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“Claimed! I claim him!”
Daryl is acting on impulse, barely even hearing the words shouted over his shoulder as he scrambles to his feet, setting his crossbow into the crook of his arm and pointing it at the nearest intruder’s face. The man, grey-haired and honest-looking, lifts his hand in surrender, gesturing around at his fellows to hold their fire.
“I claim his ass!” another voice pipes up. There are about five or six men, by Daryl’s estimation, all about his age or older, all about his size or larger – too many to take on at once, even if they weren’t all so heavily-armed. They’ve all got weapons pointed at him, smirking over the barrels of guns, chuckling and tossing looks between one another and back to him, looking him up and down.
“Daaamn. Look at that tight little thing, and that waist, whew,” one of the men whistles, drawing the laughter of his fellows. Daryl feels distinctly like a deer being hunted, the men checking him up and down, his size, the height of his withers, how easy he’ll be to take down. For a moment, Daryl’s keen to let ’em. Drop his crossbow and slam his body into the nearest stranger, let himself be ripped to shreds. Better than lettin’ the walkers do it, he thinks pathetically, face tightening into a frightening grimace.
“Queer,” one of the other men spouts, somewhere over Daryl’s shoulder. He spins around, tracing his weapon on each of the men in the group, ending back on the grey-hair, who’s looking at him with something close to sympathy.
“What, you tellin’ me you ain’t up for that? Beggers can’t be choosers, boy.” the same man who was appraising Daryl’s backside goads good-naturedly, gesturing to Daryl’s back with his crossbow, “and that is some damn fine ass right there.”
“Come on, that’s enough now, boys,” the grey-haired man says firmly, “no need to treat him like a piece of meat. He’s a human being, after all.”
The men mumble a little to themselves but go quiet. Daryl’s heart is pumping in his ears so loudly he can barely register anything other than the old man’s gentle, but firm voice as he approaches Daryl with hands raised high.
“My name’s Joe. We’re not here to rob you. Don’t look like you’ve got much to rob, anyway,” he says lightly, trying to diffuse the tension, but Daryl feels faint with terror. There are six strangers pointing weapons at him, he’s in the middle of the road, there’s no cover and nowhere to run and no one to run to, his blood is crashing in his ears like a tidal wave, he feels sick to his stomach.
“We have a code among us, y’see, we won’t attack a man for no good reason,” Joe explains softly, “even if he’s got a fine-looking crossbow like that up on his shoulder,” he gestures with two fingers at the tip of the nocked bolt, and Daryl jerks on impulse, raising the point level with the man’s nose.
Guns cock all around him in a circle, like a wave of sound, echoing back to him like a death knell and Daryl feels like his knees could give out any minute. The only thing keeping him on his feet is pure, unadulterated, seething force of will.
“Whoa, now, no need. Lower your weapons, boys, that’s enough,” Joe commands, and half of the men begin to do so. One of the men, with curly, messy dark hair and a wild look in his eyes, doesn’t move an inch. “Now, son, you just lower that pretty crossbow of yours and my boys’ll do the same, and you’re welcome to join with us for as long as it suits you.”
“Don’t need you,” Daryl says, a shaky half-sentence the only words he can muster.
“There’s strength in numbers, you know that as well as us,” Joe insists, “you come with us and all we ask is you be an extra hand, an extra set of eyes keeping watch. In exchange, we keep you safe.”
Safe. It sounds too good to be true. It sounds like a clarion chiming from up on high, leading him to the pearly gates. Daryl puts his crossbow down just the same, a mixture of defeat and the barest bit of hope guiding his hands as he lets the weapon point towards the ground, and follows behind as Joe leads him away, like a dead man walking towards the gallows.
*
Following The Claimers isn’t much, but it’s stability. He doesn’t feel the same amount of trust and respect he did with Rick’s group, or the protection and security he felt travelling with Merle, mostly he doesn’t feel anything, just trudging along, silent and stoic, barely moving a single finger but to defend himself against walkers. It’s stability, knowing he can look back over his shoulder at any given time and see the same group of men, godforsaken degenerates as they may be, walking behind him.
It’s about survival. If Merle ever taught him anything lucid, it was that to survive was the most important thing. Couldn’t do nothin’ if you weren’t alive: couldn’t have a drink, take a hit, start a fight, have a girl. If Daryl didn’t survive this, there was no chance of him getting back to Rick – if he were still alive – and no chance to find Beth... He chokes down the thought before it begins. Survival. That’s number one. Staying alive.
The men don’t hassle him much, except for Len, who seems to have it out for him for no good reason. Daryl can’t think of what he did to piss the guy off, but the curly-haired asshole seems intent on pushing him ’til he snaps. But Daryl won’t snap, he promises himself, promises Rick and Beth and Carol and Carl that if he’s gonna be worthy of the man they seemed to think he was, at least at one point in his miserable life so far, he can’t lose his temper and get himself killed here.
And he knows that losing his cool would be all it would take around these types of men. He’s been around men like this before: guys who’d sooner beat you, kill you, and string you up a tree the second you piss ’em off. Rick wasn’t like that, and sure as shit Merle wasn’t either: they were both brutal men in their own right, but neither of them were hardened to the point of losing all respect for human life. Rick was a fighter, but he wasn’t a killer or a criminal. Merle was a brute, but he knew to pick on someone his own size.
Daryl can’t think about them right now. Where once bloomed a feeling of respect and security when he thought about his friends, there’s now only a deep, sucking pit, grey and dark and empty. He doesn’t think anything. He’s running on reflex. He follows where these dangerous strangers lead. He fights, eats, sleeps, all on instinct, like an animal.
He knows the way the men look at him when he’s not paying attention, the way their leering gazes fall on his body when the day gets dark. They look at him like he’s prey. He doesn’t forget the assessment they made of him when they first found him, checking out his body, his ass, his hips, his arms and legs, and sizing him up like he was their latest meal. And by the looks of it, these men haven’t eaten in days.
Only Joe seems to have some sort of somber respect for him, like a lion has for his baby sons – right before he kills them when they grow old enough to threaten his power. Joe looks at him with a sort of sympathy, eyes gentle and caring, but mouth firm, chewing a twig, the blunt end sticking out of his lips. He tells the truth, which Daryl respects, the hard truth, the truth that other people aren’t willing to share. He tells Daryl The Rules: Don’t lie. Don’t steal. Respect “claims”. Simple. Succinct.
Daryl carries on, dragging his feet, boots wearing thin at the soles, skin growing thicker and thicker with each passing moment, each thoughtless gaze directed at his back. As he lets his guard down he closes his heart up, building a wall around himself, thicker and harder with every step he takes.
*
Two days later, two colourless sun-ups and frosty mornings passed, Joe brings Daryl aside as they walk, pulling him close to talk.
“Now Daryl, I know we haven’t mentioned it since you came into our group,” Joe begins softly, looking Daryl straight in the eyes, trying to imbue his gaze with a sense of trust and honesty that just can’t exist under the circumstances. “But there is the matter of the claim that was made on you that first day.”
He talks like it’s all matter-of-fact, like there isn’t a massive breech of human dignity at stake with the rules he makes. Daryl huffs his understanding, giving little reaction else. Of course he remembers.
“The truth is, it’s not often we share claims in our little group, but some things, you understand, can’t be taken for granted or hoarded away selfishly. It’s cruel and indecent, really, to keep some things to yourself: water, medicine…” Joe tilts his head down, gesturing with his chin at Daryl’s groin.
He talks all serious, like it’s Daryl’s fault for withholding something it’s his obligation to give up. Ain’t like that. Shouldn’t ever be like that, even when the world’s going to Hell and there’s no rules anymore. Violating a person’s body is always a crime, not a privilege gained through good behaviour.
Daryl’s breathing starts to pick up, his fists making tight balls at his sides. He can’t look up, can’t imagine the leers directed at his backside, his body, staring right through him like he’s an object. He doesn’t want to imagine those men, unwashed bodies sweaty, hot, rough, all up against him, pushing and pulling, using him, entering him… His stomach lurches and his face flushes and he wants to run, take his chances with the walkers, irrational with sudden hatred for these men, this man in front of him talking to him all sweet like he’s the nicest guy in the world.
“Lemme tell you, these guys—” Joe turns at the hip, gesturing around to the rest of the group, the five of them seated around the garage, perched on cars, picking their teeth, sharpening their knives, a few building a fire in the center of the spacious concrete room, looking like cavemen all hunched over the burgeoning flames. “They ain’t the sharpest or the brightest bunch, but they are rough, and they ain’t above using force to get what they want, y’hear what I’m sayin’?”
Daryl’s heartbeat is blasting in his ears, breathing harder and harder through his nose until he starts to feel faint, rage and terror and anticipation filling up his senses until he’s nothing more than a raw mass of instinct. He feels it well up, the need to run, to fight, to hide, to yell—
And then, it just…stops. It just clears away, taking with it any reason he might have for fighting. Suddenly, there’s nothing: no Beth, no Rick, no big brother looking over his shoulder, judging him, telling him to quit standin’ around like a fuckin’ tumour and fight, brother, fight! Everything just fades away, and he’s just standing in an empty garage, with an empty heart and an empty mind.
“Yeah,” Daryl mumbles, “I hear you.”
*
There’s a fire in the middle of the room, smoldering inside an over-turned tire, and they’re all seated around it on buckets and pieces of scrap, when Daryl wanders into the fray. He approaches the fire, unarmed, stripped down to his plainclothes, looking around plaintively at the waiting men.
He watches the flames, orange and red, throbbing with heat. Like a goddamn voodoo ritual, he thinks solemnly, and himself the sacrifice.
“Strip!” one of the men, Ron or Don or something rather, jeers, drawing the whooping laughter of the men on either side of him. He grips his own groin, rubbing the bulge with the heel of his hand, staring Daryl down with a hungry look in his eyes, lit up by the fire.
Daryl doesn’t move. He won’t do that. He’ll get this over with, get it done, get through it, then put it behind him as just another one of the horrific things he had to do to survive. He won’t be a show, a spectacle.
“Harley goes first,” one of the men says, pointing over to the closest men to Daryl in the circle, “he’ll break you in.” A low murmur of laughter goes across the group, and Daryl flinches when he feels a hand on his ass. The man, Harley, is a fit-looking guy with short, greying hair, looking up at Daryl with glazed eyes when Daryl turns around to look at him. He squeezes Daryl’s ass hard, groping him through his jeans. Daryl squirms when the man puts two fingers through the space between his thighs, rubbing the underside of his balls through his jeans, fingers pressing in all the sensitive parts between his legs.
“Get on with it already,” a voice pipes up in the background, “ain’t gonna watch you screw around all night.”
“Right,” Harley nods his agreement, pulling his hand away and smacking Daryl’s ass. “Pants off, hands and knees.”
Daryl swallows thickly, unsure. He bites his lip and looks around for someone to reassure him, nod at him and tell him it’ll be okay, but there’s no one around for him. There’s just a group of thick-necked, dark-eyed men circled around him, looking at him expectantly.
“I said now,” Harley snaps, smacking Daryl hard on the ass. Daryl shudders and obeys, unhooking his jeans and slipping them down over his hips, his toned thighs hitting the cold air. He shakes his jeans and socks free, tossing them aside, then slides his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs. Someone whistles at him and another announces his impatience, and Daryl spitefully pulls his underwear off as well.
“Down,” Harley barks, shoving Daryl at the waist, causing him to stumble forward. Joe makes a sound of protest from somewhere that sounds like it’s miles away, and Daryl drops to his knees on the cold cement, placing his hands in front of him.
It’s humiliating, sitting up like a dog, bare ass exposed to the air in view of half a dozen strangers. Daryl feels Harley standing up behind him, taking a few steps, inspecting his body. After a moment he gets down on his knees as well, his jeans rustling as they scrape the concrete.
In addition to Harley, there are two more men, one on each side of Daryl, watching expectantly as the man in between them looks critically at Daryl’s body. He wants to tell them to get on with it, quit staring and do it, but before he can open his mouth there’s two hands on his bare ass, prying the cheeks apart.
“Aw yeah, that’s a nice tight hole,” the man appraises, sticking his thumbs into the cleft of Daryl’s ass and prying his asshole open. He slides both thumb tips inside the dark pink pucker, pulling just hard enough it has Daryl biting down hard on his lip to keep from gasping in pain.
The man behind him squirts something down the crack of Daryl’s ass, and it’s cold and slippery as it goes down, making a line down from the base of his spine to the back of his balls. Daryl shudders as the man scoops up some of the slick with one hand, tracing it around Daryl’s hole and getting it thoroughly wet. The feeling is awkward and foreign, the lube warming with each stroke of two keen fingers across his hole, the other hand prying his ass apart and exposing the small hole. A fingertip dips inside and Daryl can’t help the gasp that bursts out of him at the feeling of being breeched.
“He’s a virgin,” the man assesses, faceless in Daryl’s mind’s eye, reduced to a voice and two insistent, prodding fingers. It’s not entirely true: though riding your own hand while you jack it is nowhere near the same level of intimacy as having someone else in you. The men around him whoop excitedly; Daryl can practically hear them salivating.
The fingertip presses deeper, swirling around, jerking back and forth inside him and Daryl gasps, a soft, shrill sound, curling over himself on instinct. He bends his head and closes his eyes as a second finger slides in alongside the first, his body clenching around the pair, sucking them deeper in.
Harley fingers him for just long enough that Daryl’s still aching, but used to the width of the fingers, his muscles numb to the jerking digits. The fingers slip out and Daryl can’t help but groan helplessly, blushing at the pathetic little sound that escapes him as he’s left empty.
Something blunt and stiff lines up with his hole and Daryl braces himself. He sticks his own fingers in his mouth to hide the sounds he knows he’s gonna make – he won’t give these men the satisfaction. The firm head of a cock lines up and Daryl goes still, frozen in anticipation, chomping down on his hand as the thick head presses in, sliding in deep, slicked by slippery lube.
“Fffuck,” the man behind him lets out happily. Daryl can feel every inch, every ridge and bump inside him as the cock slides slowly in, gradually opening every ring of muscle resistance, until it’s sheathed in deep. The feeling of being filled is overwhelming, there’s a pressure that grows deep in his belly, like the cock is pressing on his stomach. He gives a little choked moan around the two fingers in his mouth, sucking excess saliva back into his mouth.
“How’s he feel?” one of the men – Tony, Daryl thinks – asks of the older man. His voice sounds desperate, like a hermit ain’t been around a proper fuck-hole for months, starving, thirsting for it.
“Tight, good,” Harley gives a bit of a shallow thrust, and Daryl’s hole clenches automatically around the shaft, and he winces with the burn. “His asshole’s pullin’ me in, damn, like it don’t wanna let go.”
Tony gives an appreciative moan. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl can see all of the men in the room respond in kind, mouths slack and fuckin’ stars in their eyes. He thinks it’s like when you’re thirsty, you can make yourself feel better just by thinkin’ about a waterfall, an oasis. The men shuffle in their seats, pulling at their groins like cavemen.
Suddenly, Harley lurches forward, shoving his cock in deep. Daryl swallows a moan and the man pulls out, languidly, sliding out until he’s almost completely free before slamming in again, over and over, slowly as he can, each movement agonizing. Daryl’s body jerks and he bites down on his knuckles, not letting a single sound escape. The men in the room have gone shock-silent, the only sounds above the crackling of the fire the heavy breathing of the man behind him, and hips smacking wetly and rhythmically against Daryl’s ass.
The sound just amplifies the feeling, the shaft plugging away inside his body like a piston, harder and firmer until Daryl has to put his other hand down to support himself, wrenching it out of his mouth and biting down on his lip instead. His body sways forward on every thrust, pushed by the man’s movements behind him, until his legs are shaking, the cock rubbing his insides, reminding him with every movement that he’s being fucked. The man starts moving faster, steady like a machine, gripping Daryl’s hips with one hand and planting the other on his own hip, thrusting harder and faster until he starts to moan, rolling his head back.
“Oh fuck that’s good, that’s good,” Harley moans aloud, rolling his hips, movements going jerky and erratic; Daryl just tries to hold on. The mesmerized chanting behind him makes Daryl flush red, dropping his head between his shoulders and squeezing his eyes shut, trying to ignore the man’s orgasm building up as Harley cries out, loud voice splitting the silence on each brutal thrust, giving two, three more shoves of his hips and then stilling, deep inside Daryl, coming with a satisfied gasp.
Daryl shivers as the cock withdraws, his hole clenching down around the man’s seed, unconsciously keeping it in. His face flushes hot, humiliated blush seeping all the way down his shoulders and chest, head bowed between his knees, legs shaking pitifully.
“Sorry ’bout the sloppy seconds,” Harley moans in a husky voice, pulling his jeans up and audibly latching the belt.
“Don’t worry about it, I like ’em messy,” another voice, Dan or Don or something, answers behind Daryl’s shoulder, and shuffling over on his knees, lining himself up. The men are disembodied sets of limbs and voices, hands, legs, cocks, using him, pushing and pulling. Daryl flinches as a hand lands on the center of his back, sliding up his vest, between the wings of his shoulder blades, and presses down firmly.
“Get yo’ head down, boy,” one of the men barks out, and it sounds so much like his dad Daryl goes automatically, flushing with shame.
“That’s it, darlin’,” Dan mumbles, and Daryl lets himself be pushed slowly downward until his face and chest are against the cold cement, back arched so his ass is in the air and his head down.
“Brace yourself, now,” one of the men calls distantly, sadistic laughter in his voice. Daryl braces his hands on the floor, the smooth, freezing surface warming under his sweaty palms.
Another blunt cock lines up with his hole and pushes in without warning, and Daryl can’t help but cry out. The sound bursts out of him like striking a drum, and he launches himself forward, away from the huge thing shoving up inside him. The second cock is much bigger than the last and it makes him gag as it presses in, past his straining hole, filling him to his absolute limits.
“Like that, don’t ya?” a voice, thick and husky calls out, “Dan’s nice an’ big; knew you’d like it.”
Daryl groans and ducks his head, leading his thumb to his mouth and shoving it in deep enough he almost gags. The pressure is too much, but the thicker shaft is reaching him better, probing his insides for the spot deep inside that makes him see white, landing just against his prostate and for a fleeting moment, Daryl forgets everything.
The room slowly fades back into view, he can see men’s boots gathered around the fire, all turned towards him. The disembodied hand on his back and hips against his ass. He bites down on his thumb hard enough to leave a mark to hide his moans of pain and, more horrifically, pleasure.
“Aw yeah, that’s it, darlin’,” the man, fat thighs and thick fingers pressed all up against Daryl’s body, mumbles softly. “You just relax and let me take care of ya.”
Daryl can’t see, he can’t move, all he can do is feel the shaft inside him, spearing him open, so thick it burns, every inch of it scraping away at him, slamming against that special spot inside him with every thrust. He moans around his thumb, sucking the skin until it’s pruney with his spit, knees scraping the bare floor as he rocks with every thrust. His hard-on strains weakly to stand between his legs, dangling untouched – the pain is extreme but the pleasure…oh Christ, it’s worse, because it has him clenching and thrusting back for more.
“Git that thumb outta his mouth, I wanna hear him cryin’,” Dan orders and a man gets up and takes two clumsy steps towards Daryl, boots knocking as if he can’t get there fast enough. Two long-fingered hands grab Daryl’s wrists and yank them away from his body, pulling them wide apart. The man, Len, Daryl realizes with a horrified lurch, bends double so his chin is nearly to the back of Daryl’s head, holding his arms spread-eagle against the floor.
“’S better,” Dan groans happily, and Len huffs out a hollow chuckle. His breath is hot on the back of Daryl’s neck, rustling his thin hair. A particularly deep thrust rocks through him and Daryl can’t help the groan that spills from his mouth, chomping down on his lower lip to stifle it. Sounds keep trickling out of him, muffled by his lip but he can’t help it, groaning and panting, little, cut-off noises coming out of his throat.
“Damn he’s got a sweet mouth,” Len says excitedly, leaning over so his nose is against Daryl’s ear and sniffing deeply. Daryl flinches as curly hair brushes his face and Len pushes closer into his space, licking the corner of Daryl’s mouth and up his cheek.
“You want it?” the man behind Daryl addresses the one in front, “go ahead. Room enough for two in this fuck-hole.”
Daryl stiffens as hands reach under his armpits and get him up to his elbows and knees, until he’s level with Len’s crotch as the man kneels in front of him. Holding his head with one hand Len flicks his fly open with the other, pulling out his cock and shoving it towards Daryl’s face.
Daryl flinches and tries to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go but further onto Dan’s cock, and he gasps as he impales himself further. Len pulls him forward with a hand in his hair, drawing the reeking head of his cock across Daryl’s cheek and towards his sealed lips.
“Open up, sweetheart,” Len insists, pushing down on Daryl’s jaw with the heel of his hand until it opens and then slips his cock inside his mouth. Daryl’s cheeks hollow automatically around the thick object shoved into it, sobbing as he’s filled from both ends.
The cock in his mouth is heavy, the salty-bitter flavour of sweat assaulting his senses, and Daryl’s sucks, swallowing desperately to keep himself from choking. He has no leverage to move away, speared from behind and held flat against Len’s lap in the front, forced to take the cock in his mouth as well as the one in his ass. He pants and moans around the shaft, Len pushing firmly on the back of his head as he thrusts, lazily, awkwardly up into Daryl’s mouth.
They fuck him relentlessly from both ends, the man in front jerking his hips upwards into Daryl’s mouth until he’s gagging, choking as the head bruises the back of his throat. He keeps swallowing desperately, precum trickling down his throat and saliva slicking his stretched lips, squeezing his eyes shut under the strain. The man behind thrusts forward and Daryl cries, scrambling a hand back to try in vain to push him away, his hand coming short of his own thigh. He grips his leg tightly, trying to concentrate on breathing as the shaft behind presses deeper, deeper still, slamming against that bundle of nerves inside him so hard it never stops singing. His own erection stumbles weakly beneath him, jostled by the large man’s thrusts, spraying precum on the floor in thick globs.
Suddenly, Len starts moving faster, harder, gritting his teeth and fucking Daryl’s mouth with frantic, haphazard thrusts that have Daryl moaning unstoppably with the strain. Suddenly he pushes his cock all the way back in Daryl’s throat and stills there, letting out a groan as he comes, semen spilling hot and thick down Daryl’s throat. Just when he thinks he’s going to pass out, the cock leaves his mouth and Len leans back, pulling Daryl’s head up by his thin hair and looking down at him.
Daryl barely sees the condescending look Len is giving him, eyes blurry while he heaves to recover his breath, cum dripping out of his fucked-open mouth and splattering on the floor. His chest is pounding body trembling as Dan speeds up his thrusts, Daryl’s knees scraping the cement with each push. Suddenly, he wrenches his cock out and Daryl winces, gritting his teeth as the thick rod pulls out of him and Dan comes with a disgusting moan across his back.
“Them wings look awful pretty all decorated like that,” Dan laughs breathlessly, smacking Daryl on the ass before Daryl collapses, exhausted to the ground. Len drops his head and stands unceremoniously, zipping up.
“You best clean him off before you hand him to me, I don’t care for soiled goods,” the man next in line insists, anger heating his voice. Daryl’s head swims as he tries to sit up, getting as far as his hands and knees when another hand smacks his ass.
“Come on, you don’t like a little sauce on your meat?” Dan chuckles, and Daryl hears irritated shuffling in response.
“Clean him off,” Tony shouts. His voice is tinged with anger and pathetic desperation, like a man fighting for his last meal.
The man behind Daryl sighs and lifts a rag – probably used to clean the oil and shit off cars, or something equally as nasty – and roughly wipes down the back of Daryl’s vest with it. “Alright, alright,” Dan mumbles, “Mr. Prim-and-Proper.”
“Come on over here,” Tony mumbles gruffly, gesturing for Daryl to come to him. He’s seated on the floor with his legs out in front of him, bulge in his jeans pointing firmly at Daryl.
Daryl pushes himself up to his knees, ignoring the tired wince as he gets up, crawling over to Tony on his knees. The man has his doo-rag around his throat, just below the firm line of his lips, to match the dark look in his eyes. Almost through, Daryl thinks as he drags himself across the cement, almost there.
“You know reverse cowgirl?” Tony asks, as seriously as if he’s discussing some business transaction. Daryl shakes his head no, arms limp at his sides and half-hard cock hanging unashamedly between his legs.
“Turn away from me and sit in my lap,” Tony orders, and Daryl does so, walking painfully on his knees, an ache throbbing in his backside, cum dribbling down the inside of his thighs. He gets around so he’s straddling Tony’s lap, back to his chest, hovering over his lap.
“Sit yourself down, now,” Tony brays impatiently, smacking the side of Daryl’s hip.
No, Daryl thinks weakly, that’s just too much. Another smack rattles up his side and he groans in pain. He can’t really be expected to do this to himself. It’s too humiliating.
“Come on, now!” the man shouts, his temper flaring up unexpectedly, reminding Daryl suddenly of Shane. He flushes shamefully at the association, trying to think of why he’s doing this. He reaches back to the cock standing behind his leaking asshole, lining it up with his hole. He’ll get back to Rick and them eventually, and that’s what matters, he thinks, as he slides down the man’s shaft until he’s seated.
Daryl moans and bites his lip, legs trembling as he pushes himself up, sliding up the man’s cock and then dropping back down. The size is easy compared to the last one, Daryl actually finds himself missing the other man’s girth, bouncing mindlessly on the smaller man’s lap, knees aching and chest rising with breath. Riding is so much more visceral than just taking it from behind. Like this, he can’t imagine himself being used, because he’s the one instigating his own demise.
The man beneath him starts jerking his hips up with short little thrusts, shoving Daryl forward with every push of his hips. Daryl groans and tries desperately to keep his balance, supporting himself awkwardly on his hands as he pushes himself back onto the man’s cock. The man’s thrusting becomes impatient and suddenly there’s a hand on Daryl’s hip, holding him in place while the man fucks up into him. Daryl cries out before he can help himself, shaking all over as the man finishes unceremoniously inside him.
Daryl slouches forward as the man pulls out – four, or five have had him so far, Daryl’s lost count. While he recovers his breath he feels hands on his hip bones, hooking over the hard ridges and dragging him backwards.
“No…no more,” Daryl moans hopelessly, weakly raising his hands in surrender, but the man, skinny but strong, drags him backwards along the floor.
The last of the Claimers fucks him on his hands and knees, Daryl’s back bending awkwardly as he rocks back and forth, a steady stream of moans and little cut-off gasps flooding from his mouth. He can barely hold himself up, and reaches out in thanks, suddenly, for the mercy of the man’s hands supporting his hips, keeping him from collapsing pathetically on the ground.
The men are still watching with delirious enjoyment as Daryl is fucked by one of their kinsmen, watching the way his body sways and his face contorts with pain and pleasure, but Daryl doesn’t notice, his vision growing dark with exhaustion, his ears singing. Everything turns into a blur, a mix of pain-pleasure-humiliation-liberation, naked and disgraced on the floor of an abandoned garage.
The man finishes inside him and Daryl collapses with exhaustion, finally falling forward against the cold concrete, boneless and mute. His breath comes in pants, his neglected cock wilting beneath him, eyes glazed over like a taxidermy deer. He can’t move. Can’t even think.
“Now now, don’t tell me you forgot ’bout little ol’ me,” comes a voice, manipulative and reedy, and for a terrifying moment, Daryl thinks it belongs to his brother. His eyes snap open in horror to see Joe, the leader, the caring, nurturing sort who treated Daryl with respect, staring over at him from the edge of the circle, pants unhooked and hands linked politely together above the not-unsubstantial bulge in his briefs.
Daryl groans and tries to roll over but he can barely move, his hands just twitching at his sides, curling and uncurling fists. He wants to answer, to tell Joe to go to Hell, to tell them all that they will burn and die, when he gets through with ’em, but he can’t speak, his voice feels scratchy and his throat like it’s packed with gravel.
“Aw, boys, you were too rough with him,” Joe admonishes with a soft click of his tongue, waving a hand over at Daryl’s crumpled body, “poor thing can barely move. Help him over here, it’s no good to see a man helpless like that.”
Daryl shakes his head as he feels hands on his shoulders, on his back, his arms, trying to pull him up. A hand wraps around his bicep and pulls up and Daryl yanks himself free from the grasp, pushing himself up on his arms, defying his exhausted body.
Ain’t nothin’ dignified ’bout a man can’t even stand on his own two feet, Merle’s voice comes to Daryl’s ears, as he pushes himself up into a half-push-up, arms trembling as he tries to draw his knees under him, now, get up.
Come with us, Daryl, we need you, Rick whispers, putting out his hand, but Daryl smacks it away, pushing up onto his hands and knees, that’s it, come on.
You’re gonna be the last one standing, Beth’s voice, sweet and clear comes to Daryl in his delirium, as he climbs to his feet, now, stand.
“Attaboy,” Joe says with admiration as Daryl finally pulls himself to his feet, naked shins bruised and knees scraped red, messy hair matted with grease and cum on his throat. He stands and walks over to Joe, hands limp at his sides, and makes the journey, of his own will, his own strength, like a man walking The Green Mile. They won’t pull him along. They won’t use him like a doll. He’s alive. He made it this far. He’s a real, living, breathing man, and they’ll all know it.
“Ain’t you somethin’,” Joe says in awe as Daryl moves across the floor to him, then climbs up and straddles his lap. Daryl’s hair falls into his eyes, obscuring his face, but he doesn’t need to see to know what to do, letting his body move him instead. He rocks his hips back and forth across the bulge in Joe’s lap, grinding his hole against the stiffness and luxuriating in the excruciating wait. Joe groans a little in his throat and then chuckles anxiously, gripping Daryl’s thigh with a dirty hand. His palm is hot, his grip impatient, and Daryl rolls his hips a little more just to draw out the pleasure of making the man wait.
Daryl’s eyes, wild and green glint like a razor cutting across the darkness, and Joe’s breath hitches as they whisper to him, clear as crystal, give it to me.
Joe pulls his cock free with one hand, guiding it to Daryl’s hole while never breaking contact with his eyes. The head teases Daryl’s hole, slipping back and forth across the used pucker, and Daryl reaches down beneath himself to tug it open. The remainders of multiple men coming inside him dribble out as he fingers the shallow hole, pushing himself towards Joe’s waiting erection. He catches the tip, then slides all the way down.
Daryl moans and tips back his head as the shaft opens him up, filling him instantly, root to tip. He keeps his head swayed back, groaning constantly with the feeling, his own dick hard and abandoned in his lap as he rides Joe slowly and deliberately. The reprobate stirs, his fingers clamping impatiently around Daryl’s hips every time he clenches particularly firmly, hissing his pleasure and mumbling a steady stream of compliments.
The claimers watch as Daryl gets defiled once more, a daze of contentment stifling in the smoky garage, mixing with the scent of semen and sweat. They’re watching him, every eye on Daryl who rides their leader enthusiastically, a dazed look on his face. But Daryl doesn’t notice them, his mind turned to sludge, a Technicolor slick of motor oil slipping down the drain. All he can focus on is the thick cock sliding pulsing inside him.
Suddenly Joe reaches out with the other arm that’s not supporting Daryl’s back and grabs his cock and Daryl whines, thrashing out instinctively to stop him as he touches the most sensitive part of him, which responds by sending electric shocks all through his body.
“Shh, now, you’re good,” Joe assures, snapping his hips up and forward, driving his cock deep inside with each thrust, then asks of his fellow degenerates, “won’t you hold him up, boys?”
Suddenly, there are two sets of arms on his, holding Daryl up but also keeping his hands away from his body. He moans and shakes his head, sloppy from the stimulation, and Joe jacks him firmly while thrusting up inside. A thrust stabs against his prostate just as a thumb brushes the tip of his cock and that’s the beginning of the end, Daryl goes wild with it, falling hopelessly into the men’s arms, and the man underneath him fucks him senseless.
“Ah, no, s’too much,” Daryl mumbles breathlessly, as the stiff cock pounds at him, and the hand around his shaft pulls with vigor. Being able to come now, after so long with no contact to his own cock is too much, too much to take and Daryl starts shaking, limbs trembling with each thrust, shuddering through his own climax as stars burst and he paints himself with his own spend.
Joe keeps fucking him through it, the men holding Daryl still above his lap as he goes limp, and the men realize with a stir that he’s passed out. Impressed by Daryl’s fortitude and turned ferocious by the realization he fucked him out of consciousness, Joe’s thrusts turn rapid, planting both hands on Daryl’s hips and pulling him in to meet every thrust. Pulling Daryl flush to his hips he stills, letting out a choked groan as he comes, filling Daryl with his come, letting himself pulse out deep inside.
When Daryl awakes, he’s on the floor of the garage, splayed out with his pants tossed over his hips and a filthy blanket across his middle. He’s too sore to move, too exhausted to even lift a finger, but he turns his head enough to see Joe, sat off to the side, picking at his boot with a knife, surrounded by his fellows, settled all around him.
“We thank you for your contribution,” Joe says with a nod of his head, and Daryl falls back into a deep slumber.