Remember: everything Daryl Dixon says is made up.

Soft huffs of air leave Darylโ€™s lips, his head leaned back against a pillow propped up against the headboard of his bed. Itโ€™s dark in the room, the orange hue from his burning cigarette being the only light source. His fingers hold the cigarette near his lips, the end burning and illuminating his face. His blue eyes look dark in the night, narrowing slightly as he watches you bounce on his lap. His free hand grips their hip, guiding their movements. โ€œThatโ€™s it..โ€ Daryl groans, his southern accent more prominent as he speaks lowly. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke onto youโ€™s face with a small puff. โ€œAinโ€™t gonna last long if ya keep squeezinโ€™ me like that,โ€ he remarks, a small chuckle escaping his lips as youโ€™s walls tighten around him.