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The communal dressing room was smoky and grimy and covered in glitter. Daryl sat propped on the counter, his back pressed against the dirty mirror and a knee pulled to his chest. He watched with minimal amusement as Tyreese shimmied in front of him, trying his damndest to get out of the latex fireman’s costume he’d worn on stage moments before. The thing was practically plastered to his sweaty skin. Daryl didn’t envy him, even though he was hardly better off.

“Hey,” he mumbled around the last of his cigarette. “Forgot the zipper in the back, man.”

Tyreese’s hand groped around his backside, where, sure enough, there was a zipper keeping his nethers suffocated. The slide of metal teeth coming undone was accompanied by Tyreese’s deep sigh of relief. “These things are gonna kill me one day,” he groaned miserably.

Daryl nodded in camaraderie. He liked Tyreese. They’d gotten on well, ever since Daryl’s first day at the club. He’d offered him a smoke after his first time on stage, when Daryl had been pale and shaking and five seconds from being sick. All those people watching him…it had taken some time getting used to. He still didn’t like it, didn’t think of himself as something worth throwing money at.

Like everyone else at the club, he had to wear a certain uniform of sorts. Joe had a different idea for all the strippers. Guys like Tyreese—big, muscular guys—got to be firefighters and cops and cowboys. Guys like Daryl—well, Joe liked to keep his back covered, on account of his scars. Reminded him almost every day how lucky he was that Joe was so nice a guy, letting someone who looked like Daryl have a job. He put Daryl in body glitters, feminine things sometimes, and sometimes not. He liked pulling Daryl out for Leather Daddy Night, stuffing him into tiny leather vests and matching shorts that rode into his ass crack. Would give him a collar and parade him around the club like some bitch.

Twink. That’s what Joe called him. Said he was pretty and slight, even with his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Said that didn’t matter, not with the way his small waist curved and his shoulder length hair fanned around his striking face.

Joe was an asshole.

Tonight, he’d thrown a new costume at Daryl. He had feathery angel wings strapped across his back, and white, pleather underwear that was already making his crotch sweat. His chest had been powdered with pink and white glitter, and he looked like a damn disco ball. Times like these, he was almost happy Merle was in the lockup.

Daryl didn’t like to imagine the look on his brother’s face, were he to ever find out what he’d had to do to keep a roof over his head. Because hunting and pool hustling? Wasn’t enough to cut it anymore. Daryl had held out for as long as he could, but money had gotten too tight. The threat of ending up on the streets had become too real. When he’d run into Joe—an old acquaintance of Merle’s—at the bar that night last Christmas, he’d been near starving. He’d considered himself lucky, when Joe had offered him a job at his club. Now…well, he was making money, wasn’t he? He was surviving. And that’s what mattered. Even if he tended to leave a trail of glitter behind everywhere he went these days.

“The crowd’s good tonight,” Tyreese said as he slipped into his second outfit for the night—something latex and neon. “There’s a bachelor party.”

Daryl’s cigarette was nothing but filter now, so he tossed it in the ashtray and hopped off the counter, adjusting his junk in the tight pleather. “Good tips?”

Tyreese lifted a wad of green before stuffing it into his duffel. “Best I’ve had all week.”

Daryl chewed on his lip. Guys that liked tipping Tyreese didn’t necessarily like tipping Daryl. They were different ends of the stripper spectrum. He frowned and turned to the mirror. He looked like an idiot. But his ribs weren’t sticking out like they used to, so at least he wasn’t a starving idiot anymore.

“You okay?” Tyreese asked, his burly form behind Daryl in the mirror, a concerned wrinkle in his forehead.

“Yeah.” Daryl gave him a weak smile; it was the best he could do. “It’s been a long week, is all.”

Tyreese groaned good-naturedly. “You can say that again.” He patted Daryl’s shoulder, making his angel wings ruffle and glitter rain to the floor. “I’ll see you out there, man.”

As Tyreese exited, someone else entered. Daryl cast his eyes down when he saw it was Joe.

“You’re on,” the man said, leering openly. “We got a party in there tonight, so pay special attention to the guys in the button-downs. Show ‘em that sweet ass.” He snapped his fingers. “Hurry the fuck up. I’m not paying you to scowl.” He held the door open wide, eyebrows raised expectantly until Daryl acquiesced and walked through.

The main room of the club was big, with blue, velvety surfaces and sticky floors. And tonight, it was packed. The stares began immediately as he cut his way through customers drinking at tables. One of the few women who worked there, a bartender named Tara, tipped her head at him as he passed. He didn’t quite manage to return the gesture. He was on the floor now, which meant all his focus was turned inward, trying to move the way Joe needed him to move, the way the customers came here to watch.

He avoided eye contact with everyone as he headed to the stage, which stood erect in the middle of the club, long and catwalk-like, with three different poles—even though most of the guys working here didn’t know how to use them. Daryl certainly didn’t.

Through the catcalls and whistles, he heard the DJ change the record to the one Daryl had requested. Choosing a song to strip to was almost as bad as the stripping itself. He had to get really drunk to do it, or else he got too embarrassed, rifling through his and Merle’s CD collection, searching for a tune to slut it up to. Tonight, it was Pink Floyd’s “Have a Cigar”.

The lights dimmed to a pulsing magenta as he strode across the stage and clasped his hand around the center pole. His head was down, his hair over his eyes. The glitter streaking across his abdomen sparkled, and a feather fell from his wings, floating down to land between his boots.

There was a group of men huddled closely together at the edge of the stage, and Daryl could tell just by seeing them in his periphery that this was the bachelor party. They had little umbrellas in their drinks and were dressed far nicer than the usual customers. Button-downs, just like Joe had said. Excited faces and pink cheeks. Daryl rolled his eyes and wondered what it must be like to enjoy something like this for a single night and never have to come back. To watch some glittery angel spread his fucking legs on stage, throw some bills, and then leave with friends, drunk and happy.

He swiveled his hips, slow and grinding, matching the beat of the song. Lifted his eyes, daring a heated glance at the bachelor party through his long bangs. There were four of them in total, but only one had his attention on the stage. On Daryl.

The man with the plastic crown on his head and shirt that said “GROOM” in bold black letters had his head ducked down, whispering with the man on his left, while the man on his right leaned over to listen. They were laughing and sipping their drinks. Daryl wasn’t catching their interest. They’d probably been here a while already, and the novelty was wearing off. Daryl had seen that happen a lot.

But the fourth guy. The one sitting on the end with a beer held to his lips…he was watching. He was watching intensely enough to make Daryl blush and twist away, flashing his white-pleathered ass and giving his hips a wiggle.

Turned around, he could still feel those eyes on him. He tried to ignore it, and moved through the song, through the vague choreography he’d planned. Dip his hips here, hump the pole there, arch his back, throw back his head, slide down to his knees and spread.

He looked over his shoulder, on his hands and knees, and his eyes found the man’s again. Fuck. Daryl had hoped it was a trick of the light before, but now he knew it wasn’t. He was hot. Late thirties, maybe even forties. Thick covering of lightly salted scruff over a nice jaw. His hair was dark and a little too long, like he was overdue for a haircut, little curls forming at the nape of his neck. And his mouth…it was red and full and perfectly bowed. When the man caught him looking, he smirked, and Daryl turned his head back to the other side of the club. But his backside remained facing the man.

The song hit its second chorus and he pushed his ass into the air, coaxing his body into some sexually demented downward dog, hoisting his hips and grabbing his ankles. Showing off his flexibility. “Make guys wanna fuck you in the backroom,” Joe had told him. The thought of this guy taking him in the back made Daryl’s underwear grow even tighter than it already was. And that…was an unusual reaction for him. He didn’t get excited over customers, plain and simple. They disgusted him, usually. Yeah, he’d been forced into the backrooms a lot, for private lap dances and sometimes, when Joe insisted, a little something extra. But that was always for the pleasure of the customer, never Daryl. He got paid extra if he let his ass grind down until they came in their pants. Got paid even more if he let them stick their hands down his pants. But it wasn’t enjoyable. It was fucking gross, and he only dealt with it because he had to.

But this guy…this guy who couldn’t stop staring at him…Daryl wasn’t sure what to think, but his dick sure did. By the time he stood back up for a final walk around the pole, his erection was straining. If his underwear hadn’t been so tight, he would have been sporting an embarrassing tent.

He took a turn at the pole and let himself look a final time. The eyes that met his were startlingly intense. Damn. No one had ever looked at him that way, inside a strip club or out of it.

The song was ending, and it was time to slink around the stage’s perimeter so appreciative customers could stick money into the waistband of his underwear. Tyreese was right, the tipping was good tonight, even if Daryl wasn’t anywhere near as built or as decent at the job. By the time he reached the bachelor party, he already had a hundred bucks shoved by his junk and over the crack of his ass. He crouched into a poised squat in front of the man wearing the GROOM shirt and crown, pivoting his hips to show off his ass. He gave it a shake and made himself smile shyly.

The bachelor’s friends started nudging him in the ribs and laughing. “Aaron, you’re supposed to tip him now!” one of them said around his cocktail straw.

Another burst out laughing, clearly deep in his alcohol, and cried out something about, “Make it good or I’ll tell Jesus how cheap you are.”

The man named Aaron blushed fiercely and stood up so he could pull out his wallet. His hand reached out to Daryl with a crisp twenty wedged between his fingers. He looked terrified, but his smile was sincere. “Do I just…?” he gave the money a little wave.

“Go on,” Daryl told him. “Stick it wherever you want.”

The friends liked that answer, and they howled as Aaron politely lifted the waistband of Daryl’s underwear and placed the twenty inside.

“You’re a very good dancer,” he said as he retook his seat. “Thank you.”

Daryl gave him a playful little nod. Since this guy didn’t seem like a total sleaze, it wasn’t even hard to do. “Thanks, man. You gettin’ hitched?”

Aaron nodded, his smile growing bright. He held his ring up to show Daryl. “Next week.”

“Congratulations.” He made a quick show of admiring the engagement band. “Bring your husband back some time, and I’ll give you a couple’s dance, on the house.”

They laughed, then, and Daryl almost didn’t hear the next question sent in his direction.

“Do you dance for single men, too?”

The voice was deep and sweet, and Daryl turned his head towards it. Of course it was the fourth member of the bachelor party. He was still staring, and shit, his face was even better up close. He held some money in his hands and tipped his chin. Daryl stood up from his crouch, walked the few steps it took to stand in front of him, and then went back down to his knees, seeing him straight-on for the first time.

“You do private dances?” the man asked. His fingers were careful and hot as he slipped the cash into the front of Daryl’s underwear. His fingertips lingered at his belly for a moment, and Daryl felt it like an electric shock.

He bit his lip. When he spoke, the man stood up so he could lean forward and hear over the music. Which had stopped being Pink Floyd thirty seconds ago and had switched over to—inevitably—Britney Spears. “Ain’t gonna be free,” he said.

The man laughed, and Daryl thought he might die. It was a damn good laugh. But his speaking voice was even better, and now it was close enough to his ear to tickle his skin. “How much for a lap dance?”

“Thirty,” Daryl answered. “Forty, if you want it private, in a backroom.”

The man’s eyes trailed down Daryl’s chest, then back up to his face. He licked his lips and looked to be on the verge of responding, when Joe appeared at his side and saddled Daryl with an impatient glare. “Got a request for you, Daryl,” he said, thumbing back at a man in a leather jacket, a red scarf around his neck like a real son of a bitch. He was seated in a chair close to the bar. Not unattractive, but definitely giving off vibes Daryl didn’t like.

“Get that sour fucking look off your face, boy, before it gets smacked off,” Joe threatened, grabbing Daryl’s hand and half-pulling him off the stage.

His wings slapped Hot Guy in the face, and he whipped his head around to give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Gotta go where the boss wants me.”

Hot Guy nodded. But he didn’t look happy about it as Daryl was led away.

Joe whispered continuously in his ear as he marched him toward the leather jacket customer. “Be nice to Negan,” he warned. “He’s got a lot of money to spend tonight, and for some reason, he’s taken a liking to your feathery ass. Give him whatever he wants and do it with a smile on your face for once.” He gave Daryl a push that sent him falling unceremoniously into this Negan person’s lap.

“Shit. Sorry.” He tried to get up, but hands held hard at his hips, keeping him wedged where he was: an awkward straddle that forced his ass against the man’s crotch.

“I saw your dance, sweetheart,” Negan greeted, his fingers tightening over Daryl’s hips and digging into his thighs. “You have got one fine ass. Thought I was gonna cream myself.”

Daryl tried again to stand up, but he was forced back down. Negan was already hard, and Daryl could feel every inch of him straining his jeans, trying to get at Daryl’s backside. He pushed him down by the hips and humped against him. Daryl turned his head away, trying to hide his disgust. But fuck, man, he wasn’t ready to rub this guy off in the middle of the club. That’s what the backroom was for. And he wasn’t taking kindly to being thrown in this asshole’s lap just so he could get rubbed off on. And that’s what the fucker was doing. He bounced Daryl on his lap, right there, for anyone to see, his iron grip not letting Daryl move an inch.

“Fuck yeah,” Negan moaned. “You’re really gettin’ me going. Fell the big cock I’ve got for you?”

“Of course I fuckin’ feel it,” Daryl snapped, unable to resist smacking him the chest. “You’re not really givin’ me a choice.”

“Gonna make you feel it,” Negan continued, grinding harder against Daryl.

And this…this wasn’t something Daryl was into. At all. He slapped at Negan again. Harder this time. Panic was starting to swell up in his chest. The feel of hands on his body was unbearable. “Stop,” he said. When Negan didn’t, he said it again, louder. “Stop.” He pushed at his shoulder. “Get the fuck off me.”

Negan was groaning, dry humping Daryl like a fucking dog with their favorite stuffed animal.

Daryl felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be doing this. He was so fucking tired. “Hey,” he said, putting all his strength into his struggle to get away. “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!”

But Negan wasn’t listening, or else he didn’t care. His eyes were falling shut in pleasure, and Daryl could tell he was close to coming. Suddenly, miraculously, arms wrapped around him from behind, and Daryl was lifted off Negan’s lap in a single sweep that landed him gently on the ground a few feet away.

He stood disoriented for a moment, not understanding how he was suddenly free, before he recognized the dark curls hauling Negan out of his chair and throwing him across the table. It was Hot Guy, and he had a furious look in his eyes and handcuffs in his hands.

“You’re under arrest, asshole,” Hot Guy said, cuffing Negan and pulling out his cell phone. “It’s Rick,” he said a few seconds later. “Yeah, we’re down at the club. It was going great until someone started sexually assaulting one of the workers.” His eyes cut to Daryl a moment. “Got someone in the neighborhood? I’m off duty here. Don’t want the guys coming down on me for ruining Aaron’s bachelor party.” He nodded. “Thanks. Send them in. I’ll have him in the lobby.” He hung up the phone and yanked on the cuffs until Negan was standing upright.

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing,” Negan huffed dramatically, “but you are gonna regret the fuck out of it. What’s your name, son?”

“Rick Grimes,” Hot Guy said. “Come find me when your ass isn’t in court for assault. I’d love to settle it with you, man to man.” He pulled Negan forward, making a wide berth around Daryl as he led him towards the lobby.

Daryl stood staring after them, and so did everyone else in the club. Only Britney Spears seemed undisturbed, still singing about being a “Slave 4 U”, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Joe was the first person to move, and then, shortly after, yell. “Daryl Dixon, you stupid son of a bitch! What’d I tell you? Why’d you have to make such a fuckin’ fuss?”

“Fuck you!” Daryl screamed, thrusting his finger in Joe’s face. “I’m done. I’m finished, man. I ain’t workin’ for you no more. I’m not a fuckin’ whore.”

“Go on, then,” Joe spat. “Think I give a shit what you do? Get out of here. And don’t think you’re gettin’ paid for tonight, either.” He snapped his fingers. “Get, boy! This is the last favor I’m doin’ for a fuckin’ Dixon.”

“Whatever, man. Don’t need you, anyhow.” Daryl stormed past the gawking customers and into the dressing room, which was blessedly empty. “Fuck!” he yelled, pulling off his angel wings and throwing them across the room. Glitter poofed from his skin as he stalked to the mirror. Truth was, he was screwed. He couldn’t afford this outburst. He pulled the bills out of his underwear—hadn’t even had a chance to tidy himself from his dance before he’d been thrust into that Negan asshole’s lap—and shoved them in his backpack, not counting how much he’d made. His hands shook as he pulled out the jeans he’d be wearing home. There was a reason he’d ended up working at this trashy club, waving his ass around like he was for sale. After a life of drifting with his brother, he had a shit resume. No one wanted to hire him off the street looking the way he did. Like a Dixon. Like a piece of backwoods trash.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, fighting a sob. “You really messed up this time.”

He was fixing to peel the white underwear down his hips and get dressed, when the dressing room door creaked open and a lithe figure stepped through. Slender hips and a confident walk led Hot Guy—Rick Grimes—right to him. His eyes were intensely blue now Daryl could see him in lights that weren’t pink and strobing. He stopped a foot away, looking pissed.

“Hey, man,” Daryl offered, not in the mood to deal with this guy’s attitude. “Sorry you didn’t get your dance.”

“You serious?” Rick asked, dipping his head so Daryl couldn’t avoid his persistent eye contact. “I don’t care about that. I came in here to make sure you were okay.”

Daryl’s mouth opened, but there weren’t words. He’d always had a hard time finding them when he really needed to, really wanted to. A heavy sigh from Rick told him something though. He wasn’t pissed off because of anything Daryl had done. His shoulders relaxed a little.

Rick noticed, and some of his anger shifted into something else, something Daryl couldn’t name. “Negan’s been on our radar for months,” he said, speaking to Daryl casually, like he wasn’t a random stripper he’d just perplexingly saved the virtue of. “I knew he was gonna be trouble as soon as he walked in. I should have stopped all that before it started. Sorry. Is it…is it Daryl?”

Daryl chewed his thumbnail and grunted in the affirmative. Fuck if he knew why this hot cop was standing here talking to him like he was someone worth talking to. “Don’t gotta be sorry,” he said. “Guess I should be thankin’ you, huh?”

“Don’t gotta thank me, Daryl.”

“Alright, then.”

Through the thin walls, “Baby Got Back” started playing, and Daryl knew Abraham was taking the stage. He blew a weak laugh through his teeth and looked up at Hot Guy. Or, uh, Rick. “I gotta get out of here.”

Rick nodded. “Shift over?”

“Nah. Just started. But I quit. So.”

“Oh.” Rick looked surprised. And maybe, Daryl noted with interest, a little disappointed. “That’s good. Place like this…it’s not good enough for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“You know.” Rick smiled. “An angel.” He toed at the fallen wings between them, all rumpled and wilted on the floor.

“Ain’t no angel,” Daryl insisted. “But you’re right. This place wasn’t for me. Wasn’t ever a good fit.” He boldly held Rick’s gaze. “But.”


“I was thinkin’ I’d probably fit good with you, in one of them backrooms.” At Rick’s widening eyes, he blushed and had to glance away. “If you still wanted that lap dance.”

“But you quit.”

“All that means is you don’t gotta pay me.” This wasn’t in Daryl’s wheelhouse. He knew he should be aching to get home and start scrubbing off all the glitter, and finish a six pack alone, and start worrying about what he was gonna do for money now. But with Rick standing in front of him, curls a little wild, eyes even wilder, all Daryl wanted to do was take this man’s hand and lead him someplace quiet, so he could give this hellhole a proper sendoff. Maybe come all over Joe’s stupid velvet upholstery.

But then Daryl remembered this guy was a cop, and a hesitant looking one at that. “Shit. You gonna arrest me for attempting to seduce an officer, or somethin’?”

That startled a laugh out of Rick. “You’re attempting to seduce me right now?” he asked.

Daryl shrugged, his blush worsening by the second. “Not real good at it, I guess.” He stared down at the ground and wished for it to open up and swallow him.

Fingers tucked beneath his chin and raised his eyes. “Oh, you’re good at it,” Rick said, voice a softly sweet rumble that made Daryl want to drop to his knees. “It’s been a long time since I had a lap dance though. I don’t remember the rules. Am I allowed to touch you?”

Daryl’s lips twitched. “Only if I say so.”

Rick reached for Daryl’s hand before Daryl could reach for his. “Then let’s go, angel.”


Daryl led Rick through the club, sticking close the wall and keeping his eyes open for Joe. He didn’t see him anywhere. No doubt he’d gone to the station with Negan to try and smooth his feathers. The backrooms were all occupied, save the one on the end. Daryl opened the thick velvet curtain and pulled Rick inside.

They were down a hall, so it was quieter here. Intimate. Usually that was a bad thing, but with Rick, it had Daryl’s heart pumping. He sat him down on the velvet bench seat. It was a small cubby of a room, only a few square feet. Just enough room for the job to be done. This wasn’t a job though. This was just Daryl and a guy he thought was really hot. A guy he thought he might like.

“You got a song preference?” he asked, scrolling through the iPod they kept for everyone to use. He cocked an eyebrow at Rick, who was sitting with his arms over the back of the seat, leaning languidly and making Daryl’s mouth dry with want.

“Does it make me a jackass if I say I don’t care?” he asked.

“Nah. Only makes you a jackass if you pick somethin’ skanky,” Daryl said, putting the music on shuffle to see what they got. When “Wicked Game” started playing through the speakers, Daryl rolled his eyes and went to change it.

“Wait,” Rick said. “I like this one.”


“Yeah.” Damn, that smile. “Come here.”

“This song’s got no beat,” Daryl complained, but he still went to him, still pushed his knees apart and stood between his legs.

“It’s not skanky though,” Rick reasoned. His fingers twitched, and Daryl grinned crookedly, knowing he was trying hard not to touch.

“But it’s all romantic and shit. That’s worse.”

“It’s not worse,” Rick insisted. Again, his fingers twitched. “You gonna dance for me?”

Daryl sighed, like it was some put-upon thing. Like he wasn’t dying to get his thighs around Rick’s waist. “I’ll start when I feel like it,” he replied, propping a foot up on the seat beside Rick’s hip. “Ain’t like I’m getting paid for this.” But he was. He was getting paid in the form of Rick’s heavy stare, and the sound of his deep breaths, and the smell of him, clean and heady. His smelled vaguely of citrus, and Daryl wondered if it was shampoo or some other product. Something to tame those curls, maybe. He wanted to find out. He wanted to smell like Rick. Like he was Rick’s.

He rolled his hips, smirking when his stomach brushed against Rick’s shirt and left behind a smattering of glitter. Rick didn’t seem to mind though. His attention was rapt as Daryl brought his other leg up, and then he was straddling Hot Guy, hovering above him so they weren’t touching. Yet.

Rick’s hands balled into fists, but he kept them where they were, still resting on the back of the seat. His eyes, however, were everywhere, sweeping indulgently down Daryl’s body. His plump lips were parted, and Daryl was pleased to see they were just as red outside the glow of the main club room. He set his hands on Rick’s shoulders, pleased by the strength he felt there, and the heat. His hips snaked forward, and his crotch brushed lightly against Rick’s chest. He shivered and pushed back, letting his ass skim the tops of Rick’s thighs.

Rick licked his lips and Daryl leaned in, his mouth finding the scruff of Rick’s cheek. “Put your hands on me,” he whispered.

Large, warm hands fell instantly to his waist, and Daryl sighed, relaxing his backside firmly down on Rick’s lap. Rick pulled him closer, tucking Daryl neatly against him and burrowing his face in the angle of Daryl’s neck, breathing deep.

“It’s not really a lap dance if we’re just huggin’,” Daryl scoffed, because that’s what they were doing. Some kind of weird, full body embrace. And man, he was digging it big time.

Rick groaned against his neck, his hands smoothing down to grip Daryl’s ass. “Can I eat you out?” he asked. He sounded absolutely wrecked. “Wanna taste you. Wanna rim your ass until you come.”

“Well, hell,” Daryl huffed. “That ain’t romantic at all.” But in the next breath, he was hurrying out of Rick’s lap and letting himself be maneuvered onto his knees, his stomach lying flat on the seat. Rick got on the floor behind him and wasted no time yanking down his little pleather panties.

Daryl grunted when Rick shoved his nose between his cheeks, and they moaned in tandem.

“You smell perfect,” Rick murmured against his skin.

When Daryl felt a tongue dart out and lick a wet stipe up his crack, he cried out, bucking his hips. Rick held him tight, keeping him where he wanted. Which, coincidentally, was exactly where Daryl wanted to be.

“Gonna tongue fuck you,” Rick warned before parting Daryl’s cheeks and pressing into his hole with an enthusiasm Daryl had never experienced. He groaned, like tasting Daryl’s ass was something holy.

“Oh, fuck,” Daryl hissed, trying to keep still. “You’re…you’re good at that.”

“Mmm,” came Rick’s muffled reply as he pushed his tongue deep as it would go.

Daryl abandoned making fists in the velvet seat in order to push his underwear the rest of the way down his thighs. Before he could do it himself, one of Rick’s hands came around to grip his cock. He was hard and aching for it, his precome making the shaft nice and slick for Rick’s pumping grasp.

“Rick,” he grated, his voice destroyed by pleasure. “This is good. It’s—fuck, yeah—real good. But I want you to fuck me. Want your cock, Rick.”

That got Rick’s attention. He licked and sucked at Daryl’s rim a final time before lifting his eyes. “I can fuck you?”

“Yeah, you can fuck me,” Daryl insisted. “It’s part of the goddamn seduction.” He waved his ass in Rick’s face. “Gimme a finger for a second, and I’ll be ready.”

Rick was smiling as he quickly unzipped his pants, remaining on his knees as he pulled out his cock. “Talk about romantic. Jesus.” He stroked himself with one hand while the other brought a spit-slick finger to Daryl’s hole. He was already relaxed from the rimming, and the finger slipped in easily. Daryl only let him fuck him that way for a few seconds though, because he was growing desperate and restless. He slapped away Rick’s hand and muffled a shout into the crook of his elbow when Rick grabbed his hips and pulled him into his lap on the floor.

Daryl hovered with his hole above Rick’s cock, the head teasing him. “There’s lube, right there,” he grunted, pointing weakly to the little drawer obscured beneath the bench seat. It was kept there for obvious reasons.

“That’s convenient,” Rick commented breathily.

“Well. Strip Club.” Daryl hurriedly reached into the drawer, squirted a handful of lube into his hand, and then reached back to unceremoniously slather it all over Rick’s cock. “Get inside me,” he demanded.

“Yeah, gimme a sec,” Rick shushed, and Daryl felt rustling behind him, followed by a tell-tale crinkling.

Daryl waited impatiently for the condom to get slipped on, glancing over his shoulder at Rick, trying to urge him to go faster with his eyes. Then with words. “I’m dyin’, man.”

It came out like a whine, a bratty one at that, and Rick surprised him by sweetly shushing him, his hand smoothing down his back, while the other gripped the base of his cock. Daryl wished he could see it better, but the angle was shit.

“Calm down,” Rick gentled. “I’m gonna fuck you. Lower yourself down for me.”

The song on the stereo changed. “Baby Got Back” started playing.

“Damn it, Abraham,” Daryl groaned.

Rick was laughing when he eased down on his cock. And then it wasn’t really funny anymore.

Rick’s hands spread across his stomach, anchoring him. Daryl could feel every throb of his cock deep inside, stretching him wide. “Fuck,” he hissed when Rick started pumping his hips. “Almost makes the past year worth it.”

“Yeah?” Rick panted against his neck, fingers teasing up to play with Daryl’s nipples. “You gonna leave here with me tonight, angel? Gonna make my year worth it, too?”

Daryl braced his hands on the seat so he could rock his hips, working himself up and down. He didn’t know what this was, but it didn’t feel like a quick fuck in the backroom of a strip club. “You like takin’ strippers home, officer?” he gasped, happy sweat forming at his hairline.

“Just you,” Rick grunted, pushing up on his knees to bend Daryl back over the seat. “Just you, Daryl.” He kissed his back and pushed in with a thrust that made Daryl’s head spin. He squeezed his ass, then took his cock in hand, working him over hard.

“Shit. You’re gonna make me come,” Daryl warned. It was too good, and his stamina wasn’t prepared for a man like Rick Grimes.

“Go on and come for me, then,” Rick said, stroking him harder, grinding deep and making Daryl see stars—no, the fucking universe. “Get messy, angel. Show me how much you like it.”

Daryl liked it an awful lot—that much was made apparent by the copious volume of come he spurted, taking special care to aim it in the direction of the velvet cushions, and even, with a satisfied smirk, the wall. He gasped and turned into liquid in Rick’s arms, groaning in complaint when Rick pulled out, slipped off the condom, and started finishing himself with his hand.

Daryl twisted around to watch. Couldn’t resist reaching out and tracing his sticky fingers over Rick’s nice button-down. He was still dressed. Daryl couldn’t wait to get him out of his clothes and see what was under all that Hot Guy uniform. “Come on the velvet,” he whispered, leaning forward to wrap his hand around Rick’s. He stuck out his tongue and licked the head of his cock when it pushed through his grip.

Rick trembled, sobbed with pleasure, and did as he was told, spending all over Joe’s fancy-ass, stupid velvet upholstery.

“Nice,” Daryl managed to say before he was swept up into Rick’s arms and kissed fiercely.

If fucking him had been good, kissing him was even better. His mouth was soft and persistent, dominating and perfect and…

Daryl broke the kiss. He stared breathlessly at Rick, already counting down the seconds until he could lean back in and do it again. But first, he had something to confess. “Rick Grimes,” he whispered.

“Hmm?” Rick helped tuck Daryl back into his little pleather undies, looking content as a man can be in a seedy place like this.

“You, uh…” Daryl bit his lip. “You’re covered in glitter, man. Like, that shit’s not comin’ out easy.” He flicked a speck of shininess off the shirt. Fuck. It was in his beard, too. “Gonna arrest me for making a man of the law real sparkly?”

Rick rubbed at his beard, smiling wide. His eyes wrinkled at the corners. “Aww, hell.” He wrapped his arms around Daryl and nuzzled his neck with his glittery beard. “Still worth it, angel.”

And hell if it wasn’t all worth it, just to hear that.