˚✙ᴗ། ⑅ ᥲρρᥣeɦᥱᥲd💉: ۟ ۟⁺

Daryl takes too long to answer. He’s just staring at him with those stupid doe eyes, and he must notice Max’s desperation because his expression softens and gives him a small smile.

“Okay.”

The relief that washes over Max is immediate, and ugly. His hand falls against the other’s cheek and caresses it. Daryl looks confused (rightfully so) but he doesn’t say anything and leans into the warmth, closing his eyes hesitantly, his lashes fluttering like butterfly wings as he wonders if this is the right thing to do.

Max clenches his jaw. Daryl is so beautiful, and he hates that he’s his greatest weakness, especially because Daryl is not even aware of it, which makes it worse.

His other hand rests on Daryl’s other cheek, cupping his face, not cruelly, but firm enough to make him open his eyes and stay still. And there he is, the Max he always knew.

“I don’t want,” he murmurs, barely brushing his thumb over Daryl’s lower lip, “to see you with other guys. They don’t deserve you. You’re mine. Do you understand?”

He brushes a few loose curls off Daryl’s forehead so he can see his eyes more clearly. Daryl just stares at him like a frightened fawn, and Max is scared by how much that turns him on.

He brings his lips close to Daryl’s without kissing him.

“Are you afraid of me, Daryl?”

Daryl swallows.

“No,” but his voice is too quiet, too soft, uncertain.

“Then why are you shaking?”

Daryl parts his lips to answer, but before he can say anything, Max kisses him.

It’s rough, wet, familiar in a way. Daryl tries to follow his rhythm, but it’s useless and he probably looks ridiculous. When Max pulls back, a thin string of saliva connects them.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me. I’ll take care of you.”

And Daryl believes him.

.

.

.

Daryl stares at the wall and pulls the sheet up to his nose. Max holds him from behind, hand resting low on his abdomen and his face buried in his neck. They’d had sex. But this time it feels different. Maybe because of their new relationship status. Maybe not.

“Was I too rough?”

“No,” Daryl murmurs. “But…”

Before he can finish, he feels Max’s hand slide lower, wrapping around his member and starting to stroke him. Daryl lets out a low moan and tries to hide his face in the pillow; he’s still extremely sensitive after his orgasm, so even the slightest touch is too much. He can feel Max's hard erection pressing insistently against his lower back.

“M-mh… Max, I can’t—” he complains weakly, although his hips begin to move on instinct.

Max growls and, in one quick movement, flips Daryl onto his stomach, legs spread and ass in the air. Daryl cries out loudly as Max thrusts into him in one single motion, gripping his hips and fucking him mercilessly. Daryl drops his head into the pillow, Max's cock is so thick that he can feel every vein throbbing inside him.

Max leans forward slightly to watch him better: his curls are messy, stuck to his forehead and neck, his eyes squeezed shut, those lashes looking even longer, his swollen lips parted in a small “o” as he moans, cheeks completely flushed with arousal, brows furrowed. Max wets his lips.

After a few more thrusts, he comes deep inside Daryl with a low growl, gripping his hips tightly as he feels Daryl clench around him while reaching his own orgasm. Max leans down, resting his forehead against Daryl’s shoulder as he breaths heavily, then kisses it.

He shifts onto his side and pulls Daryl with him, pressing his back to his chest, he grabs the forgotten sheet at the foot of the bed to cover them both. He holds Daryl’s waist firmly, as if afraid he might run away, and suddenly Daryl remembers why everything felt so strange despite having sex countless times before.

Max never held him like this afterward. Never covered him. Never asked if he’d been too rough. Usually, he just went straight to sleep or smoked.

And that scares him; in a way.

“Max.”

“Mhm?” Max’s hand settles on his abdomen again, this time just to caress him, and Daryl shivers.

“I love you.”

Max doesn’t answer right away.

He pulls away and gets out of the bed. Daryl turns to look at him, confused and alarmed.

“Max…?” his voice sounds so weak, dependent, and he hates it.

He still doesn’t respond. He walks over to the window and lits a cigarette.

Daryl pulls the sheet up higher and instinctively curls in on himself, feeling his eyes start to sting. I ruined it, he tells himself.

Max exhales the smoke slowly.

“Why did you say that?” he finally asks.

“I- I’m sorry… I thought you did too,” but I see that you don’t, he finishes in his mind.

Max doesn’t move. He stays there, back tense, the cigarette burning between his fingers, letting the silence grow heavier and more suffocating. From the bed, Daryl feels the air in the room change; it’s no longer post-sex warmth, but coldness. The way Max suddenly slips back into the distant version he always knew fills him with anxiety.

After a while, Max crushes the cigarette against the window frame and walks back to the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and reaches out; with a roughness that makes Daryl tense, he pulls the sheet away from his face.

“Do you think that just because I don’t say it, it isn’t true?” Max asks, lowering his face until their breaths mingled. Daryl tries to pull back, but Max’s hand slides up to his neck, anchoring him in place. “You’re an idiot, Daryl. You’re mine, don’t you get it? I don’t need stupid words to make sure you can’t go anywhere.”

A chill runs down Daryl’s spine. For Max, love isn’t a feeling, it’s a contract of ownership.

“Say it again,” Max demands, his thumb pressing just under Daryl’s jaw, forcing him to keep eye contact.

“Max…” Daryl whispers, his heart hammering against his ribs. When had pleasure turned into this constant surveillance?

“Say it.”

Daryl hesitates for a second before answering. “I love you…” repeats, sounding less like a confession and more like surrender.

Max gives him a crooked smile. Not out of tenderness, but cold satisfaction. He looms over Daryl, trapping him with the weight of his body, forcing him to feel every inch of him.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, placing a kiss on his forehead, the praise feeling like a branding iron.

Without another word, Max pulls him into his chest without asking, holding him firmly to keep him from escaping. Daryl curls into him instinctively, but doesn’t close his eyes.

He loves me, he tries to convince himself over and over, but the more he repeats it, the more distant and hollow it sounds.

Daryl stays stiff in his arms. Max’s chest rises and falls calmly, as if he hasn’t just mark Daryl’s skin and mind with a sentence. His breathing is steady, heavy, certain. Daryl’s is not. Max rests his chin on Daryl’s hair and murmurs something unintelligible in his sleep.

He loves me, he tells himself again.

But this time he understands something new, something that brought no comfort.

Max does love him.

It’s just that, for Max, love means possession.