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yeah but, why aren’t there any stalker!norman’s random character x reader fics?
like, there’s lots of daddy dom daryl content. and i get it, norman’s daddy material, but have you ever watched some of his less known movies? red canyon for example. his character’s real dark and sick in it. (and hot)
or have you seen his interviews? i think a lot of what norman’s said fits very well with dark content, or dddne.
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im obsessed with your last fic so much you captured that subject so well!!
i’m glad u liked it, baby. ty for reading it. ♥︎ i wasn’t sure whether to post it or not, precisely because of the sensitive subject, but in the end i did it, and i’m happy u enjoyed it so much.
my blog is literally just for poetic dark fics so...
✶ table of contents ⨾ secret relationship (?) undertones. heavy dead dove. twincest. taboo & dark themes. depravity. morally grey. explicit sexual content. emotional connection. first times.
✶ pairing ⨾ young!daryl dixon x twin fem!reader.
You and Daryl have always had something no one else could understand. Grew up side by side, same womb, same day, same bruises. You share birthdays, tastes, habits and even little quirks in the way you speak and move. You learned early that the world didn’t give a damn about you, not even your own family, but he did; and you did for him as well. That bond dug its claws in deep—past what’s right, past what’s clean.
Daryl is the only one who really sees you —not as someone’s little sister, not as someone’s daughter— just you. And you’re the only one who sees him. With you, Daryl doesn’t have to be tough, doesn’t have to hide the way he clings or how soft his voice can get. You’re the only person he’s ever trusted with all of him, so when that trust bled into something else, neither of you stopped it.
The love between you is born from the same bruises, the same screaming nights, the same long hours hiding from your father’s temper. And maybe that’s why the lines got blurred—because when you have clung to someone to survive your whole life, you start to need them in ways you shouldn’t.
You can’t even agree on when it started. Maybe it was that time on your tenth birthday, when you kissed his lips because you had seen in a movie that’s how people showed love. Maybe it was the night in your teens you both stripped down to see what sex felt like. It could’ve been the summer Merle was in juvie, Dad passed out every night, and you ended up in Daryl’s bed because it was the only place you didn’t feel scared.
Whatever the reason was, one kiss turned into two, that turned into a hand under your shirt, and that turned into his mouth on your nipple while you tried not to moan loud enough to wake anyone. And once that door opened, it never closed again.
However, you haven’t been as subtle as you initially thought—Merle’s caught some interesting antics before, unbeknownst to you. He’s seen you sitting on Daryl’s lap with your shirt slipped off one shoulder. His hand low on your back, thumb brushing the top of your ass. He’s witnessed the way Daryl’s kisses land close enough to your mouth that it’s not really a cheek kiss anymore.
Merle will smirk, though, shake his head, mutter something about “lil’ freaky bastards” under his breath, and leave. He doesn’t snitch, fortunately. Maybe because he likes watching you squirm when you realize you’ve been caught. Maybe because he knows no one in that house can judge anyone else for how they survive.
But the best nights are when Dad’s passed out and Merle’s gone. That’s when one of you slips into the other’s room, bare feet on the warped floorboards, moving slow so nothing creaks.
The second the door shuts, it’s like something magnetic pulls you together. Daryl’s hands go to your hips first, then up under your shirt, fingers rough and warm. He cups your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden. Sometimes he’ll pinch until you gasp, and that sound will always make his breath hitch.
You’ll pull his shirt over his head, running your hands down his chest, tracing scars you’ve both known since they were fresh. He kisses you like he’s starving—tongue in your mouth, his palm sliding down to squeeze your ass, pulling you against his hard-on.
It never takes long before you’re both naked, tangled in sheets that smell like him. He’ll push you onto your back, settle between your legs, and just look for a second—like he’s taking in something only he’s allowed to see. Then he’s sucking on your nipple, groaning low while his hand slips between your thighs.
His fingers work you open, rough pads circling your clit until you’re wet and trembling. When you stroke him in return, his hips jerk forward like he can’t help it. He always leaks for you fast, the head of his cock slick and hot in your palm.
Sometimes he goes slow, drawing it out, pressing his forehead to yours while he pushes inside inch by inch. Other nights he’s already shaking before he’s even in all the way, and he fucks you hard, muttering your name like a prayer he’s scared to say too loud.
He likes you on top, watching your tits bounce, your nipples swinging close enough for him to catch in his mouth. He’ll grab your hips and hold you down when he’s close, grinding up into you while his tongue works your sensitive bud until you’re clenching around him.
Doggy style is different, means less eye contact, but more desperation. He’ll pull you back by your hips, squeezing your ass while he pounds into you, fingers finding your clit without missing a beat. Sometimes he’ll bend forward to bite your shoulder, teeth sharp enough to leave a mark.
The routine it’s not every night, but it’s often enough that you both notice the ache when it’s been too long. You’ve had quick fucks with your jeans still around your knees, and long, drawn-out sessions where he comes inside you and then stays buried, kissing your jaw, rubbing your clit until you come again.
In the daylight, it’s subtle—his hand brushing yours when no one’s looking, a kiss stolen in the hallway, his thumb stroking your palm under the dinner table. At night, it’s anything but subtle. It’s sweat and tangled limbs and the smell of sex clinging to your skin.
Maybe this happened because no one else will ever understand you like he does. Maybe it’s because neither of you learned that love between siblings wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But at least it’s yours. And you’ll keep it. Even if it means letting him fuck you in the bed you grew up in, whispering your name like he’s scared you’ll forget you’re his.
Neither of you will talk about it. You won’t define it either. You’ll just keep doing it, over and over, because it feels like love and it feels like need and you’re too far gone to untangle which is which.
⋆˚࿔ 𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ⁞ heartbreak in haute couture ✦ dark & taboo themes. i’m not responsible for the media you consume. ˖ ۫ ʚ
so, when it comes to taboo subjects, this is definitely the one that gets me the most. not in a sexual, smutty fun way, but just that i find it so fascinating how circumstances and environment could and would lead to that. and you capture the psychology of all that so well, with an aching kind of beauty so well. this one really just made me wanna cry for them 💙
✶ table of contents ⨾ secret relationship (?) undertones. heavy dead dove. twincest. taboo & dark themes. depravity. morally grey. explicit sexual content. emotional connection. first times.
✶ pairing ⨾ young!daryl dixon x twin fem!reader.
You and Daryl have always had something no one else could understand. Grew up side by side, same womb, same day, same bruises. You share birthdays, tastes, habits and even little quirks in the way you speak and move. You learned early that the world didn’t give a damn about you, not even your own family, but he did; and you did for him as well. That bond dug its claws in deep—past what’s right, past what’s clean.
Daryl is the only one who really sees you —not as someone’s little sister, not as someone’s daughter— just you. And you’re the only one who sees him. With you, Daryl doesn’t have to be tough, doesn’t have to hide the way he clings or how soft his voice can get. You’re the only person he’s ever trusted with all of him, so when that trust bled into something else, neither of you stopped it.
The love between you is born from the same bruises, the same screaming nights, the same long hours hiding from your father’s temper. And maybe that’s why the lines got blurred—because when you have clung to someone to survive your whole life, you start to need them in ways you shouldn’t.
You can’t even agree on when it started. Maybe it was that time on your tenth birthday, when you kissed his lips because you had seen in a movie that’s how people showed love. Maybe it was the night in your teens you both stripped down to see what sex felt like. It could’ve been the summer Merle was in juvie, Dad passed out every night, and you ended up in Daryl’s bed because it was the only place you didn’t feel scared.
Whatever the reason was, one kiss turned into two, that turned into a hand under your shirt, and that turned into his mouth on your nipple while you tried not to moan loud enough to wake anyone. And once that door opened, it never closed again.
However, you haven’t been as subtle as you initially thought—Merle’s caught some interesting antics before, unbeknownst to you. He’s seen you sitting on Daryl’s lap with your shirt slipped off one shoulder. His hand low on your back, thumb brushing the top of your ass. He’s witnessed the way Daryl’s kisses land close enough to your mouth that it’s not really a cheek kiss anymore.
Merle will smirk, though, shake his head, mutter something about “lil’ freaky bastards” under his breath, and leave. He doesn’t snitch, fortunately. Maybe because he likes watching you squirm when you realize you’ve been caught. Maybe because he knows no one in that house can judge anyone else for how they survive.
But the best nights are when Dad’s passed out and Merle’s gone. That’s when one of you slips into the other’s room, bare feet on the warped floorboards, moving slow so nothing creaks.
The second the door shuts, it’s like something magnetic pulls you together. Daryl’s hands go to your hips first, then up under your shirt, fingers rough and warm. He cups your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they harden. Sometimes he’ll pinch until you gasp, and that sound will always make his breath hitch.
You’ll pull his shirt over his head, running your hands down his chest, tracing scars you’ve both known since they were fresh. He kisses you like he’s starving—tongue in your mouth, his palm sliding down to squeeze your ass, pulling you against his hard-on.
It never takes long before you’re both naked, tangled in sheets that smell like him. He’ll push you onto your back, settle between your legs, and just look for a second—like he’s taking in something only he’s allowed to see. Then he’s sucking on your nipple, groaning low while his hand slips between your thighs.
His fingers work you open, rough pads circling your clit until you’re wet and trembling. When you stroke him in return, his hips jerk forward like he can’t help it. He always leaks for you fast, the head of his cock slick and hot in your palm.
Sometimes he goes slow, drawing it out, pressing his forehead to yours while he pushes inside inch by inch. Other nights he’s already shaking before he’s even in all the way, and he fucks you hard, muttering your name like a prayer he’s scared to say too loud.
He likes you on top, watching your tits bounce, your nipples swinging close enough for him to catch in his mouth. He’ll grab your hips and hold you down when he’s close, grinding up into you while his tongue works your sensitive bud until you’re clenching around him.
Doggy style is different, means less eye contact, but more desperation. He’ll pull you back by your hips, squeezing your ass while he pounds into you, fingers finding your clit without missing a beat. Sometimes he’ll bend forward to bite your shoulder, teeth sharp enough to leave a mark.
The routine it’s not every night, but it’s often enough that you both notice the ache when it’s been too long. You’ve had quick fucks with your jeans still around your knees, and long, drawn-out sessions where he comes inside you and then stays buried, kissing your jaw, rubbing your clit until you come again.
In the daylight, it’s subtle—his hand brushing yours when no one’s looking, a kiss stolen in the hallway, his thumb stroking your palm under the dinner table. At night, it’s anything but subtle. It’s sweat and tangled limbs and the smell of sex clinging to your skin.
Maybe this happened because no one else will ever understand you like he does. Maybe it’s because neither of you learned that love between siblings wasn’t supposed to feel like this. But at least it’s yours. And you’ll keep it. Even if it means letting him fuck you in the bed you grew up in, whispering your name like he’s scared you’ll forget you’re his.
Neither of you will talk about it. You won’t define it either. You’ll just keep doing it, over and over, because it feels like love and it feels like need and you’re too far gone to untangle which is which.
⋆˚࿔ 𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ⁞ heartbreak in haute couture ✦ dark & taboo themes. i’m not responsible for the media you consume. ˖ ۫ ʚ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
