s not going to take long, you know, to completely fucking burst. You want it so bad, to come apart on his fingers, to show him just how good you can be. He’s knuckle deep inside of you while still also putting pressure on your clit when you let out a screech, thankful you opened your eyes in time to see the walker coming from behind Daryl. 

You push him off of you until he curses and tries to pick up his crossbow, fingers still slick with your pussy, but you beat him to it. You grab the knife out of your boot, even though your body feels like jelly, and you slam it into the walker’s forehead as hard as you can. You huff and puff, because it takes a lot out of you, and when the walker is on the ground you slam your boot into its face a few too many times until the bottom of your shoe is covered with walker brains. 

“He’s dead,” Daryl says behind you. “Don’ waste yer energy.” You roll your eyes, wiping sweat from your face with a bandana you had in your pocket. 

“I know. That’s for him ruining my orgasm,” you say out loud, and behind you, Daryl lets out a low whistle. You’re really humiliated now, but what are the chances? A fucking walker trying to eat Daryl while you’re trying to get him to eat you? Some fucking luck. 

There’s still blood splattering on your face, and you turn to Daryl, wiping it with your sleeve. “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” you say sheepishly, unsure of how to read his bland expression. But just because a walker interrupted, doesn’t mean you don’t want to continue your little fingering session. Just in case, shame out the window, you reach for him. Daryl backs away slightly. 

“Slow down,” he says, pulling away from you. “Don’ wanna fuck you in the forest,” and you understand, but also - where else can you have sex? Everyone’s always watching each other. When else can you get some time alone? 

Daryl looks down at the bulge in his pants, and you reach down and grope him, like some kind of horny harlot. Maybe you are. He watches you, the color of your nails, your tiny hand - and he lets out a groan himself. 

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says, leaving you speechless and wet in the middle of the woods. He starts to walk away, but his head is turned to you and his eyes never leave you. You know it’s because he’s making sure you’re safe, watching over you, even with his dick chubbing up in his pants. He tugs his weapon up to rest on his shoulder. 

If that’s not a man, you don’t know what is. 

“Daryl,” you start to say, following him, about to beg him for something more, but he just throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you along. You use the opportunity with his hand on your shoulder to tie the ribbon around his wrist, a small mark of your ownership. You wonder what he’ll say about that, if he’ll be mad -

He just squeezes your shoulder. “Not tryna deny you. I want you. Me and the little guy,” he looks down to his cock in his pants, obviously referring to that. “Yer just too pretty to do somethin’ like that in the woods. My tent, tonight?” You know that his tent mate is keeping watch tonight, so you’ll be alone for a good amount of time. Enough time to - you shiver just thinking about it. 

You nod eagerly. 

“You sure you’re not just disgusted at what I just did?” You phrase it like a joke, gently rubbing your lips on the healing cuts of his knuckles, but you’re serious. Maybe seeing a woman behave greedy, wanting, desperate - violent - maybe it was a huge turn off. 

Daryl shakes his head and tugs you closer, presses his lips to the top of your head. “Nah,” he assures, looking back down to the bulge in his pants. It’s even more noticeable than before. He takes the hand he used to finger you and sucks the digits, covered in your slick, into his mouth. The muscles in your cunt clench, at the way his cheekbones look, the level of lust in his eyes aimed at you. 

“That was fuckin’ sexy,” he assures, popping his fingers out of his mouth.

────

At dinner that night, which is squirrel - so you settle for half a protein bar and a bruised apple, Rick sits down beside you. You’re eating away from everyone else, because Daryl’s helping someone with something like he always is, but it’s alright because you’re in your own world, thinking about what’s to come later tonight with him. 

You’re in a trance, remembering the way he scratched at your scalp fondly when he walked you to your tent and watched you bend down to get inside. “Don’t sprain yer wrist before tonight,” he joked, insinuating you’d be finishing yourself off. He went off with a wink, leaving you reeling - because since when did Daryl Dixon joke around? 

You’ve been riding on a high for the rest of the night. 

Rick sitting beside you takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him and swallow the bit of stale protein bar you’ve been chewing for probably ten minutes, quirking an eyebrow at him. He’s so serious, it’s annoying. 

Don’t get it wrong - you like Rick. Appreciate everything he’s done, does for the camp - he’s just so intense, but he’s handsome in his own right too. Not your normal type, but then again - neither is Daryl. You just don’t understand a man like Rick, and he doesn’t get you. But he’s the best thing this group has, because he has everyone's interest at heart. Even someone like Daryl, well - 

He puts himself, and you by extension now, maybe - first. It’s not a bad thing, in fact, you find both sides of the coin admirable in their own way. 

“What’s up, Rick?” You finally ask. He looks down to his hands, before nodding behind you, and you turn and look at what he’s referring to - it’s Daryl, looking angrily at Derek, who’s by the fire drunkenly talking shit about everything while people try to calm him down. You sigh. 

“You and Daryl,” Rick says, and you’re not sure what to say to that - statement? Accusation? You just nod. “What about us?” You ask, and you really don’t mean to be rude, but you���re not sure why whatever you’re doing with Daryl is any of Rick, or anyone’s, business?

You expect a lecture. Something about needing to earn your keep, to stop distracting him, to make things right with Derek. Instead, Rick just pats you on the back, literally. 

“You’re good for him,” he says, before awkwardly walking off when someone calls his name. No doubt for a crisis that could easily be solved without his help. You feel sorta bad for Rick - people are so stressed, so traumatized in this new world, that they don’t want to use their brains at all. They put all their problems, no matter how small, on Rick, and that’s gotta be hard. 

You want to call out some sort of acknowledgement for all he does as he walks away, but Daryl begins walking towards you before you get the chance. You’re still looking towards Rick. “You checkin’ the boss out?” Daryl jokes, with something like possessiveness or jealousy in his tone. It burns you in the best way possible - that Daryl might worry about something like that. 

What can you say? You’ve always thought a possessive man was hot. 

Daryl plops down beside you. You’re sitting on a log, but he’s on the ground. Typical Daryl behavior. He wraps a hand around your ankle - and suddenly you’re very glad you got a chance to shave with the razor you stole from someone’s pile of toiletries after the last run. 

“That all yer eatin?’” He asks, referring to the empty wrapper in your hand. You shake your head and show off your sorry apple, but Daryl just shakes his head and scoffs. “Tha’s not enough. You can’t be picky about,” but he stops when he sees the expression on your face. 

You’ve talked to him about this before. He didn’t reply, but you know he was listening. Food - it’s the only thing you can be a little picky about. Everything else, you don't have any choice over. Where the camp goes, who you share a tent with. Food and now, this thing with Daryl - that’s all the power you have. Daryl nods, like he gets it but doesn’t like it, and then changes the subject. 

“Are you cold?” You ask, and Daryl laughs. As kind as he is to you, you know that he’s uncomfortable when you, or anyone, tries to show any kind of care for him. He nods his chin towards the ratty blanket you’re using. “You gon’ share with me, girlie?” You shake your head, a grin spreading across your face.

“No,” you say, tossing the blanket, the apple, and the wrapper into a duffle bag next to the log you’re sitting on. “Just thought I could warm you up in your tent.” Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights as he peaks over your shoulder to where the rest of the group is getting ready for bed, his tent mate grabbing a gun before heading to the area where he’ll keep watch while everyone sleeps. 

Daryl nods. “Yer dirty,” he grumbles, standing up, but he runs his hands up and down his bare arms like he’s feigning being cold. “C’mon then. You gunna warm me up or what?”

────

The first time Daryl fucked you, he went slow. Took his time, opening you up with his thick fingers, even though you didn’t need the extra time. You were aching, wet - desperate for him to shove his cock inside of you, because you’d been thinking about it for too long. Too much kissing, humping, friction between the two of you - all you wanted, could imagine, was how his cock would feel against your throbbing center. 

When he finally thrusted inside of you, stretched you out and began to fuck into you, he didn’t let himself go like you always imagined. Insecurely, you narrowed your eyes, even as your back arched off of his sleeping bag. “When’s the last time?” You asked, referring to the last time he had sex. Daryl just let out a shaky laugh and calmed your fears with a thrust that made your toes curl and a moan escape your lips. 

“Long enough, pretty girl,” he assured, all while you huffed in brat and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Jus’ wanna enjoy it. We’ve finally got the time.” And Daryl was right, but really, when is he ever wrong?

The first time you had sex you got to enjoy going slow. But the rest of the times after that - and there’s been a lot now, it’s always a quickie. A rush, because shit hit the fan at your current camp soon after the first night together. The entire group had to move, you lost people to walkers (though not Derek, unfortunately), and now getting off with Daryl only happens in quick spurts whenever you’re alone. 

In a way, the drama surrounding the camp has made the two of you closer. 

When the entire group has to drive down a walker infested highway, normally you’d be in a camper van with the other women and children, but Daryl has your back. 

“You’re ridin’ with me,” he says, shooting Rick a look before anyone can object. As he walks off, he purposely bumps his shoulder into Derek, who scoffs and does the same to you. Daryl doesn’t notice, but Rick does, and he tells Derek off before Daryl can do anything drastic like beat his ass again. 

“Hey,” he warns, shoving Derek away from you. “Watch it,” Derek grumbles, glaring at you before hopping into the back of a truck with a few of the other men. “What?” He asks mockingly, because you’re frozen, watching him in a trance while Daryl starts up his bike. 

Derek just can’t leave you alone - he picks on you every single chance he gets. “You got Rick standing up for you now too, huh?” He says, shaking his head in disgust. “You let him fuck you too?”

It’s not his words that hurt so much, but it’s the fact that he’s saying them at all. You’ve never done anything to Derek, have only been nice, yet he looks at you like a target and it hurts so bad your eyes threaten to spill tears. Thankfully, Daryl comes for you, and you get on the back of his bike with ease. 

“You okay?” He asks, even though it’s hard to hear with the sound of the rumble from the motorcycle. You nod, and press your face into his back. Daryl takes off down the highway, leading the way while Rick follows behind, and you selfishly let yourself doze off against him. You trust Daryl, more than you’ve ever trusted another man - and that’s a lot of pressure. 

Trusting anyone these days means you’re putting your life in their hands. It’s exhausting. When you tell the women at camp you’ll watch their kids while they go to the restroom, or go for a walk - essentially what you’re saying is you’ll protect their kids if shit was going south. Even just the thought, being responsible for someone else - it makes your chest heave. 

Your arms are tight around Daryl as he drives. You’re not sure how long you’re on the road for when the motorcycle stops, but you know you’re much farther ahead then the rest of the group. In another life, you imagine Daryl happy and free - driving to a city, or another town on a brand new motorcycle. Maybe working in a shop. You feel a pang of sadness, that he’ll never get that. 

He deserves so much more than this shit. You all do. 

Except maybe Derek. 

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

Daryl stops the bike and you get off, stretching your legs. 

“You good, dolly?” He asks, and you wrinkle your nose at the nickname. You’re pretending not to like it, when in reality, it makes you tingle all over. You nod. 

“You go fast,” you say, and he laughs, steps off of the bike and walks to an empty field off to the side of the highway. “‘S the only way to go. Stay here,” he orders, before walking off. He grumbles something about taking a piss and you stifle a laugh, pretending to salute him. You see his hand twitch, like he wants to jokingly flip you off, but he stops himself. 

Something about that, that he won’t play rough with you, has your knees feeling wobbly. You feel like you can breathe, without the rest of the group breathing down your back, insulting you, accusing you of doing sexual things just to be treated like a human being. You try not to think about it, because you want to have a decent day and don’t want Derek to be the cause of tears when you’ve been through worse circumstances without crying. It’s hard though. 

You walk around the motorcycle, eyes on the ground. You catch a glimpse of your shoelace, pink against the black of your boot, because you used the ribbon for added flair when you gave your shoelace to someone at the camp who needed a belt. 

Daryl saw you, and promised you that night with his cock buried deep in your throat, “I’ll get you some more ribbons, pretty girl,” he assured, while you gagged and spit dribbled down your chin. “Too hard to hold your hair back when yer suckin’ me off like a pro.” 

That comment should’ve stung, but you know Daryl didn’t mean it like that. In fact, it was so hot that you did your best, until he spilled down your throat and you licked the mess you made off of his cock and balls and thighs. 

You’re lost in your thoughts, busy giving your pussy a heartbeat when you notice a little gold, bullet shaped thing on the ground. You’re not sure what it is, but if it is a bullet, you know having extra is always good. You reach down to grab it, only then realizing that it's a lipstick. 

You pop open the lid. It’s a pretty pink color, and while it’s used - you can’t even remember the last time you wore makeup. You wipe the top layer off before dabbing some with your finger and putting it on, trying to check yourself out in the mirror of the motorcycle when Daryl comes back. 

“The fuck are they?” He asks, zipping his pants up. He’s so, so, so - crass sometimes that it’s endearing. You shrug, and that’s when he notices the lipstick you’re wearing. His eyes are hooded, heavy with tiredness, and it makes him look all the more handsome. “There a makeup store aroun’ here I shud know about?” He teases, and you shake your head and hold up the lipstick tube. 

“Found this. How’s it look?” Daryl just nods, looking at you with a strange expression. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, until he tugs you closer to him by the wrist and tentatively presses his lips against yours. 

“Don’ care about the gloss,” he comments, and you resist the urge to explain it’s not gloss, it’s lipstick. “But I don’ call you pretty girl for no reason. Always pretty,” he says shyly, and Daryl is a perfect guy, but he never opens up. Hardly ever says how he feels, or what he thinks - but he’s being clear now. That he wants you, verbally, even though his actions in everything he do is always proving that to you. 

It’s crazy, the feeling of happiness bubbling in your chest, all thanks to Daryl Dixon. On the fucking highway filled with walkers probably silent in their cars, with flat tires and blood stains and ramsacked belongings, you stand on your tip toes and nudge the toe of your boots against his, grabbing hold of his handsome face and peppering kisses all over. You leave pink lipstick marks, but he doesn’t know that yet - and it makes you giggle. 

Putting your mark all over Daryl - you’ve never been possessive, but wow does it feel good. When you finally pull away, Daryl looks at you like you’re crazy. Then he takes a look down the highway to make sure nobody’s coming, before bending you over the front of his motorcycle. 

“Grab the handlebars,” he orders, a hand on your back before roughly pulling your pants down your ass. It’s risky, knowing that the rest of the camp could drive up at any minute, but who really cares? They already think so low of you. They already -

Your eyes shut as Daryl shoves his half hard cock inside of you, and your walls clamp down around him, so tight you feel him growing. It happened so fast he wasn’t even fully hard, but now he is, small thrusts so the both of you can get used to the feeling. Your hands are cramping where they grip the bars of his bike, so tight, until it almost starts to tip. Daryl has an idea. 

He pulls out, cock in hand with his fucking pants not even pulled all the way down, and he sits himself over his bike like normal. “Take em’ off,” he says, nodding towards your pants, and you obey, stripping them off until it takes too long because of your boots and Daryl just hauls you over to him. 

You almost trip as he lifts you onto the bike, bent over the handlebars, eyes on the road, before he slips his cock into you. It’s like you’re sitting on his lap, and he reaches around you, fully supporting your body while rubbing your clit. 

“Can you move?” He asks roughly, and you whine, trying to go up and down on his cock but it’s too hard at the angle. Daryl presses a kiss to your head, moves some of your hair back while he takes hold of your hips and ruts you back and forth over his dick. You know he’s strong, but feeling it first hand is something else entirely. It’s like you’re a doll with the way he easily controls your body, dick so thick it feels like he’s stretching your pussy into the perfect mold just for him.

“Don’ worry,” he assures, letting out a breath of pleasure right by your ear. “I got ya. Only time yer quiet ‘s when you got my cock in you, huh?”

He’s not wrong. You wish you could see his face, but this position, your back to his front, is pretty hot too.

It’s only a minute later, when his hand slips while you try to pull your body up to do some of the work, that he nearly pinches your clit and it’s the pain that sends you over the edge. You cum, that easily against him, and you cry out his name just as you both hear the sound of an engine in the distance. Daryl curses, throws his head back at the feel of your tight pussy squeezing him, and quite literally picks you up off his cock and puts you on your feet. 

“Knees,” he says quickly, and you obey, because of course you do, even though the gravel of the road is a little painful on your knees. He grabs you by your hair, and forces your mouth onto his cock where he spills his load down your throat. You swallow it down and kitten lick the head of his cock clean after, admiring the pink lipstick marks all over his perfect dick as he quickly zips tucks his dick in his pants and zips up, but not before helping you get your pants back up too. 

“If we live another day,” Daryl says, helping you straighten out your pants when the other cars pull up. He snaps the band of your panties, white cotton and floral print, against your skin while the rest of the group gets out of the cars to have a meeting over some bullshit, you’re sure. “I’ll return the favor,” he finishes. 

You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you pull up his arm and cuddle into his side as he stands up, his tongue on your mind even though you just came all over his cock. You wish you could’ve had time to ride your orgasm out, but you’ll take what you can get.

Rick nods to Daryl as he gets out of his truck. He looks between the two of you, and for the first time, maybe ever, - you see him smirk a little. 

“‘S your color, man,” he says, closing the car door. Daryl is confused, and takes a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his motorcycle, notices all the kiss marks and another first happens -

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

“I wanna come,” you say, resisting the urge to literally stomp your foot as Rick and Daryl and a few other men head out on a run. 

It’s not like you actually want to go, but you can’t bear the thought of Daryl leaving without you. You know he can take care of himself, but the thought of him not returning - it literally makes you feel sick. You tug on the sleeves of your sweater while Daryl loads a bag of guns into the back of Rick’s truck, the other men exchanging glances that you know are them hoping Rick puts you in your place. 

Ever since people caught on about you and Daryl, they’ve kept their mouths shut in regards to you. Which is good. You’re still ignored, like before - but at least you’ve got a little respect. You cross your arms as Rick and Daryl walk towards you. 

“It’s dangerous out there,” Rick says, as if you’re an idiot who’s head has been buried in the sand for the past year. He sighs. “Look - we need you here. This is your role,” he looks like he wants to continue, but Daryl places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look that Rick knows means let me handle this.

But you already know what Daryl is going to say to you, and you don’t want to fucking hear it. “I want to come, Daryl,” you say, trying not to whine. “I’m good with a gun, and since Derek can’t go,” you lower your voice, but Derek must’ve been slinking around. He pops up next to you, and Daryl tenses. 

“You,” Daryl warns, mood gone sour just from Derek’s presence. “Fuck off.”

Derek laughs, but he’s obviously pissed. He can’t go on anymore runs, at least not for a while - he’s too scared, after a walker almost bit him the last time. 

It’s only when you tense up, that Daryl realizes the other reason you don’t want to be left alone. 

You don’t want to be alone with Derek. Yes, there’s other women at the camp and a few other men, but Derek is a scary, loose cannon. He’s the last person you want to be around right now. Daryl’s jaw locks, and he looks between the two of you, at the way you’re uncomfortable. Someone in Rick’s truck blares the horn, and he turns around, stressed out, not knowing what to do. 

“Fuck face,” Daryl grumbles, running a hand down his face. He’s addressing Derek with a glare. He walks closer to him, chest to chest almost, backing Derek almost onto his ass. Derek can pretend to be tough all he wants - but he’s a bitch in comparison to a man like Daryl. 

“Stay away from her. Don’t even look at her. If I come back and you so much as,” but Derek smirks. “If,” he emphasizes, until Daryl literally shoves him. Rick calls his name, and Daryl backs off. 

You end up dropping whatever you’re saying, hating the position you’re putting Daryl in - like you’re a kid who has to have your way. Daryl is just trying to help the group, he has responsibilities - you don’t need to make his job harder than it is, so you wave him off. “I’ll be fine, Daryl. Just - come back safe.” You kiss his cheek and then he’s off.

You go to your tent to avoid Derek when the men going on the run are gone, but as you walk away you hear him speaking to you. “What’re you doing with that white trash? You might’ve been a whore, but you’re no trailer trash. You wouldn’t be with him if this was any other world.”

You stop in your tracks. “Don’t talk about Daryl like that,” you say softly, but firmly. For all Daryl does for everyone - you can’t believe Derek has the fucking nerve to talk shit. You want to flip him off, but he walks closer to you, and you freeze. You’re more scared of this man than a fucking walker, and your stomach flips with anxiety at his nearness.

“I worked in finance,” he says, like it matters. You actually have to stifle a laugh, confused at why his past matters - he’s so worthless that this is all he has to brag about? He thinks you care? Is he trying to relate to you, by putting Daryl down? He’s an idiot.

You smile sweetly, as if that’s anything to brag about. All the finance guys you knew in the city before all of this - they were horrible people. Of course that’s what Derek used to do. 

“Trust me, Derek,” you say, hoping it stings. “I know.”

You walk away again, but just as you do, he grabs you by the arm. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp, but he won’t let you go. He tugs you closer to him, and you wish anyone cared about you enough to help you. 

“Let go of me,” you spit, but Derek just shakes his head.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that? Acting too good for any of us, treating all of us like shit. But you put out for fucking Dixon - let all of us hear you letting him fuck you in his tent and the woods. We saw you on your knees that day on the highway. I mean, it’s not a secret you’re a slut, but it’s another thing to see it. And now Rick is defending you? That why you were talking to him the other day for dinner? Offering yourself up for more rations or something? You’re sick,” Derek rants and raves, bruising your arm with his grip.

“Let me go,” you say, trying not to show how scared you are. “Or I’ll fucking scream.” 

Derek actually laughs, shaking his head. You’re disturbed to know that he’s been watching you? Following you and Daryl? Because the both of you know - you only ever fooled around with Daryl when nobody could listen and see unless they were trying to. You wouldn’t do that, and neither would Daryl.

“If I’m such a stupid slut, that must make you pretty bad, huh? That I won’t even put out for you,” you hate that you even say those words, like you’d ever consider having sex with this man, but you want to hurt him. To get him to see that he's wrong about you - you want him to leave you alone.  

“You fucking bitch,” Derek says, pushing you to the ground.

You let out a cry. You should’ve never told Daryl and Rick you’d be okay, you should’ve -

Suddenly Derek is off of you. You’re frozen for a second, before you hear screaming and someone calling out your name. 

You’re in shock as someone helps you up. You know it’s Rick, because you notice his watch. “Damnit,” he curses, and you register the sound of Daryl’s voice. You look around for him, and when you find him, you see Derek on the ground, an arrow in his head. 

He’s dead - for now. That fast. Until he turns into a walker. 

Daryl walks to you, pulls you into his arms. “What happened?” He asks, and you’re worried he’s going to blame you, because you provoked him, and you stupidly left your weapons in your tent. You’re worried he’s going to think differently of you, that Rick will be mad that Derek is dead, and all these worries start swirling in your head until you can’t be strong anymore. You start crying so loud that you know you’ll be responsible for any walkers coming into camp tonight. 

Rick starts to talk, but Daryl, for the first time ever, shuts him down harshly. “No, man. I ain’t sorry. He had it coming,” he says sharply, and Rick just swallows, holds his hands up like he agrees. 

“Jus’ was gonna say to finish the job,” and you know he means, kill the fucker before he turns. 

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do. 

Wordlessly, you pull yourself out of Daryl’s arms and walk towards Derek’s corpse. Everyone at the camp has gathered around now, too little too fucking late, but Rick tries to stop you from getting closer. You smack his hand away, and hold your palm out. It takes a minute, until Daryl finally orders Rick to give you what you want. 

Rick hesitantly places a gun in your hand - and you shoot Derek in the head.

────

You’ve never killed someone who hasn’t turned yet. Derek was the first.

What scares you the most, is how little you care. 

After what happened, you told Daryl everything that Derek said. You learned that night, from both Rick and Daryl, that the reason Derek was so horrible is because he wanted you - and how scary is that? What if he hurt you in another way once he had you on the ground? You’re lucky Rick forgot his gun and backpack on the run, that they had to turn around and come back to camp - the reason they got to you in time.

Rick assured you that you did the right thing. Which felt good, coming from the moral compass of the group. Everyone else was kind too, apologetic - you guess Derek scared more people into submission than you thought. 

But Daryl was just pissed. More angry than you’d ever seen him. Throwing shit, breaking stuff - burning Derek the minute he dragged him a far enough distance from camp. Derek never even got a chance to turn. 

Daryl threatened to leave the group with just you. It seemed like a good idea at first, until the reality that two people can’t survive on their own. No matter how resourceful, strong, and brave Daryl is. 

But that meant a lot, that Daryl was trying - but the important thing is to survive. 

The last few weeks, you’ve kept your head down. You clean, you help cook, you even take a few bites of whatever Daryl cooks because he pretty much forces you to - and because, secretly, you like how proud of you he looks when you try something new. 

You just wish the world was different. But Daryl’s been amazing. 

Rick’s been kind too. Everyone has, and maybe -

The sound of the zipper on your tent takes you out of your thoughts. You’re braiding your hair since you just washed it, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. You’re thankful for the distraction.

It’s Daryl.

“I already ate,” you tell him, worried that he’s bringing you some rodent that’s badly cooked. But you’re trying to be nice - he’s the only good thing in your world these days, so you soften your words. “Come inside and cuddle.”

Daryl squeezes inside the tent, and he leans on his side by your sleeping bag, just watching you. His head balanced on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

“Have somethin’ for you,” he says, not waiting for you to reply. In his hand is something wrapped in a tissue and you wonder what it is. He places it on your lap, and you look at him, excited but also a little upset. 

“I told you to stop risking your life to get me things,” you scold, because everytime Daryl goes on a run, he finds things for you. Ribbons, hair clips, a pink toothbrush the other day. Lip gloss and lipstick (he knows the difference now), a pair of socks with little bows on them that are a size too big but still your favorite. He’s always saying how cute you are, how he thinks about you whenever he sees something pink.

It’s the best compliment ever.

You look to the other end of your sleeping bag, where a teddy bear Daryl found for you on a run a few weeks ago faces you both. It’s missing an eye, has the ribbon, the first gift he ever gave to you tied around its neck, and you love it so much that you sleep with it every night.

It’s definitely seen better days, and you don’t really know where he found it, but it’s so special to you - partly because Daryl gave it to you, and partly because it’s a little part of him that’s always with you. Part teddy bear, part security blanket - just like him.

It’s also a little scraggly. Sort of rough, dirty - but cuddly just the same. Kind of like Daryl. You move it a little closer.

Daryl groans in frustration and you almost roll your eyes at the dramatics. “Hush, lady, y’know I can take care of myself. ‘S nothing,” he nods to the thing on your lap, and you sigh and open the tissue. 

It’s a cookie. 

Your brows furrow, and you look at Daryl, all confused. “What,” you start, and he shrugs, sitting up. He rubs a hand down his face. 

“Remembered what you said, about the cookies,” he’s sheepish, as if this isn’t the sweetest thing in the world. You gulp, trying not to cry at how touched you are, but you can’t help it. Tears brim at your waterline, and you wipe your eyes. 

“Oh,” he scolds, letting out a huff. “Don’ cry. I just remembered what you said, is all. It’s probably not good anymore, but you’re my girl, and I want,” you smile even as tears run down your face. 

“Your girl,” you hold that close to your heart, and Daryl nods, avoiding eye contact. You don’t care. You throw yourself into his arms. 

His hug is warm, strong, and you feel the stress leave your body as he kisses your temple. He was listening, all those times you were talking. 

Daryl Dixon, you think, the man that you are. 

Your silence must be unexpected. He pulls away, watches your thumb brush over the most likely stale cookie he probably found on a run. You’re not really gonna eat it - but it’s the thought that counts. 

“You talked about what ya miss, from before. But when I look back,” pretty blue eyes look at you. He cups your chin, presses his lips against yours. 

You make a note to ask for chapstick for the both of you on the next run. 

“Don’ cry, c’mon. You’re makin me soft,” he complains, even as he holds you closer. You want tell him that you can’t make him something he already is, but what he says next throws the sass right out of you. “When I look back, before I knew you,” he finishes shyly, “I just miss you, ya know?” 

Daryl says that he’s not romantic, but he’s the most romantic man you've ever met. He’s a good person. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and even though he’s vague sometimes, too quiet for his own good - you know what he means. 

You can’t believe there was a time you didn’t know - a time you didn’t love - this man. He’s everything to you.

And maybe, yeah - this world is hell. There’s death and decay and too much sadness to catch a break, but there’s one good thing in all of it. One thing so important to the both of you, that gives a little bit of meaning to this shitty, shitty world. 

You found each other. You have each other. 

You sniffle and nod, holding the cookie close, but Daryl even closer.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek softly. You feel him relax at your touch. “I’ve always missed you too, Daryl.”

[smutty-ki113r]

Sweet Dreams

daryl x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, sleepy/subby reader, thigh riding, overstimulation, crying (from pleasure), soft dom Daryl, lots of praise, aftercare, tenderness, use of pet names (good girl, baby, i think sweet girl i forgot)

⸻

The night was quiet. Crickets chirped low outside, and the wind creaked against the windows. Daryl lay still in bed, one arm slung across your waist, the slow rhythm of your breathing brushing over his bare chest. You were warm, curled up next to him, dead asleep… or so he thought.

Until he felt it.

A tiny shift at first. Then again. The slide of your hips against his thigh.

His eyes shot open.

“…Baby?”

He whispered it low, voice still thick with sleep. He felt your body shudder faintly in his arms—your breathing shaky now, your forehead pressed into his shoulder, your fingers gripping at his side.

He blinked a few times, brain struggling to register what the hell was going on.

And then it hit him.

You were riding his thigh. In your sleep. Little, slow, desperate rolls of your hips, your panties damp against his bare skin. Fuck. His whole body tensed, but not in shock. He had to grit his teeth to keep himself still, watching your face crumple into the softest pout.

You were whimpering. Not sad. Needy.

His poor girl, dreaming about him and chasing it in your sleep.

Daryl’s hand trailed slowly up your back, petting gently, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured, “Sweetheart… that what you need, huh?”

You didn’t wake. Just kept going, a little faster now, your thighs trembling from the effort. He could feel the heat soaking through his thigh and it made his cock twitch in his boxers.

He couldn’t help it, he lifted his leg just a little, angling it right where you needed, guiding your hips with one hand.

“There ya go baby… that better?” he whispered, pressing kisses into your hair. “Get yourself off, darlin’. Use me however you want…”

You whimpered again, one broken little sob of need, and your fingers clawed into his chest.

Then you gasped.

Eyes fluttered open—wide and glossy—and you froze. Cheeks burning. You were mortified.

“D-Daryl—wait, I—I didn’t mean to—” You were panting, dazed and shaky, but too close now to stop. “I—fuck—I was so close—”

Daryl cut you off with a soft hush, cupping your cheek.

“I know, baby. S’okay. You ain’t gotta stop now.” He sat up just enough to hold you better, dragging your hips forward. “Let me help you finish, yeah? You were doin’ so good without me, but I gotcha now…”

You whined at the contact, body jerking forward as his hands gripped your hips and started rocking you against his thigh again, this time rougher—deeper.

“Daryl—please,” you choked, tears welling in your eyes from how fucking close you were again already.

“C’mon, pretty girl. Rub that needy little pussy all over me,” he muttered, nose buried in your neck. “Take what you need. Make a mess on me.”

That was it.

You shattered.

Your whole body locked up, back arching as the orgasm hit, soaking through your panties, your cries muffled into his shoulder while your thighs shook around him.

“There ya go, baby,” he praised, holding you through it. “Such a good girl… makin’ a mess for me, just like that…”

You sobbed softly, overwhelmed, heart racing.

Daryl held you close, gently easing your spent body down into the sheets. He kissed your face, your cheeks, your lips, every tear. His fingers brushed your hair back.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, sniffling. “Mhm… sorry…”

“Nah,” he whispered. “Don’t be. You can use me anytime you want, baby. I’ll always take care’a ya.”

He tucked you into his chest, thigh still slick where you’d ridden it, and hummed against your forehead.

Within seconds, you were already asleep again.

And Daryl just smiled.

“Goodnight,” he muttered, pulling the blanket up around you both.

⸻

a/n i have two more daryl smuts sitting in my drafts should i post them guys erm

[smutty-ki113r]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[smutty-ki113r]

[smutty-ki113r]

[smutty-ki113r]

I am kicking, clawing and gnawing on my cage right now that Slender fic was SO FUCKING GOOD, I LOVE YOU AND ALL YOU DO

🌟

That made my whole week tbh 🙂‍↕️, I don’t get as much attention as I used to but it’s comments like these that keep me motivated and wanting to write for you guys so, thank you, really

[smutty-ki113r]

[smutty-ki113r]

⚰️Slenderman⚰️ || Monolith

NSFW||~ One shot x afab gn!reader, includes- telepathic manipulation, tentacle fucking, (3.6k)

Inspired by: Nosferatu + Twin Tribes

It begun on a dark, lonely night, your hands clasped together as you prayed for guidance and comfort. In your desperation begging through silent prayers for someone, or something to come to you.

Never expecting a deep voice to reply to the call you put out into the world. A darkness, an evil, intrigued by your innocence coming forth for you.

Commanding you, your body helpless to his will as he persuaded you and flooded your head with a sweet lullaby. Falling back in bed and letting your back arch as you felt a constant pull between our legs although you were not the one touching. The hairs on your skin standing up as you tried to catch your breath.

Eyes closed but knowing it was him, crying out as a rush of pleasure filled you. Words falling from your lips before you could stop them, a vow made, promising yourself to him. “I’m yours”

All the noise that followed was the whip of your curtains with the wind outside your windows and the silence of the night. Ever since that very night your mind had been silent, and it had been that way for years.

Going about your life as it had been, although something inside of you recently stirred. Living normally, in the 1800’s in Germany. Reading your books and embroidering, days spent uncomplicated and rested. But in your happiest moments the memory of that night returned.

There mere thought of it haunted you, you could not escape from it. At night the dark shadow ruled your dreams and in the day your fears. Such an imposing figure, with a commanding presence, and yet, all you wanted to do was succumb to it.

He called to you, you felt it during those restless nights of sleep. When you couldn’t fall to it you laid awake, thinking of this figure who had claimed your heart and soul.

Quiet as you let your hands trail down your body to satisfy the gentle ache between your legs. Shameful as you thought of what it might feel like to let this man, this… being to satisfy it instead.

Soft breaths falling from your lips as you circled your clit with your fingers and parted your legs, waiting. Working yourself up as images of him flashed through your mind.

His deep voice in your head instructing you, telling you to touch yourself. Brows furrowed as he whispered slide a finger in and that’s right, satisfy your needs until I can.

It was like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from. You felt him behind you, a dark presence ruling your life. Unable to tell when your thoughts were his or your own. Knowing he was an evil being, feeding off death and destruction, reducing your mind to shambles. And yet, you knew that wasn’t what he wanted for you.

Slender man wanted you to relinquish all control to him, to give in to his dark will, your mind body and soul- willingly. Naturally, you resisted.

He lay oceans away, in an old castle in the deepest part of a wood far from you. Thriving from the nighttime when he would roam the darkness to satisfy his thirst, but nothing could satisfy it but you.

Notbody dared come close to the castle, or even the foot of the woods. The legend passed down about a creature that lived in the halls of that ancient castle and defied all the laws of man.

The townspeople spoke in hushed whispers of this being, they prayed for peace from his nightmare. They told tales of what would happen if you crossed him or entered into his land, you would never return.

Slenderman was very real, he preyed on the weak and feeble but nothing had ever caught his attention the way you had. Calling to him, begging for him from beyond all those years ago, but now the time to have you was at hand.

He watched you, ached for you. As he travelled closer to you the simple sweet smell of your innocence and life force consumed him. You were like a drug and he had an insatiable appetite for all that you were made of.

For months you had felt his somber cloud hover over you, shrouding you in his shadow. Trying to think of anything else because it consumed your life, those around you thought you were going mad.

At moments too you felt yourself spiraling, like a sickness overtaking you. The day spent bedridden, with doctors giving you no answer as to what was happening, but deep inside you knew.

The dreams and delusions had only been getting worse, and one night you refused to let sleep take you, the gentle whip of the winds softly picking up. Your eyes glancing at the white curtains and your gaze narrowing as you saw a shadow between them.

Heart lurching in your chest as you felt his presence, he was here. Your lip trembling as you stood slowly to witness what you thought may be a figment but no longer were things your imagination.

“You” you whispered, standing at the side of your bed watching him in the curtains. “You’re the one in my dreams”

He said nothing, simply watching your smaller frame. Your wide curious eyes taking him in, he was a creature of the night, a monster moving as a man. He had no face, no eyes but you knew his gaze was upon you.

Heavy as your breath caught and you heard a ringing in your ears, a voice not yours speaking inside your mind. It was deep and raspy, and he said your name.

“I have felt you lurking in ever shadow and crawling through my body” you said to him.

“It is not me” he replied, taking a step closer, but you didn’t back away “it is your nature”

“No” you whispered, not scared of this man who had haunted you for so long. “You are a monster, polluting my thoughts”

“I am an appetite, nothing more” he said darkly, his breath heavy in your head even though he had no mouth. Taking another slow step towards you.

“For centuries I lay alone within the dark” He said to you, “until you called for me”. His pale, large hand came to trace your cheek gently, slightly shaking but not from fear, from restraint. “And I answered”

“Your voice sweet to wake me from my slumber, and bring me to you” His slender white fingers moved down to your neck. “You are my affliction”

Your breath hitched, your eyes glued onto this being standing at over 7 feet, towering over you to tell you all he craved was you. Pulling away you felt his hand fall, and you looked at him with disdain.

“You have done nothing but torment me, months of sleepless nights and nightmares simply because of you” you hissed. “I care not for your affliction”

He felt your resistance, but he could see inside of your head. There was more, the desires you denied yourself of because of how he had watched over your dreams and taken to every aspect of your being.

“We are fated” he said deeply, after a moment of calculated silence. Watching you even now, the pull of his body to yours like magnetism. “Your passion is bound to me”

You felt a heat spread all over your body, a shiver down your spine as he grew closer and neared his faceless to you. Your nose brushing lightly as you watched where his eyes would be, and where you knew he was observing you.

“How much more of me must you take?” You whispered, your voice falling like a whimper that made him want to pull more from you. Your breath heavy as you got closer to him instinctively, turning labored.

Slenderman sent another message through your head, “I cannot be sated without you”. To which your brows furrowed and your head began to hurt from how badly you held yourself back. “But it must be of your own volition”

You sighed, longingly, still restricting yourself that need that coursed through the both of you which cried for you to give yourself to him. In a moment of strength you pryed yourself away from him and pulled away with look of disdain.

He was enraged, stepping away and glancing back at you.

“I will give you three nights, tonight was the first” he said, his voice sharp. “tonight you deny yourself to me” he hissed, standing back by the window where the light must have played tricks on you as what looked like tentacles whipped furiously behind him.

“Upon the third night you will submit” he said, and you held at your heart frightened. “Or those you love so dearly will perish by my hand”

“No” you cried out.

“Till you bid me come will you encounter my growing impatience” he said finally, letting out what may have been a growl before disappearing into the night.

You clutched your nightgown, petrified. Having finally come face to face with the darkness that plagued you, feeling the constant cry to have it take you, your body begging for it but your mind resisting.

For the next day your mind was riddled with guilt and an inner struggle, what choice did you have? What tortured you most of all was that giving in felt so easy, that you wanted to, needed to. He wasn’t the only one who felt the growing tension that had been simmering for years.

This mental battle you fought over and over only to arrive at the one conclusion you knew you had to come to. You knew what you had to do, and you wanted to.

Finally on the third night you had made your choice, watching in your mirror as you brushed your hair and adored yourself for him. Wearing a white nightgown that looked as a wedding dress. Nothing was more fitting to give yourself wholly to him and attend to his desires.

Standing from your place on your desk to open the window and call out to him. “Come to me” you whispered.

Waiting anxiously in your room as he rushed to you in a hungry rampage. Arriving for you like a shadow as your door creaked open and there he stood. Before you in a dark cloak, his gaze desperate you.

He looked down at you, in that pretty ruffled nightgown looking like a present all for him to unwrap. So small and beautiful, with a face that echoed the light of the moon, you looked perfect. He felt himself get excited, a heat stirring in your abdomen that mirrored his as he stepped inside and spoke.

“Do you give yourself to me willingly?” He asked

“Yes” you whispered, your breathing labored as you stepped back and him forward, leading into the room. Your faces so close to each-other, he liked to take in every breath. The intoxicating smell of your pheromones were driving him wild, he felt himself throb in his pants as his gaze followed you.

You stood before him, so small, trembling. His hand came to you once again, holding at your face like you were something precious before guiding you to sit at the edge of your bed.

Doing as he commanded and watching him with big eyes, you had never done anything like this before. He knew, you were waiting on his guidance, but it had been so long since he had let himself succumb to to these human like desires.

Slenderman let out a tendril to snake up your thighs and caress your chest, coming to your neck and then your lips. On instinct they parted, and almost curiously he let his tendril swipe at your bottom lip.

Looking at his white tendil you felt your breath hitch, and softly you pressed a kiss to it. In your head you heard the semblance of a sound of pleasure coming from him.

Opening your mouth further you took his tendril in, sucking gently, to which he grew harder. Watching you take him in your mouth, acting so obedient and eager to please made him slip his tendril further in.

Your eyes wide looking up at him as you sucked on his tendril, until he pulled it out to caress your face as he undid his pants to pull out his straining cock. You glanced at it and he held it to your lips again.

He was long, thick in all the right places, throbbing as you placed him on your tongue to suck again. Tendril coming to pull at your face and caress you as you pleased him, he was encouraging your actions.

Slenderman bucked his hips forward so you would take his cock down your throat, you kept sucking, the ache between your legs now too begging for his attention.

He was connected to you, and could sense your need so without words he moved to pick you up and settle you further upon the bed where he would watch from the bed front. Standing before you as you laid down and glanced up at him.

His tendrils once again sliding up your thighs, shifting the edge of your nightgown to bring it up and at your hips so he may witness the source of the delightful aroma that had dizzied him.

His big hands came to your legs to part them, his long fingers at your pussy. At the touch you jolted, turned on by just a touch. He understood your eagerness, but still whispered “patience”, as his slender fingers opened up your throbbing hole and watched it constrict around nothing.

He made a mumble indicating that it pleased him as a tendril came to slide up and down your slit. Slowly he prodded it in and slid it inside of you. Your brows furrowed and you let out a moan. He filled you up delightfully, and he pulled it out just to fill you with it again.

Your back arched and you felt waves of heat fall upon you, his fat tendril stretching you out and getting you all ready for his cock. He watched it slip in and out of you, now that he had you fully he was planning on enjoying you.

“So hungry” he said to you, before letting another tendril come to circle your clit as he fucked you with his other. “Such an eager little cunt” he spoke lowly.

You shivered and let your mouth fall open in a groan of delight, he stroked his own cock as he watched the sight before him, what a beauty you were.

You were so pathetically wet he felt your hot juices around his tendril, it seemed like you were getting everything you wanted. He knew how to give it to you, how to sate your lustful desires. Gazing up at the slender man as he hovered another tendril to keep your mouth occupied, and you sucked.

You were in complete bliss, the sensation taking over you like a dream. The way he left no part of you untouched, unexplored, but he wasn’t rushed about it. He ached to make you feel the desperation that he did simply thinking about being in your presence.

A tendril at every sensitive bundle of nerves, tending to your needs as he stroked his cock and watched the scene before him. Your pussy squeezed his tendril, leaking as he fucked you with it.

He watched you, almost as if putting you in a trance and gently lulling you to your orgasm. “Cum for me” he commanded, his touch trailing your nipples and your clit as he filled you, it was all so overstimulating. You felt a blinding pleasure overtake you again and you cried out for him as he coaxed you there.

Breathing heavily as you calmed from your orgasm and watched him trail his tentacles up and down your body lazily. “More” you whispered, trembling as you sat up in bed and held your arms out for him.

Carefully he crawled over you and held tightly at your body, his large hands roaming every inch and crevice to commit it to memory after so long of not having tasted you. He manhandled you, keeping your legs spread in the position he wanted as he adjusted himself over you, his big cock sliding on your leaking hole. You pulsed for him, hands coming around his neck as you drew him in and pressed a kiss to his neck.

“Give it to me” you whispered. “I’m ready” He wasted no time, allowing himself to enter you, taking your purity as you succame to those dark desires he had planted in your mind. Feeling you tighten around his fat cock as if your body was begging him for stay and fill you. “Goodness you’re so big” you whimpered.

“You are taking all of it” he said to you, “so good, so tight” he said as he moved and started to fuck you. “So wet just for me” he spoke lowly. His grip on your leg tightened as he sped up, watching your body bounce back and forth to adjust to take his size. Tendrils coming to hold at your writs and spread you out so he could watch all of you.

You cried out for him, it was quite a stretch but you wanted to be an obedient little slut for him. Watching as his length disappeared inside of your hole again, the lewd noises of your heavy breath and his cock inside of you filled the room.

He grabbed you again to position the both of you in a spooning position, his big hand grabbing at your waist to guide himself. He pulled you onto his dick and let you make all the noises of pure pleasure your heart desired. “This is the pleasure you have denied yourself of for so long” he whispered in your head.

“Oh-“ you replied. Feeling him build up that delicious ache once again as he fucked you from the side. It felt so good to be filled like this.

It was so shameful, allowing yourself to be violated by this creature of the night which had done nothing but control your life. And here you were letting him into the most intimate parts of your self and giving him your body.

Yet, nothing gave you quite as much joy as this moment. Being joined with him like this, connected, letting him pound into you and give you every bit of pleasure you had been denied of for years. Nothing made you happier, you let yourself go fully. Noises of pleasure falling from your lips at the carnal act and him adoring coaxing them from you.

“That’s right, give yourself to me” he called darkly, and with every passing moment you fell further to the pull of his power.

He then turned again, and sat up in bed, effortlessly holding you to sit on his lap and face him, his face blank but yours giving away proof of just how delightful he was making you feel. “My pretty” he called out to you, and you sank down on his cock once again, wrapping your legs around his long torso. His hands gripping your hips as he moved you up and down and against him.

Your mouth open, lips parted as a string of obscene curses fell from them. You were losing yourself to the pleasure, to these sins of the flesh. He kept bucking up and filling you over and over, satisfying his own desires. A long finger playing with your clit and rubbing it deliciously to coax you closer to that edge.

You squeezed around him harder and harder, clamping down around his fat cock that leaked precum inside of your wet hole. “You belong to me” he said, and you nodded desperately, your body pressed against his chest to chest, your movements hurried and erratic as you felt yourself at that edge.

“I- am yours” you whispered “I am yours” as he sped up and thrusted, his balls slapping against your dripping cunt. Your hands coming to hold his faceless face, at his cheeks as your face flushed and you begged him to take you. “Please- I belong to you”

Your vow of eternal commitment made him very pleased, the bodily sensation of you clenching at his dick brought him right to the edge with you. “Mine” he said darkly “all mine” he commanded as with one final thrust he bottomed out inside of you and began to spill. The fill of his cock and his seed pouring out of you and his non relenting tendril that coaxed at your clit made you cum too, which you arrived at with a cry.

Squeezing around him once again to milk every drop of him, forever bound together in this dark spell of darkness as daybreak neared and threatened to make its way to you. But this lewd act between you and your beastly lover stayed concealed in the shadows, he was never to release his grip now that you had given yourself to him, as his bride, the bride of noseferatu.

[smutty-ki113r]

as someone with bpd, ITS SO HARD TO KEEP A RELATIONSHIP, like fym I'm absolutely head over heels for a single person for a month and I push everyone away and try to make me the only person they even look at...then a month later I push that person away bc I started getting paranoid that they'd abandon me :p my brain gets a bit too silly

😩 ah yes… having favorite people is so so so difficult, which is why I tried to avoid them altogether… and it usually works really really well until I accidentally get attached so trust me I do understand it’s quite a struggle 

[smutty-ki113r]

Hi red sorry very strict bed rest I needed to be resting with no strain at all

Doing better but unfortunately this comes like, three weeks ish before eye surgery? So I will be offline for another 4 weeks ish after that lmao

Everyone should be very excited for the slenderman fic hehehehe

Gotta rest up more minimal eye strain in the upcoming weeks love you red UwU

🦊

Oh my goodness you are going through it! Will you at least get to read a fic about your manz before you go?! I hope you’re feeling better :////// sending much love

[smutty-ki113r]

Tomorrow… slenderman fic… just saying

[smutty-ki113r]

Im ok, but I had to stay in the hospital for a few days for observation.

How are you feeling today?

[smutty-ki113r]

Guess who just figured out that eucalyptus oil makes them go into a mild thing of anaphylaxis. I'm ok, but I might need to carry an eppipen with me for now on.

Oh my goodness are you okay?

[smutty-ki113r]

Hi red UwU bpd gang let's go I be splitting on people damn near every week (I need therapy) 😎

Update just got out the hospital (that's where I've been not ghosting u pookie) and have a very misplaced sense of pride rn cause the doctor said and I quote "Man this is the worst case of norovirus I've ever seen this is impressive"

Also one of the nurses called me a good boy after they put in my IV and pushed dilaudid (0/10 do NOT fucking recommend) and the mental effort it took not to whimper in front of the nurse and my parents was Herculean stg

🦊

Hi hi omh are you better now I sure hope so? I love you! I’m glad that you’EE our now. I did not know you had bpd! Buddies omg I hate it this is genuinely ruining my life rn I cannot wait for therapy on Friday we r gonna see if I can wait to not go mad… don’t fret new fic soon and it’s slender!