Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9463280.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Walking_Dead_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Daryl_Dixon/Merle_Dixon, Daryl_Dixon/Rick_Grimes_(mentioned)
  Character:
      Daryl_Dixon, Merle_Dixon
  Additional Tags:
      Past_Child_Abuse, Past_Rape/Non-con, Past_Underage_Sex, Past_Sexual
      Abuse, Dubious_Consent, Sibling_Incest, Emotionally_Hurt_Daryl_Dixon,
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Bottom_Daryl_Dixon
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-01-25 Words: 2098
****** Made for a Favor ******
by Raicho
Summary
     Merle’s always been a creature of intimidating brute force, but
     Daryl’s had to gradually grow into his prowess and size—he can still
     easily remember a time back when he was nothing more than scrawny
     limbs and awkward grace trying to ask Merle for a second chance at
     mercy. And he’ll be the first to admit that it’s hard to completely
     break free from that headspace… the same one he finds himself falling
     into right now because Merle’s voice and those words sound just like
     they did all those years ago when they first started this taboo thing
     between them.
Notes
     Warning: references of past child abuse, past sexual abuse of a
     minor, dub-con/non-con.
     Unbeta'd
                        It’s already been a long day full of emotional turmoil
and violence, but Daryl knows it’s only bound to be made worse as soon as his
brother opens his mouth to speak. They’re alone together in the opposite
cellblock from the rest of the group, away from prying eyes and judging sneers
as the two of them prepare to settle in for their first night together since
having been reunited.
            “Looks like you got your way after all, baby brother,” Merle
rumbles as he steps into the secured cell, “Now ain’t that somethin’.”
            He knows Merle’s looking to egg him into something destructive,
trying to twist Daryl’s arm in a way that the younger Dixon won’t be able to
deflect or deny, but Daryl’s adamant about keeping a respectable distance so
long as he can help it. So instead of really responding, Daryl just leans
against a wall and shrugs.
            “Went through hell an’ back today for ya.”
            Daryl nods. They both went through hell and back, and it wasn’t
just for Daryl’s sake, either. But he doesn’t need to argue that point right
now.
            “Saw the way you was makin’ them doe-eyes at Officer Friendly,”
Merle chuckles as he scratches at the stubble along the underside of his chin,
“Used to think you’d only look at me like that.”
            Daryl used to think that, too.
            “Weren’t nothin’, Merle.” Daryl tries to deflect. He knows the
truth isn’t always the best answer to feed his brother. But for the record,
it’s completely true, what Merle’s saying he witnessed unfold earlier between
the hunter and the group’s leader. Daryl’s completely tangled up in Rick
Grimes, whether Merle likes it or not.
            “Sure thing, little brother. Lemme just add that to the pile of
bullshit I keep hearin’ fallin’ outta yer mouth today.”
            Daryl rolls his eyes and huffs, “C’mon, man, just drop it.”
            “Oh, I’ll drop it alright. But only if you drop ‘em pants of
yer’s…” Merle hums as he takes another step into the tight space of the cell.
            There’s about a foot or two of empty air that separates the two
brothers from one another, but it’s quickly shrinking with each passing second
as Merle takes another step closer and closer. And Daryl can’t help but suck in
a breath, biting his lower lip as he attempts to not cower in front of his
older, more imposing brother like he did back when they were kids.
            Merle’s always been a creature of intimidating brute force, but
Daryl’s had to gradually grow into his prowess and size—he can still easily
remember a time back when he was nothing more than scrawny limbs and awkward
grace trying to ask Merle for a second chance at mercy. And he’ll be the first
to admit that it’s hard to completely break free from that headspace… the same
one he finds himself falling into right now because Merle’s voice and those
words sound just like they did all those years ago when they first started this
taboo thing between them.
            With a few more steps, Merle closes the space between them. His
chest is pressed firmly against Daryl’s, and his nostrils are flaring like a
mad bull’s while he looks down at his younger sibling squirming beneath his
gaze, “Think you owe me a favor, Darylina.”
            Daryl can feel Merle’s hot breath tickle along the expanse of his
exposed neck, and he braces himself as he dares to look up and into his older
brother’s steel-cold eyes. He finds something predatory in Merle’s gaze, the
way one would expect a hyena to look on at a freshly slaughtered carcass. Daryl
gulps, “What d’ya want, Merle?”
            “Take care of somethin’ for me.” It’s not a question, it’s a
demand. And Daryl knows that, somehow, by the end of the night he’ll have done
exactly what it is that Merle’s asked him to do, whether he wants to or
not—because big brothers always have a way of getting what they want.
            Calloused fingers come up to twist into the belt loops of the
hunter’s jeans, pulling him closer to press against Merle’s groin, and Daryl
sighs. He can immediately feel Merle’s painfully hard erection digging into the
meat of his thigh through the tattered, dirty layers of their denim.
            “Merle, s’not like that no more.” Daryl uselessly tries to counter;
tries to worm his way out of this impossibly difficult situation, “I don’t do
that anymore.”
            But Merle isn’t listening to him. Not now—not ever. Merle just
takes.
            Merle’s fingers move from belt loop to zipper as quickly as a
lightning strike, and Daryl’s fighting against everything ingrained within
himself that’s telling him to ‘just take it’. It’s a lot of courage to work up,
because hindering Merle Dixon is like trying to stop a hurricane from hitting
shore, but Daryl manages it all the same and he reaches a hand out to grip at
Merle’s wrist, “Merle, stop.”
            Merle huffs before pulling his wrist free from Daryl, “Ain’t
nothin’ in the world can stop this, little brother.”
            With another firm tug, Merle manages to pull Daryl’s trousers down
to his ankles, leaving the hunter completely bare from the waist down. He gives
a low rumble of satisfaction and licks his lips before allowing his hand to
trace along the curved globes of Daryl’s ass.
            “Mmm.”
            Daryl can’t help but shiver beneath his brother’s touch. It’s
something so familiar; something that’d been a staple in his life for as long
as he can remember. And for as close as the two of them used to be, this
should’ve been like riding a bicycle in the summer heat or putting on his
favorite pair of shoes. But everything in this moment is unwelcomed.
            “Merle, c’mon, I said stop it.”
            Merle does stop, but it’s not for the reason Daryl was hoping for.
            Merle pulls himself back and levels Daryl with a mean stare before
snarling, “You think just ‘cause you let Officer Friendly taste yer pussy once
ya gotta save yerself for ‘im now?”
            Daryl flinches at the harsh tone his brother’s words take on, voice
booming through the empty cellblock. He feels himself shrinking against the
concrete wall behind him, leaning against its cool surface to help support and
root himself in the moment.
            “You was mine first. Not his.” Merle growls as he crowds into
Daryl’s space again and wraps his hand around his younger brother’s jaw, “You
was always mine.”
            Daryl shuts his eyes for a moment, silently praying that Merle
would back off soon enough as long as he just remained quiet and unmoving. But
Merle leans in further, burying his nose against the junction of Daryl’s neck
and shoulder, soaking in the hunter’s scent of sweat and blood between playful
licks and nips.
            “Ain’t no one know how to touch you like I can.” He purrs against
Daryl’s throat before lifting his head to capture Daryl’s lips in a violent,
possessive kiss.
            Daryl’s left breathless and blind from Merle’s attention, “Stop…”
            “He don’t love you.”
            Another kiss. Another moment of breathless confusion.
            “None of them love you. Never will.” Merle bites at Daryl’s bottom
lip until he draws blood, “But you an’ me, brotha’, we’re blood. We’ve got
history.”
            When Merle’s fingers leave his jaw, there’s a cold, metallic
surface that begins to glide along Daryl’s left thigh, tracing its way up along
the outline of his body, snaking beneath the fabric of his vest and shirt until
its pointed tip digs into his pebbled nipple. Daryl gasps.
            “You’re wrong.”
            “Ain’t wrong.” Merle grins as he pulls at Daryl’s shirt with his
bayonet prosthetic, “The truth hurts, baby brother.”
            “They’ve showed me—” Daryl uselessly tries to argue against Merle’s
logic, but right now, in this moment, he’s not sure what’s fact or fiction
anymore.
            “Showed you what? Betrayal? If they loved you like ya say they do,
then they would’a welcomed you back with me at yer side.” The buttons of
Daryl’s shirt pop and fall to the floor one by one as Merle’s blade plucks at
the strings and tears at the fabric on the last stitch of clothing covering the
hunter’s chest, “Blood is blood. I’m the only one that’s gonna stay by yer
side.”
            Daryl knows there could be an ounce of truth in whatever it is that
Merle's trying to argue. Was he important? Did no one care enough to bend for
him?
            Merle pulls away to lap at his brother’s sensitive nipples and rub
his crotch against Daryl’s leg. Daryl just stands fazed and unresponsive
beneath his brother’s ministrations, lost in letting Merle’s words sink into
place like a pit of cooling tar. By the time Daryl has the awareness to speak,
Merle’s already started fumbling with the fastenings of his own pants, “Merle?”
            Should he try to stop this?
            “Shh, baby brotha’,” Merle coos in his ear as he begins to maneuver
Daryl toward the bed with his back turned against Merle’s chest, “I’m here now.
We’ll make this all better, don’t you worry.”
            Or is history meant to repeat itself?
            Half believing in Merle’s words, Daryl lets himself be pushed and
pulled into position without resistance. He rests his head gently overtop the
only pillow on the bed and allows his mind to drift for a moment, wondering if
blood really is the only thing that can be relied upon. He blocks out every
memory of Rick telling him otherwise.
            Daryl hears a wad of spit hit flesh before he feels slick fingers
dipping between his legs, invading the hollow space of his opening and
scissoring him like an untouched virgin. It feels like watching the same movie
for the fifteenth time, but he makes no move to pause the film.
            “Can’t rely on no one else.”
            Fingers retract, and Daryl’s left empty.
            “You best remember that.”
            A blunt pressure is at Daryl's entrance, and he has to take a
breath and remind himself to relax; it’s the same old song and dance he’s been
performing for the entirety of his life. One more performance won't kill him.
            All at once, Daryl can feel Merle’s length push in and stretch him
like a rubber band. There’s some discomfort as Merle continues to push in and
pull his brother deeper onto his cock. He's sure there's a bit of blood
dribbling onto the mattress, but Daryl feels it useless to voice his pain—he’s
too caught up in the apathy and confusion that his brother’s planted in his
head like a farmer waiting for the harvest.
            “Just like I never left.” Merle sighs once he’s completely sheathed
from tip to root, “Fit me like a glove.” Merle chuckles a bit before giving
Daryl’s spread rear a firm slap with the flat palm of his hand, “He ain’t ever
gonna fit you this good.”
            And Daryl supposes that no, Rick won’t ever fit him as good as
Merle did. No one will.
            Merle used to tell him all the time when they were younger that
Daryl was made just for him—a little plaything God thought would be a proper
enough reward to give to Merle for putting up with their daddy’s nightly rages.
Daryl used to believe him, too.
            In fact, Daryl used to think it was normal when Merle would creep
into his bedroom and slip beneath his sheets to play with the tender parts
between his legs. He used to think it was just something that brothers did for
each other, returning the favor of one pleasurable moment for another. It
wasn’t until he’d met the group—met Rick—that he’d discovered just how obsolete
and backwoods that way of thinking had been. What he’d found with Rick had been
healthy, but what he had—no, has—with Merle is toxic. Always has been, and
always will be.
            “Goddamn, Darylina, yer as tight as they come!” Merle moans against
his ear as he thrusts violently against Daryl. In and out, in and out.
            Daryl lets himself fall into the moment and he’s instantly taken
aback by the sheer rapture of physicality being forced upon him by his toxic
partner. It's like running through a candy store with a mouthful of
sugar—bittersweet and exhilarating. Maybe he does want this after all.
            Daryl moans, “Oh, God…”
            Merle barks out a sharp laugh before pushing in and pinning Daryl
against the dirty mattress with a final thrust before bursting, “Ain’t no God
in this bed.”
            Daryl lets the wet-hot sensation of Merle’s release fill him to the
brim with regret.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!