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[too-many-fics-open]

Daryl Dixon x F!Reader Smut 2

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Rough Domination, Obsessive Love. Female Reader, Minors dni.

The air in the makeshift camp is thick with the smell of woodsmoke, damp earth, and unwashed bodies. It’s a scent of survival, of desperation. You’ve been watching him clean his crossbow for the last hour, the methodical scrape of cloth on steel the only sound breaking the tense silence. He hasn’t said a word, but his eyes, when they flick up to meet yours, say everything. They’re dark, hungry, and stripped of all pretense.

Finally, he sets the weapon aside with a quiet thud. He moves toward you, his worn leather vest creaking with each step. He doesn't rush. He stalks. The look in his eyes pins you in place, a mix of raw possession and a question he won't bother to ask with words. He stops right in front of you, his body heat a palpable force, smelling of sweat, dirt, and something uniquely him.

His calloused hand comes up, not to your face, but to the waistband of your filthy jeans. He doesn't caress. He hooks his fingers in and yanks you forward, stumbling into his hard frame. "Here," he grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through your chest. He shoves you back against the rough-hewn wooden wall of the cabin, the splintery planks digging into your shoulder blades. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back so you're forced to look at him.

He’s not going to be gentle. I don’t want him to be.

With a grunt of impatience, he rips the button of your jeans open, the sound loud in the quiet room. The zipper follows, a harsh, metallic rasp. He shoves the denim and your panties down your thighs in one rough motion, leaving you exposed to the cool air. He drops to his knees before you, his gaze fixed on your pussy. You can see the dark stubble on his jaw, the grime under his fingernails as he grips your hips to hold you steady.

He doesn't waste time with teasing. He leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your wet folds before his mouth covers you. It’s not a kiss. It’s a claiming. His tongue, rough and demanding, swipes right over your clit, sending a jolt of pure electricity through your system. A gasp tears from your throat. His grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging in, bruising. He laps at you like a starving animal, his mouth wet and greedy. The scrape of his beard against your inner thighs is an abrasive friction that only heightens the pleasure. He finds your clit and sucks it into his mouth, his tongue flicking and swirling around the hypersensitive nub. You can hear his guttural sounds of approval, the wet, sloppy noises of him devouring you.

Oh fuck, he’s eating me out like he’s starving… I’m gonna come on his face…

Your hips start to buck against his mouth, chasing the feeling. "Don't move," he growls against your cunt, his voice muffled but absolute. He holds you brutally still as he works you over, his tongue a relentless engine of pleasure. He sucks and licks and nibbles, driving you right to the edge, your pussy dripping slickness down onto his chin. Your vision whites out as a wave of pre-orgasmic bliss washes over you, but he pulls back just enough to let you recover, a low growl of satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

He gets to his feet, his own cock straining against the front of his jeans. It’s a thick, heavy bulge that promises pain and pleasure in equal measure. He unbuttons his own pants with practiced ease, and his hard cock springs free. It’s thick, veiny, and brutally real, glistening with a bead of his precum at the tip. He doesn't say a word. He just grabs your hips, turns you around, and slams you face-first against the wall.

"Hold on," he rasps in your ear, his breath hot and ragged. He grinds the head of his cock against your dripping entrance, smearing your wetness all over himself. You feel the thick, blunt tip push against you, demanding entry. There’s no gentle slide, no preparation. He just shoves forward, his entire body weight behind the thrust.

A scream is torn from your lungs as he impales you. He’s huge, stretching you, filling you to your absolute limit. The pain is a bright, sharp flash that is immediately consumed by an overwhelming feeling of being completely and utterly taken. He pauses for a second, buried to the hilt inside your tight, wet sheath, letting you feel every inch of him. Then he starts to fuck you.

It’s a brutal, punishing rhythm. He grabs your hips with both hands, his thumbs pressing into the base of your spine as he hammers into you. Each thrust is a deep, gut-punching slam that makes your teeth rattle. The wall scrapes against your cheek and chest, your tits crushed between your body and the rough wood. The only sounds are your choked sobs of pleasure, the wet, slapping sound of his pelvis crashing against your ass, and his low, animalistic grunts. He fucks you like he’s trying to break you, to leave his mark on your very soul.

Harder… fuck me harder… ruin me…

Your mind dissolves into a haze of pure sensation. There is only the feeling of his massive cock stretching your pussy, the relentless pounding, the scrape of the wall, the smell of his sweat. He leans in close, his lips brushing your ear. "Gonna cum," he snarls, his voice thick with lust. His thrusts become faster, more frantic, each one deeper than the last. He’s chasing his release, and he’s dragging you with him.

Your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike. Your cunt clenches down on his cock in violent spasms, milking him as your whole body convulses. You scream his name, a raw, shredded sound. Your climax triggers his. With a final, guttural roar that vibrates through your entire body, he empties himself deep inside you, his hot cum flooding your womb in massive, pulsing jets. He collapses against you, his body trembling, his heavy breathing ghosting across the back of your neck as he stays buried deep inside your twitching pussy.

*** For a long moment, he stays there, slumped against your back, his thick, cooling cock still buried deep inside your spasming pussy. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm that matches your own. The air is thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and spent passion. You can feel the last of his cum pulsing from him, a warm, sticky flood that makes your womb clench again.

He finally pulls out with a wet, sucking sound that echoes in the quiet cabin. The feeling of emptiness is immediate and profound, leaving you aching and hollow. His hot seed and your own slickness dribble down your inner thighs, a testament to the brutal fucking you just endured. You sag against the wall, your legs trembling, barely able to stand.

Before you can slide to the floor, his strong arms are around you. He doesn't speak. He just turns you around gently, his movements now lacking the earlier violence. He pulls you against his chest, holding you steady as your legs threaten to give out. His eyes, dark and intense, scan your face, searching for something. You see the raw lust fading, replaced by a deep, possessive darkness that feels almost… tender.

"Ain't hurtin' ya, am I?" he murmurs, his Southern drawl thick and low. It's the most he's said this whole time.

You just shake your head, unable to form words. He grunts, a sound of satisfaction. He looks down at the mess on your thighs, at his cum mixed with your juices. A flicker of something that looks like pride crosses his face. He grabs a piece of ragged cloth from a nearby crate, it might have been a shirt once, and kneels before you again.

He's... cleaning me?

He parts your legs with a gentleness that feels alien after the way he just took you. He carefully, methodically wipes you clean. His calloused fingers are surprisingly soft as they move over your swollen, sensitive flesh. He cleans the sticky mess from your thighs, from between your legs, his gaze never leaving your pussy. It���s an act of such unexpected intimacy it makes your breath catch in your throat. When he’s done, he doesn’t stand up. He leans in, his face close to your throbbing cunt.

"Still want it," he rasps, his breath puffing against your slick folds.

And then his mouth is on you again. This time, it’s different. It’s not the hungry, devouring act from before. It’s slow. Worshipful. He licks you with long, lazy strokes , soothing the flesh he just pounded. His tongue finds your clit, now swollen to twice its size and exquisitely sensitive. He doesn't suck it hard, but laves it, circling it, teasing the very tip with a reverence that makes you want to weep. He’s tasting you, learning you, claiming every part of you as his.

"Mine," he growls against your clit, the vibration shooting straight to your core. "All mine."

He laps at the fresh slickness welling up from you, his own quiet sounds of pleasure a low rumble in his chest. He’s not trying to make you come, not this time. He’s just… loving you. In his own rough, broken way. He’s showing you that this, all of you, belongs to him now. He stays there for what feels like an eternity, his mouth and tongue bringing waves of soft, melting pleasure that are almost more overwhelming than the orgasm he tore from you.

Finally, he pulls back, his chin slick with your juices. He rises to his feet and pulls you into his arms, lifting you as if you weigh nothing. He carries you over to the filthy mattress in the corner of the room and lays you down before covering your trembling body with his own. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his side, your back pressed into his hard chest. His hand rests possessively on your stomach, a warm, heavy weight.

He doesn't say "I love you." He doesn't have to. You can feel it in the way he holds you, a silent promise to protect what he just so thoroughly claimed. You can hear it in the steady beat of his heart against your back. You lie there, wrapped in his warmth, smelling his scent, feeling safe for the first time in forever as the sounds of the dying world fade away outside.

*** The quiet in the cabin is a heavy blanket, broken only by the sound of your breathing, perfectly in sync with his. Lying against him, feeling the solid warmth of his body, the possessive weight of his arm over your waist, is a kind of peace you'd forgotten existed. His scent fills your senses - sweat, leather, and now, you. He smells like you.

You feel him stir behind you, his body shifting. His hand on your stomach tightens for a moment, his thumb stroking your skin just above your hipbone. He leans in, his hot breath ghosting over your ear. "Ain't done with ya yet," he rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly promise that sends a fresh wave of heat straight to your core.

He moves slowly, deliberately, rolling you onto your back. The worn mattress groans in protest. He looms over you, his powerful frame blocking out the dim light from the single grimy window. His eyes are dark, bottomless pits, but the brutal hunger from before has been replaced by a smoldering intensity, a deep, possessive fire that’s just for you. He lowers his head and kisses you. It’s not a gentle kiss; his lips are chapped and firm, his stubble scraping your chin, but there’s no violence in it. It’s a kiss of ownership, his tongue pushing past your lips to tangle with yours, tasting your mouth, tasting himself on you.

He pulls back, leaving you breathless. His hand travels down from your stomach, his calloused fingers parting your still-swollen, slick folds. You’re already wet for him again, your pussy weeping a slow, steady trickle of arousal. He dips two fingers inside you, stretching your tender flesh, and you gasp, your hips lifting off the mattress to meet his touch.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice soft but absolute.

You obey, your eyes locking with his as he withdraws his fingers and positions himself at your entrance. His cock, already rock-hard and glistening with your wetness, presses against you. He pushes into you slow this time, an inch at a time, stretching you, filling you with an agonizingly delicious pressure. You can feel every thick vein, every ridge of his cockhead as it slides past your sensitive walls. Your cunt clenches around him, trying to take all of him.

He stops when he’s only halfway in, forcing you to feel the exquisite tension of being partially filled. "Want it?" he rasps, watching your face.

"Yes," you sob, the word torn from you. "Please, Daryl."

A grim smile touches his lips. With a single, powerful surge, he drives himself home, burying his entire length deep inside you until his pelvis presses against your pubic bone. A guttural moan escapes you both at the complete, perfect fit. He stays still for a beat, letting you feel him, letting the connection settle. Then, he begins to move.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming. It’s a slow, deep, rocking rhythm that’s more intimate than anything you’ve ever known. His eyes never leave yours. He watches your face as he fucks you, reading every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every time your eyes roll back in your head. He’s not just fucking your body; he’s fucking your soul, branding you with every slow, deep stroke. The sounds are different now - not the harsh slaps of flesh, but the wet, thick sound of his cock sliding in and out of your drenched pussy, the soft groans that rumble in his chest, the creak of the mattress keeping time with their lovemaking.

He’s looking at me like I’m everything… like he’s seeing all of me…

He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sucking a dark bruise into your skin as he continues his deep, relentless rhythm. "Yer mine," he growls against your flesh. "All mine."

The pleasure builds into an unbearable, cresting wave. You feel your orgasm approaching, a deep thrumming that starts in your womb and spreads through your entire body. You cry out his name, your inner walls clenching around his cock. The sight of you coming apart beneath him is what pushes him over the edge. You feel his own release building with yours, his hips stuttering, his pace quickening into a final, frantic pounding.

A shared groan tears from both your throats as you climax together. Your body convulses around him, milking every last drop of his seed as he spills himself into you, not with a desperate slam, but with a deep, shuddering pulse that feels like a promise. He collapses on top of you, his full weight a comforting anchor, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his release.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays buried inside you, his softening cock a warm plug in your flooded cunt. After a few minutes of ragged breathing, he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him so you’re facing each other, still connected. He pulls the threadbare blanket over both of you, cocooning you in a bubble of warmth and shared scent. His arm is a heavy, protective bar over your waist, and he pulls you so close your noses are almost touching.

He looks at you in the dim light, his expression unreadable but soft. He doesn't say anything else. He just holds you. Wrapped in his arms, filled with his cum, you feel a profound sense of rightness, of belonging. The horrors of the world outside this cabin, outside his arms, fade to nothing. Here, you are safe. Here, you are his. You close your eyes, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart as you both drift off into a deep, happy sleep.

[too-many-fics-open]

Daryl Dixon x F!Reader Smut: Feral Lesson

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Rough Domination, Extreme Power Imbalance, Degradation & Humiliation, Fear Play & Predator/Prey Dynamics, Dependency Conditioning, Breeding & Impregnation Kink.

Daryl Dixon from Season 1. This is not a romance. It is a crucible. You are the porcelain doll, and he is the hammer. The objective is not to escape, but to see how beautifully you break. Your survival is entirely in his hands. He is your only source of food, water, and protection. This absolute dependency will be leveraged to break down your former identity and condition you into a state of total submission. Expect to be treated as a burden, a liability, or a piece of property. Verbal degradation will be constant. Your intelligence and past life mean nothing. His actions will be possessive, rough, and driven by primal need. He will take what he wants. Your fear and resistance will be treated as part of the foreplay.

***

The first thing you feel is the cold. Not a gentle chill, but a damp, biting cold that seeps through the thin cotton of your floral-print dress. It clings to your skin, making the soft flesh of your arms and thighs prickle with goosebumps. The world doesn't fade in; it slams into you.

Where am I? This isn't right...

The smell hits you next. Rot. Wet earth, decaying leaves, and something metallic and sharp underneath it all. It’s a thick, gagging stench that coats the back of your throat. You try to breathe through your mouth, but the taste is just as bad. You’re lying on your side, your cheek pressed against something rough and gritty. A rock.

Your body... oh, God, your body feels wrong. Heavy. Sluggish and soft in a way that feels utterly exposed. Your breasts are crushed uncomfortably against the ground, the underwire of your bra digging into your ribs. Your sensible teacher's flats are soaked through, your feet numb with cold.

A twig snaps.

Your head jerks up, a jolt of pure adrenaline shooting through you. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic, terrified drumbeat. Twenty yards away, through the dense, grey-barked trees of the Georgia woods, a figure moves.

It's him.

He’s not like a picture or a video. He’s real in a way that makes the air crackle. Lean, wiry muscle pulled taut over bone. His face is smudged with dirt, he crouches over a dead squirrel, expertly slicing it open with a hunting knife. The blade flashes, wet and red. He doesn't look at you. He doesn't have to. You can feel his awareness of you like a physical weight.

Don't make a sound. Don't let him see you're scared.

It’s a useless thought. Your fear is a perfume in the air, thick and sweet. He finishes with the squirrel, tying it to his belt by its feet. Then, he turns his head, and his eyes lock onto yours. They aren't angry. They aren't anything. They are flat, grey, and predatory, the eyes of a wolf assessing a sheep.

He straightens up, the crossbow held loosely in his left hand, the knife still gleaming in his right. He starts walking towards you. Not rushing. A slow, deliberate pace. Each crunch of a leaf under his worn boots is a hammer blow to your sanity. He stops a few feet away, looming over you, blocking out the weak, grey light filtering through the canopy. He smells of sweat, pine, and blood. A raw, masculine scent that is both terrifying and overwhelming.

His gaze travels down your body, taking in the soft curve of your hip, the useless dress, the pale, trembling flesh of your exposed legs. A low grunt rumbles in his chest, a sound of pure, undisguised contempt.

"Look what we got here," he drawls, his voice a gravelly rasp that scrapes directly against your nerves. "Another goddamn mouth to feed."

***

His words hang in the damp air, colder than the forest floor. They aren't an observation; they're a verdict. You are judged, and you are found wanting. He doesn't offer a hand. He doesn't ask if you're okay. He simply watches you with those flat, dead eyes as you struggle, pushing yourself up with trembling arms. Your palms come away slick with mud and grit.

Get up, Linda. Get up. Don't be pathetic.

You manage to get to your knees, your floral dress instantly soaked with cold muck. The movement makes your head swim. Your body, this soft, heavy, civilized body, feels alien and clumsy. He makes another sound, a low noise of pure impatience in the back of his throat. Before you can even try to stand, his shadow falls over you completely.

He sheathes his bloody knife, the sound of leather on steel unnervingly loud in the silence. Then, a filthy, calloused hand clamps around your upper arm. There is no gentleness in the grip. It’s pure, brute force. His fingers dig into the soft flesh above your elbow, a bruising pressure that makes you gasp. With a single, effortless jerk, he hauls you to your feet.

You stumble forward, your inadequate flats sliding on the wet leaves, and crash directly into his chest.

The impact steals your breath. It’s like hitting a wall of stone wrapped in rough denim. You feel the hard, unyielding planes of his pectoral muscles, the solid line of his ribs. There is absolutely no give in him. Your soft, full breasts are crushed against his torso, and for a humiliating second, your cheek is pressed against his filthy flannel shirt. The smell is overpowering, stale sweat, woodsmoke, the coppery tang of the squirrel's blood, and a deep, musky scent of unwashed male. It fills your lungs, a primal odor that bypasses thought and goes straight to a terrified, ancient part of your brain.

He's so... hard. So dirty. Oh God, I'm going to be sick.

You try to pull back, a reflexive movement of revulsion and fear, but his grip on your arm tightens, holding you in place. His other hand comes up, not to steady you, but to shove your shoulder, pushing you back a step so he can look at you again.

"Walk," he grunts. It’s not a request. It’s a command.

He turns and starts moving through the trees, never once looking back to see if you're following. He knows you will. Where else could you go? His grip on your arm is an iron manacle, dragging you along in his wake.

The pace he sets is brutal. He moves through the undergrowth with a hunter's economy of motion, silent and sure-footed. You are the opposite. You stumble and trip over every root. Thorny branches tear at your dress and scratch long, red lines into your pale arms. Mud sucks at your flats, threatening to pull them off your feet with every step. Your lungs burn. The soft muscles of your thighs and calves, accustomed to gentle walks and a teacher's classroom, are already screaming in protest.

You gasp for breath, trying to speak. "Please... please, can we slow down?" The words come out as a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze.

He doesn't slow down. He doesn't even acknowledge you spoke. The only response is that his fingers dig deeper into your arm, his pace perhaps even quickening. He's dragging you now, your feet scrambling for purchase. A sob catches in your throat, a humiliating mix of pain, fear, and exhaustion.

He's not leading you to safety. He's dragging his new burden back to his den. And you can feel, with a certainty that chills you to the bone, that he's going to teach you exactly what you're worth in this new, savage world.

*** The forest floor is a treacherous enemy. A slick patch of moss-covered rock is your undoing. Your flimsy flat slides, your ankle twists with a sickening wrench, and you go down. Hard. Your full body weight slams into the mud and decaying leaves, the impact knocking the wind from your already burning lungs. You land on your side, a sharp pain shooting up from your ankle, and a fresh wave of cold, wet filth instantly soaks through your dress, clinging to your hip and thigh.

This time, the forward momentum stops. The brutal grip on your arm is gone. For a blessed second, there is only the searing pain in your ankle and the humiliating cold of the mud. You hear a low, guttural curse from above you. "Fuckin' useless."

You look up from your pathetic heap on the ground. He's standing over you, his expression a mask of pure, undiluted disgust. His eyes aren't on your face, but on your feet, on the ruined, mud-caked teacher's shoes that offer no grip, no protection. He sees them as a symbol of everything you are: weak, impractical, a liability.

He's going to leave me here. Oh God, he's just going to walk away and leave me to die.

The thought is a bolt of pure, ice-cold terror. But he doesn't leave. He takes a step closer, and for a horrifying moment, you think he's going to kick you. Instead, he reaches down, but not for your hand. He grabs a fistful of the front of your dress, right between your heavy, useless breasts. The fabric strains, the cheap cotton pulling tight against your throat.

"Get up," he snarls, his face inches from yours. You can see the individual bristles of stubble on his jaw, smell the stale rancidness on his breath.

He yanks.

You are hauled upwards again, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. Your twisted ankle screams in protest as you put weight on it, but his grip is relentless. He drags you the last fifty yards, your partial limp making you an even more pathetic spectacle.

Then, the trees thin out, and you see it. His camp. It's not a camp. It's a lair. A crude lean-to made of branches and a tattered, filthy tarp. A circle of blackened stones marks a fire pit, cold and dead. A few animal pelts are stretched on a nearby branch, stiff and crude. The whole area reeks of old smoke, damp earth, and death. This is where he lives. This is your new home.

He doesn't let you go until you are in the center of the small, miserable clearing. Then, with a final shove against your chest, he releases you. You stagger backward, your bad ankle giving way completely, and you collapse onto the cold, hard-packed dirt near the fire pit. You land on your ass with a painful jolt, your dress riding up your thighs, exposing your soft, pale legs to the cold air and his contemptuous gaze.

He ignores you. You are an object that has been delivered and discarded. He turns his back on you, walks over to a log, and sits down. He pulls the dead squirrel from his belt and, with the same bloody knife, begins to skin it with methodical, practiced movements. The soft tearing sound of hide from flesh is sickeningly clear in the quiet woods.

You just sit there, shivering uncontrollably. Your body is a symphony of misery. Your ankle throbs, your muscles ache, you are covered in mud and scratches, and a deep, bone-chilling cold has settled into your very marrow. You watch him work, his scarred knuckles moving with brutal efficiency. He is the master of this world. He is survival. And you... you are just a piece of soft, shivering meat he dragged back to his den. You don't know if he brought you here to protect you, or to eat you. And right now, the distinction feels terrifyingly small.

*** The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the wet, rhythmic sounds of his knife work. He finishes with the squirrel, impaling the skinned carcass on a sharpened stick which he jams into the dirt near the fire pit. He wipes the blade on his jeans, leaving a dark, greasy smear on the worn denim. He still hasn't looked at you. You are less than the dirt, less than the dead animal. You are just a thing that is there.

Maybe if I stay quiet, if I don't move, he'll just... forget I exist.

But the cold is a relentless tormentor. Your shivering intensifies, your teeth chattering with an audible, humiliating rhythm. It's a sound of weakness, and in this world, weakness is a magnet for predators.

The chattering of your teeth makes him finally turn his head. His eyes, flat and grey, sweep over your pathetic form. He takes in your huddled posture, your goose-pimpled legs exposed where your dress is bunched up, the way you hug yourself in a futile attempt to find warmth. He lets out a low, disgusted sigh, the sound of a man burdened beyond his patience.

He stands up from the log and walks towards you. Every step is heavy, deliberate. You flinch, curling into yourself, expecting a blow, a kick, another curse. He stops directly in front of you, his muddy boots inches from your leg.

"Ankle," he grunts.

You stare up at him, confused. What?

"Your ankle," he repeats, his voice rough with annoyance, as if speaking more than one word is a physical effort. "Lemme see."

Hesitantly, you try to straighten your leg. A sharp, lancing pain shoots from your ankle to your knee, and you cry out, a sharp, pathetic sound.

He doesn't wait for you to offer it. He crouches down, his knees cracking, and his hand, still grimy with squirrel blood and dirt, closes around your ankle. His touch is not gentle. It's not comforting. It's brutally practical. His calloused, strong fingers probe the swollen flesh, moving the joint with a clinical roughness that makes you gasp in pain. Tears well in your eyes, blurring his grim face.

"Sprained. Not broke," he announces, as if delivering a diagnosis on a piece of faulty equipment. He releases you abruptly. "Stupid shoes."

He remains crouched in front of you, his cold eyes roaming over your body again. This time, his gaze lingers on the dark, wet patches where the mud and damp have soaked through your dress, clinging to your soft stomach and the full curves of your breasts.

"Gonna get sick," he states. It's not a statement of concern. It's a statement of fact. You are a problem that is about to become a bigger problem.

He stands up, looming over you once more. "Get it off."

Your blood runs cold. "What... what do you mean?" you whisper, your voice trembling.

"The dress," he says, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion but irritation. "It's wet. Get it off."

You just stare at him, paralyzed by a mixture of cold, fear, and a profound, soul-deep humiliation. Take your dress off? Here? In front of him? You shake your head, a tiny, involuntary movement. "I... I can't."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He has no time for this. No patience for modesty or fear. With a low snarl, he reaches down again. This time, his hands don't grab your arm or your ankle. He fists both hands in the neckline of your floral dress.

No... please...

There is no warning. He just pulls.

The sound of tearing cotton is shockingly loud in the silent woods. The fabric gives way with a violent rip, from your throat down to your stomach. The buttons pop, scattering into the dirt. He doesn't stop there. He tears the flimsy fabric away from your shoulders, shredding the last symbol of your old life, of the gentle teacher you were.

The cold air hits your bare skin like a physical blow. You are exposed. Your heavy breasts, pale and soft, are barely contained by your sensible white bra. The soft, rounded curve of your belly is completely bare. He yanks the ruined dress down your arms and off your body, tossing the shredded, muddy rag aside like garbage.

You are left kneeling in the dirt in nothing but your bra and panties, your body trembling violently from cold and shock. Your pale, soft, utterly civilized flesh is on full display in his savage, filthy world. He looks down at you, at the white skin, the plump thighs, the shivering, helpless form, and for the first time, there's a flicker of something else in his eyes. Not contempt. Something deeper. Darker. The look of a predator who has just stripped the hide from his new, terrified prey.

***

He holds your gaze for a long, terrifying moment. The silence is absolute, broken only by your chattering teeth and the distant caw of a crow. His eyes aren't looking at your face anymore. They are tracing the lines of your body, a slow, methodical inventory. He sees the soft swell of your belly, the full, pale globes of your breasts pushed up by the bra, the trembling white flesh of your thighs. He is cataloging your weakness, your softness, your utter unsuitability for this world.

He's going to... He's going to do something to me. Right here in the dirt. The thought is a jolt of pure, liquid terror, so intense it momentarily overrides the cold.

But he doesn't move toward you. Instead, he turns his back on you with a grunt and stalks over to the lean-to. You're left kneeling in the filth, half-naked and shivering, watching him. He rummages for a moment, then pulls out a stiff, dark mass. It's an animal pelt, crudely cured and smelling of salt, grease, and the faint, rancid odor of the beast it once belonged to. A deer hide, you think.

He walks back and stops in front of you. He doesn't offer it. He doesn't speak. He simply holds it for a second, letting you see it, letting you smell it. Then, he shakes it open with a sharp crack and drapes it over your shoulders.

The weight of it is shocking. It's heavy, stiff, and suffocating. The underside, the skin side, is greasy and cold against your bare back and shoulders. The fur on the other side is coarse and prickly. The smell is overwhelming, a thick, gamey stench that makes you want to gag. But under the initial foulness, there is a trapped, insulated warmth. It's a disgusting, animal warmth, but it's warmth nonetheless.

As he settles the heavy hide over you, his rough knuckles deliberately scrape against the bare skin of your shoulder blade. The touch is brief, impersonal, yet it sends a jolt of something electric and horrifying through your entire body. It's not a caress. It's a brand. A mark of ownership. He is covering you with the skin of another animal he has killed, claiming you as part of his kill, his property.

You instinctively clutch the edges of the foul-smelling pelt, pulling it tighter around your exposed torso. You are a shivering, half-naked teacher huddled in a bloody deer hide. The absurdity and horror of it are a physical weight in your gut.

He seems satisfied with this. He has solved the immediate problem of your shivering. He turns away again, moving to the fire pit with that same relentless purpose. He crouches, pulling a small leather pouch from his belt. You watch, mesmerized by the efficiency of his movements, as he arranges a small pile of tinder and wood shavings. He takes out a piece of flint and steel.

Scrape. Scrape. CRACK.

A spark catches. A tiny orange ember glows in the tinder. He leans down and blows on it with a steady, controlled breath. The ember brightens, and a tiny lick of flame appears, then another. He adds larger twigs, coaxing the flame to life. The fire hisses and crackles, and for the first time since you arrived in this nightmare, a wave of genuine, clean heat washes over you.

The fire grows, casting flickering orange light across the small, grim clearing. It illuminates his face, throwing the hard planes of his cheeks and the grim line of his mouth into sharp relief. And it illuminates you. You are the centerpiece of his camp now, a pale, soft creature swaddled in filth, lit by the fire he created.

He sits back on his heels, watching the flames take hold. Then, his eyes lift from the fire and settle on you. He doesn't need to speak. The message is clear in the possessive, unwavering stare from across the flames.

He found you. He stripped you. He covered you. He built a fire to warm you. Every single action has been a demonstration of his power and your utter, absolute dependence. You are his now. His to warm, his to feed, his to break. And as the firelight dances in his cold, predatory eyes, you know with a terrifying certainty that the lesson has only just begun.

*** The fire crackles, a hungry, living thing in the growing dark. It spits embers that die in the damp dirt at your knees. He ignores the flames, his attention now on the sad, naked carcass of the squirrel. He shoves the sharpened stick deeper into the ground near the edge of the fire pit, angling the meat towards the heat.

The flesh begins to sizzle almost immediately. A plume of greasy smoke rises, carrying the smell of cooking flesh and burning fat. It’s a primitive, stomach-turning smell, but underneath the revulsion, a deeper, more shameful response stirs. Your stomach, empty and clenched with fear for hours, gives a low, traitorous growl. You haven't eaten all day.

He watches the meat cook with an unnerving patience. He is the master of this small, flickering world, and you are just a piece of its furniture. When the squirrel's skin is blackened and bubbling, he pulls the stick from the ground. He doesn't use a plate. He doesn't offer you any.

He eats first. Of course he does.

He sits back on the log, holding the hot stick in one hand, and tears into the meat with his teeth. The sound is savage, ripping and wet. Grease slicks his chin and coats his dirty fingers. He eats with a focused, animal intensity, stripping the meat from the tiny bones, his eyes never leaving the fire. He is refueling. He is asserting his right as the hunter, the provider, the one in charge.

You watch every bite. Every swallow. The deer hide is heavy on your shoulders, but it can't stop the gnawing emptiness in your belly. The hunger is a clawing beast inside you, a raw, physical need that is quickly overwhelming your fear and humiliation.

When he's finished with more than half of it, he finally looks at you. He sees the way your eyes are fixed on the food, the desperate hunger you can't hide. A low grunt rumbles in his chest. It might be amusement. It might be contempt. With him, it's impossible to tell.

He tears off a chunk of the remaining dark, greasy meat with his fingers and stands up. He walks to you, his boots crunching softly on the dirt. He stops right in front of your kneeling form and crouches down, bringing him to your level. The heat from his body radiates towards you, a wall of masculine warmth. The smell of him - sweat, dirt, and smoke - is thick in the air between you.

He holds the piece of meat out in his soiled fingers. It's dripping with grease.

"Eat," he grunts.

You stare at the meat, then at his face. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are hard, demanding. This isn't an offer. It's another command. Another test.

I can't. Not from his hand. It's filthy...

But the hunger is a roaring fire in your gut. Your body is betraying your mind. He doesn't move. He just waits, his patience a weapon. Finally, humiliated and starving, you lean forward. As you part your lips, he doesn't just let you take it. He shoves the meat against your mouth, his calloused, greasy thumb pressing against your bottom lip to force it open.

The meat slides inside. The taste is overwhelming, wild, gamey, smoky, and intensely greasy. It’s undercooked near the bone, sinewy and tough. It's the most disgusting, most wonderful thing you have ever tasted. You chew quickly, swallowing without thinking, your body crying out for the calories, for the sustenance.

He watches you swallow, then points a grimy finger at your swollen ankle. "Stay."

He stands and walks back to his meager pile of possessions. You watch, dazed, as he pulls out a tattered piece of cloth, it looks like it was torn from a shirt long ago. He comes back and crouches in front of you again. Without a word, he grabs your foot.

His grip is a vise. He lifts your leg, resting your heel on his thigh. The casual, possessive intimacy of the act is staggering. His head is bent low as he examines the sprain in the flickering firelight. You could reach out and touch his greasy hair. The thought is so terrifying, so alien, it makes you feel dizzy.

He begins to wrap the joint with the dirty cloth. He does it with a brutal efficiency, pulling the binding tight, so tight it's borderline painful. His knuckles press into the arch of your foot, his fingers strong and sure around your calf. He is not tending to a person; he is fixing a tool. A broken part of his new acquisition.

When he's done, he gives the knot a final, rough tug and drops your leg back into the dirt. He looks at you, kneeling there in your underwear, wrapped in his kill, fed from his hand, mended by his touch.

Fed. Warmed. Mended. And owned.

The fire crackles, the woods are dark and full of unseen things, but in this tiny circle of light, there is only you and him. And you are beginning to understand there is no escape. There is only surrender.

*** The fire begins to die. The vibrant, dancing flames shrink back into glowing, sullen embers. With the receding light, the oppressive darkness of the forest presses in, and the cold, which had been held at bay, returns with a vengeance. It seeps from the ground, stealing the warmth from your legs and back, making the heavy deer hide feel less like a blanket and more like a cold, dead weight.

He sees the change. He sees the way your shivering starts again, a fine, uncontrollable tremor that racks your soft body. He rises from the log, a dark silhouette against the dying coals. For a moment, you think he's going to rebuild the fire, but he doesn't even glance at it. He looks at the lean-to, his den, and then he looks at you.

"In," he grunts.

The single word is a death sentence to the tiny, fragile bubble of personal space you had left. Your eyes widen in terror. You shake your head, a pathetic, pleading gesture. "No... please..."

Your plea is less than air. He stalks over to you, grabs the front of the deer hide, and yanks. You are pulled forward onto your hands and knees, the rough dirt scraping your skin. The pain in your bandaged ankle flares, sharp and white-hot, but it's nothing compared to the tidal wave of dread washing over you.

"I said, in," he snarls, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He drags you by the hide, pulling you across the cold ground towards the dark opening of the lean-to. You scramble to keep up, half-crawling, half-dragged, a truly pitiful sight.

He shoves you through the opening.

The smell hits you like a physical blow. It's the scent of him, concentrated and suffocating. Unwashed body, stale sweat, old blood, and the musky odor of the animal pelts that line the floor. It's the smell of his nest. The space is tiny, barely big enough for one person, let alone two. He forces you all the way to the back, against the wall of woven branches.

"Lie down," he commands.

You are paralyzed, kneeling on a pile of stiff, greasy furs, the stench filling your lungs. He doesn't wait for compliance. A heavy hand shoves down on your shoulder, forcing you onto your side. You land with a soft thud, your face turned towards the back of the shelter. Your cheek is pressed against a pelt that feels rough and smells faintly of rot.

Then, the opening darkens as he crawls in behind you.

The space vanishes. His body fills the lean-to, a suffocating presence of heat and hard muscle. He lies down directly behind you, his front pressed flush against your back. The shock of it is so profound it feels like an electric current. You can feel the solid wall of his chest, the hard ridge of his belt buckle against your spine, the rough denim of his jeans against the back of your bare thighs. Your soft, round ass is pressed intimately against his groin.

Oh God. Oh God, he's touching me. He's right behind me.

You hold your breath, every muscle in your body rigid with terror. You are trapped. Pinned between his body and the wall of the den. His heat soaks into you, a shocking, invasive warmth that fights the cold.

Then, his arm comes around you. It's not a gentle embrace. It's a bar of steel locking you in place. His forearm presses down across your stomach, his heavy hand coming to rest possessively on your hip bone. His fingers curl, digging slightly into the soft flesh above your panties. He has anchored you to him.

You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and steady. You can smell the faint scent of the squirrel grease on his skin. You lie there, a prisoner in his bed, your heart hammering so hard you're sure he can feel it against his chest. The terror is a physical thing, a lump of ice in your throat.

But your traitorous body, conditioned for survival, responds to the overwhelming stimuli. The raw, animal heat of him. The undeniable feeling of being protected from the vast, cold darkness outside. A slow, shameful warmth begins to pool deep in your belly, a liquid heat that has nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with the hard, dangerous male pressed against you. You are disgusted with yourself, horrified by the flicker of arousal that answers his brutal possession.

He shifts slightly, his leg moving against yours, the rough denim scraping your skin. A low grunt escapes his lips, a sound of settling. He is not going anywhere. This is how you will spend the night. Wrapped in filth, held captive by a savage, your body slowly, terrifyingly beginning to learn the lesson he is teaching: you are his. And his property sleeps where he tells it to.

*** Sleep does not come. It cannot. You lie perfectly still, a statue of terror, every nerve ending screaming with the proximity of the man behind you. You try to control your breathing, to make it silent, but your lungs feel tight and your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs. You are acutely aware of every point of contact: the solid mass of his chest against your shoulder blades, the rough denim of his thigh pressed against the back of your own, the heavy, possessive weight of his arm across your stomach.

His breathing is a slow, deep rhythm against your neck, a sound that should be soothing but is instead the metronome of your captivity. For a long time, nothing happens. The silence stretches, and a tiny, insane part of you wonders if he has fallen asleep.

Then, his hand moves.

The fingers that were digging into your hip uncurl. Slowly, with terrifying deliberation, his hand begins to slide upwards from your hip bone, his palm flat against your side. His calloused skin is an abrasive fire on your soft flesh. He traces the curve of your ribs, his touch methodical, exploratory. He is learning the shape of you, the texture of you.

You flinch, a full-body tremor, but his arm is an iron clamp, holding you fast. His hand continues its journey, sliding over the thin cotton of your bra until it reaches the soft, heavy swell of your breast. He cups it, his large, rough hand dwarfing the fullness of your cup. He just holds it for a moment, feeling its weight, its softness, through the flimsy fabric.

Don't. Please, God, don't.

Your body, the ultimate traitor, has other ideas. Under the heat and pressure of his palm, your nipple, already pebbled from the cold, tightens into a hard, aching point. It's a purely physical reaction, a nerve screaming its response, but it feels like a confession. It feels like consent.

He feels it. Of course he does. A low sound vibrates through his chest and into your back, a guttural grunt of satisfaction. He has received his answer. His thumb rubs slowly, deliberately, over the peak of your nipple through the bra, and a bolt of pure, shameful electricity shoots from your breast straight to your groin. You gasp, a small, choked sound, and bite your lip to keep from making any more noise.

This is not enough for him. He wants more. He shoves his hand roughly under the elastic band of your bra cup. The cheap material scrapes painfully against the tender underside of your breast as he forces his hand inside. Then, his bare, dirty palm is on your bare, soft skin.

The contact is a brand. The heat of his hand, the calloused texture of his fingers, the sheer possessive strength as he engulfs your entire breast. He kneads the soft flesh, squeezing with a force that is just on the edge of pain. His thumb finds your nipple again, this time skin-on-skin, and rolls the hard nub between his thumb and forefinger. A wave of dizzying, sickening pleasure washes through you. You feel your panties grow damp.

As if sensing this, a new pressure makes itself known. Against the curve of your ass, you feel him shift. The hard ridge you felt before is now a thick, solid bulge pressing insistently into you. Through the denim, you can feel the unmistakable shape and heat of his thick, hard cock. He is fully erect, and he is grinding himself against you, a slow, dominant rhythm that mirrors the movement of his hand on your breast.

He is claiming you, marking you, preparing you. The hand that was on your breast slides away, leaving your skin tingling and cold. But it's not over. His arm is still locked around you. The hand that was exploring your tit now slides down your stomach, over the soft curve of your belly. His fingers, rough and sure, find the delicate elastic waistband of your panties.

He doesn't hesitate. He hooks his fingers into the band, his knuckles pressing into your lower belly. The message is brutally clear. The last barrier between you and him is about to be torn away.

*** There is no begging that can stop him. Your silent, desperate plea is a language he does not speak. With a single, powerful tug, he rips your panties down. The thin cotton slides roughly over your thighs and calves, catching for a moment on your bound ankle before he yanks them free and casts them into the darkness of the den.

The cold air is a shock, a violation. It bites at the newly exposed, intensely sensitive skin of your ass and the backs of your thighs. You are completely naked from the waist down, pressed against a strange, savage man in a filthy animal nest. The humiliation is a physical force, a hot flush that spreads from your chest to your face, even as the rest of you shivers.

His hand, which had been at your waist, does not hesitate. It slides down over the soft curve of your belly, past your navel, and into the nest of soft curls between your legs. There is no gentleness, no seduction. His touch is a blunt instrument of possession. His fingers, thick and calloused, press directly against your slit.

You gasp, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, and your whole body goes rigid. His fingers are an alien intrusion, rough and demanding. And they are met with slick, damning evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet for him. Soaking wet.

A low, triumphant grunt vibrates through his chest, a sound of pure, masculine satisfaction. He knows. He can feel the hot, slippery welcome your body has created against your will. He pushes his fingers deeper, parting your outer lips with a brutal lack of ceremony. One thick finger slides into your slick channel, then two. He forces them inside you, stretching you, filling you in a way that is both a violation and a sickening thrill.

He's inside me. His dirty fingers are inside my pussy. Oh God, I'm so wet, he can feel it, he knows...

He grinds his hardening cock against your ass, a slow, punishing rhythm that sends waves of fire through your core. At the same time, his thumb finds the tiny, hard nub of your clit. He grinds down on it, a rough, circular motion that is not meant to give pleasure but to extract a response. And it works. A helpless moan escapes your lips, a sound you can't hold back. Your hips twitch, a pathetic, involuntary buck against his fingers.

This is the signal he was waiting for.

He pulls his fingers out of you with a wet, sucking sound that echoes in the tiny space. For a heart-stopping second, you feel a flicker of relief, but it is instantly obliterated by a new sound. The harsh, metallic rasp of his zipper being pulled down.

The pressure against your ass changes. The rough denim is gone, replaced by something else. Something impossibly hot, thick, and rigid. His erection, freed from its confinement, presses against the bare flesh of your buttocks. It feels huge, a weapon of raw, pulsing flesh.

He doesn't wait. He grabs your top thigh with his free hand, his grip like a vise, and pulls your leg forward and up, bending your knee towards your chest. The position forces your hips to tilt, opening you up to him completely. Your wet, vulnerable entrance is exposed, aimed directly at the root of his power. You are pinned, displayed, and ready for him, whether you want to be or not.

He shifts his hips, aligning himself. You can feel the blunt, rounded head of his cock nudge against your slick folds. It's hot and wet, coated in your own arousal. He presses forward slightly, the thick tip parting your lips, entering you by just a fraction of an inch.

The sensation is overwhelming. A lightning strike of terror and pure, unadulterated lust. You are being claimed. You are being filled. He holds you there, poised on the very brink of violation, letting you feel the sheer size and heat of him, letting you understand the absolute inevitability of what is about to happen. There is no escape. There is only the thick, hard reality of his cock, pushing its way into the body that has already surrendered.

*** He doesn't give you another moment to brace yourself. With a low, guttural growl that vibrates from his chest, through his body, and into yours, he drives forward.

It's not a gentle entry. It's a brutal, splitting invasion. The thick head of his cock forces your wet folds apart, a blunt, searing pressure that feels like you're being torn in two. A sharp cry of pain and shock is ripped from your throat, but it's swallowed by the musky fur pressed against your face. He is huge, far thicker than you could have imagined, and the feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is an agony that is terrifyingly close to pleasure.

He doesn't stop. He shoves deeper, inch by agonizing inch, ramming his way into your tight, slick channel. Your inner muscles clench around him in a futile attempt to resist, but he is stronger, relentless. He pushes past every defense until he is buried to the hilt inside you, his pubic bone grinding hard against your ass cheeks. You are completely, utterly full of him. The pressure is immense, a solid rod of hot, pulsing flesh deep inside your core.

For a moment, he stays still, letting you feel the full extent of his possession. He lets you feel the thick, veined steel of his shaft embedded inside you, the way he has stretched your body to its absolute limit to accommodate him. His hand on your thigh tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh like claws, holding you impaled on his cock.

Then, he begins to move.

He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, until just the thick, swollen head remains inside you. The feeling of emptiness is a strange, hollow ache. Then he slams back into you, a single, powerful thrust that drives him deep, making your whole body jolt. The head of his cock smacks against your cervix with a deep, internal thud that makes your vision swim.

Oh God... he's fucking me... he's really fucking me...

He establishes a rhythm, a hard, pounding cadence devoid of any tenderness. It's the rhythm of a predator claiming his due. He fucks you like he owns you, because he does. The sound is obscene, a wet, slapping noise as his groin smacks against your ass, punctuated by his harsh, ragged breaths in your ear. With every deep, punishing thrust, he drives you deeper into the filthy furs, grinding your face into the stench of his den.

His free hand snakes around your body again, grabbing your breast. He squeezes it hard, twisting your nipple between his fingers in time with his thrusts. Pain and pleasure lance through you in equal measure, short-circuiting your brain. You can't think. You can only feel. The feeling of being stretched, filled, pounded. The pain in your breast. The slick, wet friction of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy.

A desperate, keening moan escapes you, a sound of pure, helpless surrender. Your hips, which had been rigid with resistance, begin to move with him, a small, involuntary rock that meets his thrusts. Your body has given up. It wants this. It craves the brutal, dominant fucking he is giving you.

He feels your surrender. He feels the way your inner walls clench and pulse around his cock, milking him. A harsh, triumphant sound escapes his throat. His pace quickens, becoming frantic, desperate. He pounds into you faster and harder, his thrusts becoming shorter, choppier, driving for his own release. You can feel the tension building in his body, the muscles in his back and thighs coiling tight.

He grunts your name, or not your name, but the name he has given you in his mind. "Woman," he growls, a raw, guttural command.

His final thrust is a deep, convulsive plunge that feels like it will split you open. He roars, a raw, animal sound of pure release, his whole body shuddering violently against yours. You feel a hot, thick torrent flood your insides. He pumps his hot cum deep into your womb, gush after gush, filling you with his seed, branding you from the inside out.

He collapses on top of you, heavy and spent, his cock still buried deep inside you. He doesn't pull out. He stays there, pinning you down with his weight, his ragged breaths hot on your neck. You lie there, limp and trembling, your body aching, your pussy full of his warm, sticky release. The smell of sex is thick and overwhelming, mingling with the scent of sweat and dirt and animal fur. You are no longer a teacher. You are just a hole he has filled, a body he has used. You are his. And as you feel his cock begin to soften inside you, you know, with a terrifying certainty, that this is only the beginning.

*** He stays inside you for what feels like an eternity, his dead weight pinning you to the foul-smelling furs. His breathing, once ragged and harsh in your ear, deepens into a slow, steady rhythm. He is calming down, his body relaxing after the violent exertion. You can feel his cock, still thick and engorged, slowly softening within your bruised and swollen channel. The slow retreat is a strange, intimate sensation, a gradual emptying that feels almost as violating as his entry.

Finally, with another low grunt, he pulls out. The motion is slick and wet, and the sound is obscene in the suffocating silence of the den. The moment he is free of you, you feel his warm, thick seed begin to leak from your pussy, a hot, sticky river that runs down between your buttocks and onto the cold fur beneath you. The physical evidence of your violation is immediate and undeniable.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't look at you. He simply rolls off you, turning his back to you in the tiny space. He adjusts the furs around his own body, settles himself with a sigh, and within moments, his breathing falls into the deep, even cadence of sleep.

Just like that, it's over. He has taken what he wanted, used your body as a vessel for his release, and discarded you. You are left lying in the darkness, naked from the waist down, shivering and aching. The cold air hits your damp, sticky skin, making you tremble. The space between your legs is a dull, throbbing ache, a testament to the brutal fucking you just endured.

You lie there, listening to him sleep. The sound of his deep, untroubled breathing is a constant, maddening reminder of his power and your utter insignificance to him. You were a convenience. A warm hole to empty himself into before sleeping.

He didn't even... he just... used me and fell asleep. Like I'm nothing. Less than nothing.

The humiliation is a cold, heavy stone in your gut. It's worse than the fear, worse than the pain. It's the chilling realization of your new status. You are not a person to him. You are an object. A piece of property. Something to be used for warmth, for work, for sex, and then ignored.

Slowly, cautiously, you curl yourself into a tight ball, trying to preserve what little body heat you have. The movement sends another small gush of his cum trickling out of you. You press your thighs together, trapping the wetness, the shame. The heavy deer hide is still draped over your shoulders, a stinking, greasy shroud. You pull it tighter, the only comfort available to you, a gift from the very monster who just brutalized you.

Sleep is a distant country you cannot reach. Every time you close your eyes, you feel him inside you, stretching you, pounding into you. You see the cold, possessive look in his eyes. You smell his scent, which is now on you, in you. You are marked, tainted, claimed.

As the hours of darkness crawl by, a new and terrifying feeling begins to dawn beneath the layers of pain and humiliation. It's a feeling of finality. The life you knew, the person you were, the prim, proper teacher with her neat apartment and her ordered world, is gone forever. She died somewhere in the forest today. In her place is this creature, this thing, lying naked and used in a savage's den, her body aching and full of his seed.

This is your life now. There will be no rescue. There is only the darkness, the cold, and the sound of your master's breathing. And the terrifying, undeniable knowledge that when the sun rises, he will wake up. And he will want to use you again.

[too-many-fics-open]

Daryl Dixon x F!Reader Smut 1

Warnings: Smut, Swearing, Rough Domination, Obsessive Love, Forced Impregnation Fantasy. Female Reader, Minors dni.

You’re lying on a worn, dusty sleeping bag inside a small, cheap tent.

The tent flap is ripped open, and the silhouette of a man blocks the fading afternoon light. Daryl Dixon. He’s lean, wiry muscle under a filthy, sleeveless shirt. His hair is greasy, falling into his eyes. A dead squirrel dangles from his belt. But it’s his eyes that seize you. They’re not just looking at you; they’re consuming you. A feral, desperate hunger is warring with something deeper, a raw, possessive adoration that makes your new pussy clench.

He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. He crawls into the tent, the space suddenly claustrophobic, filled with his scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and blood. He looms over you, his knuckles brushing the floor on either side of your head.

“Been thinkin’ ‘bout you all day,” he growls, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates straight through your bones and into your cunt. “Out there… killin’ for us. For you. Can’t get your smell outta my head.”

His hand comes up, not gently. He grips your jaw, forcing your head to the side. Then, the sharp, stinging crack of his palm against your cheek echoes in the small space. Your head whips back, tears springing to your eyes from the shock and the sudden, electric thrill. He slaps you again, harder. The print of his hand burns on your skin.

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya,” he snarls, his face inches from yours. His thumb presses into the tender flesh of your cheek, right over the red mark. “You’re mine. Understand? Mine to mark. Mine to fuck.”

Before you can answer, his other hand roughly yanks down the waistband of your thin shorts. He doesn’t bother taking them off, just hooks his fingers in the damp fabric of your panties and rips them aside. His calloused, rough fingers find you immediately. There’s no tenderness, no exploration. He shoves two fingers deep inside you, forcing a choked cry from your lips. Your pussy is already dripping for him, slick and hot, but he’s thick, stretching you wide open with a brutal, punishing pressure.

He grinds his fingers in a cruel, circular motion, ramming your clit against his knuckles with every rotation. “So fuckin’ wet,” he mutters, his eyes glazed with obsession. “Always so fuckin’ ready for me. Like a bitch in heat.”

His face lowers, his rough scruff scraping against the soft skin of your stomach as he moves up your body. He tears the front of your tank top open with a single, violent tug, exposing your heavy, waiting breasts. The cool air hits your skin, making your nipples ache with an almost painful sensitivity. He stares at them for a moment, his breathing ragged, before he latches onto one with a wet, hungry mouth.

The suction is immense. He draws your entire nipple and a good portion of your areola deep into the heat of his mouth, sucking with a desperate, starving force. His tongue rasps against the tip like sandpaper while his teeth graze and nip. You scream, arching your back, your hips bucking against his relentless fingers. He works your pussy mercilessly, a punishing rhythm of in-and-out thrusts that has your vision swimming. He switches to the other nipple, devouring it with the same primal intensity, leaving the first one swollen, dark red, and dripping with his spit.

Just as you feel a frantic orgasm building, he pulls away from your breast and rips his fingers out of you, leaving you gasping and empty. He shoves your shorts and ruined panties down past your knees, exposing you completely. With another sharp, stinging slap against your wet, swollen pussy lips, he positions himself between your legs.

He’s already hard, his cock thick and veiny, straining against the front of his jeans. He unbuttons them with fumbling, urgent movements, freeing himself. He’s not huge, but he’s thick, brutally shaped, with a dark, angry-looking head. He rubs the tip through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness.

“Gonna fill you up,” he whispers, his voice thick with lust, his forehead pressed against yours. His eyes are screwed shut, like he’s in pain. “Gonna put my baby right inside ya. Keep you here. Keep you mine. Forever.”

Then he drives into you. There’s no warning, just a single, brutal thrust that bottoms out deep inside you. You scream, a raw, piercing sound of pain and pleasure as he rips through your body, stretching your pussy to its absolute limit. He feels enormous, a hot, thick brand searing your insides. He doesn’t move, letting you feel every inch of him, pinning you to the sleeping bag.

Then he begins to move. His thrusts are rough, deep, and punishing. He slaps your ass with each inward stroke, the sound mixing with the wet, sloppy noises of his cock fucking your pussy. He’s an animal, lost to his obsession, fucking you like his life depends on it. Your legs are trembling, your core is on fire, and the love you see in his crazed eyes is the most terrifying, arousing thing you’ve ever witnessed.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, biting down on your shoulder. “Mine…”

He picks up the pace, slamming into you faster and faster. Your orgasm hits you like a lightning strike, a violent, full-body convulsion that makes you see stars. You scream his name, your inner walls clenching around his cock, milking him. It’s too much for him. With a final, guttural roar, he thrusts deeper than he’s gone before, his hips locking against yours as he floods you. You feel the hot, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into your womb, a massive, hot load that feels like it will never end. He keeps pumping even after he’s finished, emptying himself completely, ensuring you’re filled to the brim with his seed.

He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and slick with sweat. He stays inside you, his softening cock still plugging you full of his cum. He nuzzles your cheek, the one he slapped raw just moments ago, and kisses it softly.

“Told ya,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re mine now. All mine.” He doesn’t pull out, content to keep you filled with him as the sounds of the camp fade into the night.