Melissa, 20s, she/they. i write fanfic in my spare time and daydream when i don't ♡
↬ this blog is my side blog to post my fics and talk about my various media interests. while mostly focused on horror media (The Walking Dead and Resident Evil), I do occasionally post about other media.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ RECENT WORKS
↬ Just One More Day [THATW Extra] – Daryl Dixon x reader
↬ No More Tears – Daryl Dixon x reader
↬ maybe— – Daryl Dixon x reader
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↬ I do not take requests anymore. They stress me out too much and I feel my work suffers from it. Asks talking about whatever are fine though! I'm happy to talk!! :)
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for someone a self proclaimed pervert i sure do love writing long winded internal monologues where characters sit and think about what they want but cannot have instead of. you know. dry humping and whatnot
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.
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Your artstyle is like your gut microbiome in the way its everything you consume and like and it also has all your bacteria up in it. Thats probably how that works
Summary: A minuscule part of him liked that you stayed quiet in his arms, trusting him to not hurt you, to help, and not acting like a headstrong ass about him offering help. No matter how long it had been since he fell into your arms and home, the reminder that you had finally warmed up to him enough to trust made his chest ache and heart feel too big for his ribcage.
The bigger part of him felt like it was dying for liking that such trust had to be shown because of your pain.
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x GN!Reader
Word count: 2.4k
Additional tags: hurt/comfort, non-sexual nudity, there's really not much to warn about Daryl's just sweet with the reader when the weather is shit
Author's note: I stg this series has cursed my area with dogshit weather but fuck it we ball. Mother Nature isn't stopping me from writing about Daryl !!
read on ao3 // thatw masterlist
Over the past year and a half, Daryl quickly learned that you never seemed to cry. At least, nowhere out in the open where prying eyes (him) could see. As though the simple fact of having emotions was a sin, you hid every time, and each time afterwards you would eventually wander back out into the open as though nothing had happened at all. You never acknowledged it, and afraid of pushing you away, he didn’t either.
He knew you knew he knew about the crying, but it seemed as long as he didn’t say a word of it, it was fine. So he just kept his mouth shut, and did other things to help; hold you, cook, finish up whatever task had been too frustrating. Words couldn't fix it and he didn’t even know where to start to try, but he could do something to make it better still.
Another fact, that both endeared and terrified him, was how you acted when a storm was coming.
In fact he wasn’t sure you even knew about it; the slightly wide-eyed look you would get seemingly out of nowhere, the sudden itch to do everything right now,the sudden inexplicable anxiety. You were like a deer before the first hard winter storm.
Winter was bad in Alexandria, but Manitoba? Nothing could ever have prepared him for this. But when you were afraid, when he saw that utter exhaustion in your eyes when a storm was coming, as though you were really and truly considering giving up, that was the worst sign of all.
What giving up was in your mind, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it was far from good. It didn’t matter that you had done it all alone before, countless times and were far too stubborn to just lay down and be done with it all, he was here now and he had to do something to make it better.
Somehow.
The first year he’d met you, Daryl hadn't thought so much snow was possible. Now, that seemed like practically nothing. Almost overnight, it got bad; drifts piled up higher and higher, past his shoulders, and just kept piling up more and more. Any paths worn down to comfortably walk were like they never existed, and you were so far away, despite standing right beside him, he couldn’t be certain you were still with him.
Like a switch had been flipped in your mind, you were gone just like that. You barely spoke — unless it was to one of the animals, and even then you were far too subdued for his liking, only really speaking enough to comfort them — and you didn’t acknowledge the snow at all, besides the near constant shoveling. Your body may have been within arms reach, but you weren’t anymore.
He hated it. Despised it. Wanted to burn all the snow away somehow just to bring you back from whatever dark place in your head you were stuck in. But the snow kept coming, and coming, and coming. It just wouldn’t stop.
Every day was much of the same; whiteouts, winds rattling the house and more and more snow. Work that barely took ten minutes took nearly an hour on the good, clear days. The bad, he refused to count.
You didn't come back in after checking on the animals. Food was nearly done, sunlight fading, the same tired end to every single day now. Despite the relentless wind all day and blowing snow, it was slightly better than the last few. At least, until you took too long to check on everyone and send them back to bed for the night.
“Where’d you go?” Daryl called out, stepping outside to look for you in the yard. “Food's almost done.”
The cold air nipped at his skin, but he didn’t go back to grab a jacket. It hurt, but the worry for you overshadowed any care for the cold or the pain that it brought.
This winter had been terrible, even by your standards (by now, his own were thrown out the window, and he relied solely on yours), but nothing so bad that it would take this long to finish sending the animals to bed. Something happened.
When he found you, still near the closed barn door, you were on your knees, head in your hands, shoulders trembling as you sobbed. Without a thought, he rushed to your side, hands on your shoulders, searching for an injury, a bite, something; it wasn’t like you to do this. Fear gripped at his throat, terrified of what could have possibly hurt you. The dead didn’t often wander out this far, but some still did — what if you got…
“What happened? Where are ya hurt?”
You shook your head, shoving his hands off as he spoke, the frozen leather sticking to his skin and making him wince.
“I'm not hurt,” your voice was shaky, but stubborn. Almost exasperated with the thought that that was his worry when there were worse things afoot. “It's getting bad again,” you added, as though that explained everything.
Your temper stung, but he shook it off. You’re not injured, anything else could be fixed. He would fix it. “What's getting bad again?”
You sighed, gesturing haphazardly around with one hand, the other wiping away frozen snot and tears from your face. “Winter,” you said quietly, your voice shaky and looking downright pitiful with snot on your skin and eyelashes frozen against your face. “Look at it,” you pointed at the growing snow drifts that never seemed to stop anywhere.
He sighed. That he couldn’t fix.
“C’mon,” he got to his feet and hoisted you up to carry you bridal style, not giving you a chance to protest. The added weight of your heavy jacket and all the extra layers made his already frozen, aching muscles protest, but he ignored it. “We’ll figure it out inside.” I’ll figure it out.
You squirmed a bit in his arms, but quieted down quick. Resigned to your pitiful fate, you hid your face against his shoulder and let him take over.
A minuscule part of him liked that you stayed quiet in his arms, trusting him to not hurt you, to help, and not acting like a headstrong ass about him offering help. No matter how long it had been since he fell into your arms and home, the reminder that you had finally warmed up to him enough to trust made his chest ache and heart feel too big for his ribcage.
The bigger part of him felt like it was dying for liking that such trust had to be shown because of your pain.
He wanted to say something — I’ll fix it, it won’t be bad again, I won’t let it get bad again — anything to make you feel better… but it would be a lie. And he couldn’t lie to you. There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop nature from doing what she did, no amount of anything would change what came next.
He brought you inside, ignoring the sharp pains in his throat as you sniffled and wiped at your nose.
“S-sorry,” you mumbled as he set you down on your feet, keeping your eyes planted on the floor. “I didn’t mean to worry you—”
Daryl cut you off before you could keep going. “Nah, none of that. It’s fine.” He refused to let you beg for forgiveness you never needed in the first place. “You got everyone to bed?” he asked, breathing heavily on his frozen fingers to warm them before grabbing the zipper on your jacket to start undressing you.
You nodded. “Yeah… yeah, it’s all done.”
Snow falls off the heavy jacket, landing everywhere around the door, on his feet, on yours, and you winced at the coldness.
“Good.” He didn’t let you help him as he pulled off all your now snow-soaked layers, unceremoniously dropping them on the ground near the door. They could get picked up later, and Dog could have fun with the snow that fell off of you before it melted. (At least someone still thought snow was fun.)
Underneath everything, now down to an old ratty shirt and pants still soaked down to your skin, you looked even smaller. Snow still clung to your face, skin likely stinging as much as his did at the sudden warmth.
You looked away, ashamed and rubbing at the ice still stuck to your face. Already you’re curling up, wanting to run despite having nowhere to go in the house. If it wasn’t so dreadfully cold, and you weren’t soaked down to your bones, you would’ve ran back out. Away from him, away from being known and seen and away from everything you needed.
Somehow, he had to fix things. Make things right, whole, warm again.
Reaching down, he took your hand with a small squeeze and pulled you along into the bathroom. “Strip,” he said, though it came out sounding more like an order as he closed the door behind him so Dog doesn’t come help. “I’ll get dry clothes,” he added, more gently.
You looked at him like you want to argue and fight, but it died quick, and you just nodded. Silently, you turned your back and do as he asked, pulling off your soaked clothes and dropping them on the floor with a wet thud.
Daryl watched a moment, keeping his eyes above your shoulders until he was certain you weren’t about to bolt out the door the second he turned his back, before going to grab clothes.
In the shared bedroom, it’s a mess; blankets tossed around, clothes hanging off the end of the bed and the dresser. It’s lived in, warm. A mess, but a safe home. Dog's fur coats the end of the bed, with rips in the edges of the third, rattiest comforter on the bed, stains still still looking soaked from drool despite being dried days over.
He grabbed one of his shirts, and your pajama pants off the bed, and returned to find you curled up in the tub. Steam rose up from the hot water, and his skin hurts at the thought of such hot water on frozen skin.
“Thanks,” you didn’t look up at him as he walked back in, keeping yourself curled up tight under the water.
He already seen everything, but he didn’t look down. Careful to keep his eyes above your shoulders, he drops the clothes on the edge of the sink. “Do you—”
You cut him off. “No,” you kept your eyes downcast, shifting awkwardly. “Just… I need a minute.”
Everything in his gut screamed that it was a bad idea, that you needed him, that he should stay, even if only to awkwardly stand around, but he doesn’t argue. Last thing you needed was him pushing for the sake of his own comfort.
“Okay. Food’s ready when you are.” He looked over his shoulder before he closed the door, risking a quick glance. Your eyes met for a second, and you looked away just as quickly.
.
.
.
You spent longer in the tub than he expected; long enough for him to change into dry, warmer clothes, to clean up the mess at the door (made worse thanks to Dog's ‘help’ spreading snow around), and for the food to burn (still edible, but not great).
When you finally come back out, you don't look so cold, or so subdued. You don't say anything or look up at him, but you sat closer than normal as the three of you ate.
It's better than nothing.
“Sorry it’s burnt,” Daryl murmured between bites.
“Not a big deal. I’ve had worse,” you picked at your plate, the unpleasant burnt tinge to it far too noticeable. By the time Daryl’s done, you’re still eating, and more than a few pieces have fallen off the plate near Dog’s head for him. Only after you finished your plate, you finally spoke up again. “…Sorry I scared you.”
“You’re fine,” Daryl shrugged off the apology, reaching over for the plates and stood up.
It wasn’t fine, but not the way you would take it. That you were hurting and that there were so few ways for it to get any better was the furthest thing from fine — but that wasn’t on you.
“Shouldn’t’ve run out there like that,” you started, picking at your fingernail when he turned back to look at you in confusion. “Frostbite.”
He scoffed, “Wasn’t gonna leave you out there. What if—” Daryl quickly cut himself off, refusing to word the countless, horrid what ifs that had ran through his mind.
“You don’t need frostbite too.” Stubbornly, you blow right past his words, fussing over the one thing he didn’t care about. “Bad enough I gotta deal with it.”
“Don’t need to make it worse, either.”
“Daryl—”
He looked back at you with a glare, and you cut yourself off and went quiet, dropping your eyes. It made his heart ache at the sight, seeing you lose all your fight so easily. Any words that he considered tossing at you, arguing over how stupid it was to worry over his skin over your own, how it wasn’t him that mattered, all dissipated in his mind at your quietness.
Arguing would’ve been the easiest thing to do, saying whatever hard words he came up with while you looked halfway to tears however…
With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his hand over his face, tying to push away those thoughts. “C’mere,” Daryl said instead, dropping back onto the couch beside you. He wrapped his arms around you tight, pulling you up into his lap. His hands rub over your skin, callouses catching on the stray threads coming undone on the ratty old shirt draped over your frame.
He didn’t say anything more — words weren’t his strong suit, but he could hold you, keep you warm and bring you food when you got hungry. If he could, he’d fix everything, no matter how herculean a task it might be.
His grip on you tightened as you curled up against him, face tucked up under his jaw, freezing hands pushed up under his shirt to rest against his belly. The cold almost made him flinch, tensing under your touch before relaxing again.
Soon enough you warm up more against him, and just as he thought you were close to falling asleep, you spoke up.
“Tell me about Alexandria,” you murmured. “I wanna know what it’s like.”
And so he did.
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please support authors! comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated ♥︎
Summary: A minuscule part of him liked that you stayed quiet in his arms, trusting him to not hurt you, to help, and not acting like a headstrong ass about him offering help. No matter how long it had been since he fell into your arms and home, the reminder that you had finally warmed up to him enough to trust made his chest ache and heart feel too big for his ribcage.
The bigger part of him felt like it was dying for liking that such trust had to be shown because of your pain.
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x GN!Reader
Word count: 2.4k
Additional tags: hurt/comfort, non-sexual nudity, there's really not much to warn about Daryl's just sweet with the reader when the weather is shit
Author's note: I stg this series has cursed my area with dogshit weather but fuck it we ball. Mother Nature isn't stopping me from writing about Daryl !!
read on ao3 // thatw masterlist
Over the past year and a half, Daryl quickly learned that you never seemed to cry. At least, nowhere out in the open where prying eyes (him) could see. As though the simple fact of having emotions was a sin, you hid every time, and each time afterwards you would eventually wander back out into the open as though nothing had happened at all. You never acknowledged it, and afraid of pushing you away, he didn’t either.
He knew you knew he knew about the crying, but it seemed as long as he didn’t say a word of it, it was fine. So he just kept his mouth shut, and did other things to help; hold you, cook, finish up whatever task had been too frustrating. Words couldn't fix it and he didn’t even know where to start to try, but he could do something to make it better still.
Another fact, that both endeared and terrified him, was how you acted when a storm was coming.
In fact he wasn’t sure you even knew about it; the slightly wide-eyed look you would get seemingly out of nowhere, the sudden itch to do everything right now,the sudden inexplicable anxiety. You were like a deer before the first hard winter storm.
Winter was bad in Alexandria, but Manitoba? Nothing could ever have prepared him for this. But when you were afraid, when he saw that utter exhaustion in your eyes when a storm was coming, as though you were really and truly considering giving up, that was the worst sign of all.
What giving up was in your mind, he didn’t know, but whatever it was, it was far from good. It didn’t matter that you had done it all alone before, countless times and were far too stubborn to just lay down and be done with it all, he was here now and he had to do something to make it better.
Somehow.
The first year he’d met you, Daryl hadn't thought so much snow was possible. Now, that seemed like practically nothing. Almost overnight, it got bad; drifts piled up higher and higher, past his shoulders, and just kept piling up more and more. Any paths worn down to comfortably walk were like they never existed, and you were so far away, despite standing right beside him, he couldn’t be certain you were still with him.
Like a switch had been flipped in your mind, you were gone just like that. You barely spoke — unless it was to one of the animals, and even then you were far too subdued for his liking, only really speaking enough to comfort them — and you didn’t acknowledge the snow at all, besides the near constant shoveling. Your body may have been within arms reach, but you weren’t anymore.
He hated it. Despised it. Wanted to burn all the snow away somehow just to bring you back from whatever dark place in your head you were stuck in. But the snow kept coming, and coming, and coming. It just wouldn’t stop.
Every day was much of the same; whiteouts, winds rattling the house and more and more snow. Work that barely took ten minutes took nearly an hour on the good, clear days. The bad, he refused to count.
You didn't come back in after checking on the animals. Food was nearly done, sunlight fading, the same tired end to every single day now. Despite the relentless wind all day and blowing snow, it was slightly better than the last few. At least, until you took too long to check on everyone and send them back to bed for the night.
“Where’d you go?” Daryl called out, stepping outside to look for you in the yard. “Food's almost done.”
The cold air nipped at his skin, but he didn’t go back to grab a jacket. It hurt, but the worry for you overshadowed any care for the cold or the pain that it brought.
This winter had been terrible, even by your standards (by now, his own were thrown out the window, and he relied solely on yours), but nothing so bad that it would take this long to finish sending the animals to bed. Something happened.
When he found you, still near the closed barn door, you were on your knees, head in your hands, shoulders trembling as you sobbed. Without a thought, he rushed to your side, hands on your shoulders, searching for an injury, a bite, something; it wasn’t like you to do this. Fear gripped at his throat, terrified of what could have possibly hurt you. The dead didn’t often wander out this far, but some still did — what if you got…
“What happened? Where are ya hurt?”
You shook your head, shoving his hands off as he spoke, the frozen leather sticking to his skin and making him wince.
“I'm not hurt,” your voice was shaky, but stubborn. Almost exasperated with the thought that that was his worry when there were worse things afoot. “It's getting bad again,” you added, as though that explained everything.
Your temper stung, but he shook it off. You’re not injured, anything else could be fixed. He would fix it. “What's getting bad again?”
You sighed, gesturing haphazardly around with one hand, the other wiping away frozen snot and tears from your face. “Winter,” you said quietly, your voice shaky and looking downright pitiful with snot on your skin and eyelashes frozen against your face. “Look at it,” you pointed at the growing snow drifts that never seemed to stop anywhere.
He sighed. That he couldn’t fix.
“C’mon,” he got to his feet and hoisted you up to carry you bridal style, not giving you a chance to protest. The added weight of your heavy jacket and all the extra layers made his already frozen, aching muscles protest, but he ignored it. “We’ll figure it out inside.” I’ll figure it out.
You squirmed a bit in his arms, but quieted down quick. Resigned to your pitiful fate, you hid your face against his shoulder and let him take over.
A minuscule part of him liked that you stayed quiet in his arms, trusting him to not hurt you, to help, and not acting like a headstrong ass about him offering help. No matter how long it had been since he fell into your arms and home, the reminder that you had finally warmed up to him enough to trust made his chest ache and heart feel too big for his ribcage.
The bigger part of him felt like it was dying for liking that such trust had to be shown because of your pain.
He wanted to say something — I’ll fix it, it won’t be bad again, I won’t let it get bad again — anything to make you feel better… but it would be a lie. And he couldn’t lie to you. There was absolutely nothing he could do to stop nature from doing what she did, no amount of anything would change what came next.
He brought you inside, ignoring the sharp pains in his throat as you sniffled and wiped at your nose.
“S-sorry,” you mumbled as he set you down on your feet, keeping your eyes planted on the floor. “I didn’t mean to worry you—”
Daryl cut you off before you could keep going. “Nah, none of that. It’s fine.” He refused to let you beg for forgiveness you never needed in the first place. “You got everyone to bed?” he asked, breathing heavily on his frozen fingers to warm them before grabbing the zipper on your jacket to start undressing you.
You nodded. “Yeah… yeah, it’s all done.”
Snow falls off the heavy jacket, landing everywhere around the door, on his feet, on yours, and you winced at the coldness.
“Good.” He didn’t let you help him as he pulled off all your now snow-soaked layers, unceremoniously dropping them on the ground near the door. They could get picked up later, and Dog could have fun with the snow that fell off of you before it melted. (At least someone still thought snow was fun.)
Underneath everything, now down to an old ratty shirt and pants still soaked down to your skin, you looked even smaller. Snow still clung to your face, skin likely stinging as much as his did at the sudden warmth.
You looked away, ashamed and rubbing at the ice still stuck to your face. Already you’re curling up, wanting to run despite having nowhere to go in the house. If it wasn’t so dreadfully cold, and you weren’t soaked down to your bones, you would’ve ran back out. Away from him, away from being known and seen and away from everything you needed.
Somehow, he had to fix things. Make things right, whole, warm again.
Reaching down, he took your hand with a small squeeze and pulled you along into the bathroom. “Strip,” he said, though it came out sounding more like an order as he closed the door behind him so Dog doesn’t come help. “I’ll get dry clothes,” he added, more gently.
You looked at him like you want to argue and fight, but it died quick, and you just nodded. Silently, you turned your back and do as he asked, pulling off your soaked clothes and dropping them on the floor with a wet thud.
Daryl watched a moment, keeping his eyes above your shoulders until he was certain you weren’t about to bolt out the door the second he turned his back, before going to grab clothes.
In the shared bedroom, it’s a mess; blankets tossed around, clothes hanging off the end of the bed and the dresser. It’s lived in, warm. A mess, but a safe home. Dog's fur coats the end of the bed, with rips in the edges of the third, rattiest comforter on the bed, stains still still looking soaked from drool despite being dried days over.
He grabbed one of his shirts, and your pajama pants off the bed, and returned to find you curled up in the tub. Steam rose up from the hot water, and his skin hurts at the thought of such hot water on frozen skin.
“Thanks,” you didn’t look up at him as he walked back in, keeping yourself curled up tight under the water.
He already seen everything, but he didn’t look down. Careful to keep his eyes above your shoulders, he drops the clothes on the edge of the sink. “Do you—”
You cut him off. “No,” you kept your eyes downcast, shifting awkwardly. “Just… I need a minute.”
Everything in his gut screamed that it was a bad idea, that you needed him, that he should stay, even if only to awkwardly stand around, but he doesn’t argue. Last thing you needed was him pushing for the sake of his own comfort.
“Okay. Food’s ready when you are.” He looked over his shoulder before he closed the door, risking a quick glance. Your eyes met for a second, and you looked away just as quickly.
.
.
.
You spent longer in the tub than he expected; long enough for him to change into dry, warmer clothes, to clean up the mess at the door (made worse thanks to Dog's ‘help’ spreading snow around), and for the food to burn (still edible, but not great).
When you finally come back out, you don't look so cold, or so subdued. You don't say anything or look up at him, but you sat closer than normal as the three of you ate.
It's better than nothing.
“Sorry it’s burnt,” Daryl murmured between bites.
“Not a big deal. I’ve had worse,” you picked at your plate, the unpleasant burnt tinge to it far too noticeable. By the time Daryl’s done, you’re still eating, and more than a few pieces have fallen off the plate near Dog’s head for him. Only after you finished your plate, you finally spoke up again. “…Sorry I scared you.”
“You’re fine,” Daryl shrugged off the apology, reaching over for the plates and stood up.
It wasn’t fine, but not the way you would take it. That you were hurting and that there were so few ways for it to get any better was the furthest thing from fine — but that wasn’t on you.
“Shouldn’t’ve run out there like that,” you started, picking at your fingernail when he turned back to look at you in confusion. “Frostbite.”
He scoffed, “Wasn’t gonna leave you out there. What if—” Daryl quickly cut himself off, refusing to word the countless, horrid what ifs that had ran through his mind.
“You don’t need frostbite too.” Stubbornly, you blow right past his words, fussing over the one thing he didn’t care about. “Bad enough I gotta deal with it.”
“Don’t need to make it worse, either.”
“Daryl—”
He looked back at you with a glare, and you cut yourself off and went quiet, dropping your eyes. It made his heart ache at the sight, seeing you lose all your fight so easily. Any words that he considered tossing at you, arguing over how stupid it was to worry over his skin over your own, how it wasn’t him that mattered, all dissipated in his mind at your quietness.
Arguing would’ve been the easiest thing to do, saying whatever hard words he came up with while you looked halfway to tears however…
With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his hand over his face, tying to push away those thoughts. “C’mere,” Daryl said instead, dropping back onto the couch beside you. He wrapped his arms around you tight, pulling you up into his lap. His hands rub over your skin, callouses catching on the stray threads coming undone on the ratty old shirt draped over your frame.
He didn’t say anything more — words weren’t his strong suit, but he could hold you, keep you warm and bring you food when you got hungry. If he could, he’d fix everything, no matter how herculean a task it might be.
His grip on you tightened as you curled up against him, face tucked up under his jaw, freezing hands pushed up under his shirt to rest against his belly. The cold almost made him flinch, tensing under your touch before relaxing again.
Soon enough you warm up more against him, and just as he thought you were close to falling asleep, you spoke up.
“Tell me about Alexandria,” you murmured. “I wanna know what it’s like.”
And so he did.
main masterlist
please support authors! comments and reblogs are extremely appreciated ♥︎
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✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
holding you by the hands: you know that the "you" in a 2nd person pov isn't literally you right? you know that even in a "reader insert" story it is still a character, right? you recognize that because they are not actually you they may make choices different from the one that you would make for the sake fo the story, right? you know that? you know that the only "you" that exists in the context of the story is the you that is reading it? right?
I feel like if you nuzzled right under Daryl’s chin where he has that little soft bit of fat he’d automatically kiss your forehead. (Mostly to distract you from the fact that he has the very slightest double chin)
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✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
