AN: Here we are. This is one shot based on a Tumblr prompt. It was Caryl as prostitute/client. I may have turned it around a little from what the requester may have wanted, but I hope it's satisfactory.
I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Life had its way of stripping people of whatever pride they might have enjoyed at some point. Luckily enough for Daryl, he couldn't remember ever having had too much pride. Life, it seemed, had seen fit to strip him of it before he could know it and realize that he missed it.
Now? He mostly focused on getting through the day. He focused on surviving. He focused on his job.
He almost hated to call it a job, but it brought in money—and it brought in more money than anything else he'd done to date. And thanks to his dedication to drawing in funds by the hour? He didn't really do too badly for himself. He wasn't rich, but he had everything he wanted and money to spare.
He'd moved, in the past two years, through four different organizations and he liked where the hell he was now. Where he was now? The medical exams weren't "optional" and "up to his discretion". Where he was now, the protection wasn't "optional" and "up to his discretion". And where he was today? The women he was introduced to? They weren't cringe worthy like some of the ones from the earlier days—the ones that had compelled him to find that frequent medical exams were very much desirable in his opinion.
He'd been lucky—always clean. His brother? He'd seen some of the downsides to their profession.
Daryl stood outside the door of the hotel room and checked over the piece of paper that he'd been given. Seldom were they given specific instructions. Usually they were just given a name, a time, and a location.
This time, though? He'd gotten specific instructions. Come at 8. Come dressed nicely—not that he would have come any other way. Come as a gentleman. That was nice to know ahead of time, what kind of performance they wanted. Most times he didn't know until they were laying it out on the line at the door as to what they expected.
He finished scanning the piece of paper, folded it up, and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. He ran his fingers through his hair, cleared his throat, and knocked lightly at the door.
"Come in," the woman's voice called from the inside, though not with much force. Daryl tried the door and found it unlocked. He let himself into the room and closed the door behind him.
He regarded her. She was sitting in a chair, near the polished wooden table in the room, looking at him. She almost seemed to be cowering there. There were some women who carried it, written all over them, that this was their first time at something like this, or that they weren't really used to it, if nothing else.
He cleared his throat again, finding that it was strangely closed up from where he'd cleared it outside.
He flipped the lock on the door, noticed that it seemed especially loud in the ridiculous silence of the room, and crossed the short distance between the two of them.
She was beautiful, even if she seemed to be cowering there in the chair.
If she carried herself differently? She had the appearance of one of those women that could look like she belonged more on a throne than on the fake leather chair of the upscale hotel. She had silver hair that glittered in the light of the nearby floor lamp—the only light in the room. Her eyes glittered too, and as Daryl got closer, he realized they were of a shockingly beautiful blue.
This job—this would be one job that would offer him more than money. This job? He wouldn't even have to use any of the "stock images" that he kept in his mind at all times to help him become aroused when his client didn't inspire such a feeling in him.
As much as he hated to admit it to himself? This client might very well become one of those very same stock images.
She looked sweet and soft and delicate. She was the kind of woman that he wanted to wrap up in the blankets with—she was the kind of woman that he hoped wanted the romantic, delicate, gentle package.
And that's what she'd requested. Be a gentleman. That's what he wanted to be.
He finished closing the distance, reached toward her, and ignored her flinch only because he meant to do nothing she might protest. He touched her hand gently with the tips of his fingers, and when she relaxed, he lifted her hand and held it in his. He raised it, catching her eyes with his, and brought it to his lips where he gently kissed it.
She continued to stare at him, her throat bobbing with effort put into swallowing.
"I'm Daryl," he said, keeping his voice low to match the mood of the room.
She shifted to sit up a little straighter in the chair. She was still cowering, just a little, but she was much straighter in the chair.
Instinctively, Daryl dropped to a knee in front of her. The equalizing of their height seemed to make her immediately a little more comfortable. She didn't care for him looming over her. He'd remember that—it would be important later.
"Carol," she said softly.
He thought he felt, through the hand he still held in his, a tremor crawl through her body. She was nervous.
Daryl straightened up and gestured to the other chair.
"Can I?" He asked.
She looked at the chair and nodded.
He picked up the chair, brought it over, and squared it in front of her so that he could sit, making it easier for him to be closer to her. This was one of those things that wasn't going to happen easily.
Daryl preferred the "easy" ones most of the time. He didn't care much for conversation, honestly. He wasn't good at it. He didn't think, really, that he was that good at what he did—but it seemed that it was enough to keep him getting requests. He must be doing something right. Still, the in and out was easier than conversation. Maybe that's what he liked about it?
His job was straightforward. Lonely women wanted someone to do something for them. He offered that service. Many of them didn't want to speak. They welcomed him in, showed him what he had to work with, and his job was to make them feel desirable—whether they were or they weren't—and to satisfy whatever appetite they might have. They counted out bills into his palm at the end and, depending on the situation, he offered them a kiss or a thank you and he left.
This one, though? He just had a feeling that she was different.
He sat in front of her.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," Daryl said, shaking his head gently. "Nothing you don't want is gonna happen. Nothing you don't like. Everything—everything—that happens? It's up to you. Your choices. You're the one that asked me here, remember? I didn't come on my own. The customer gets what the customer wants."
Carol stared at him and then it was her turn to shake her head at him.
"No," she said. "No—I didn't ask you here. I didn't..."
Daryl was struck, but immediately he remembered the piece of paper. He was a gift.
"But you knew I was coming?" He asked.
Carol nodded.
"I knew you were coming, but..." She stopped and shook her head.
She almost looked like she was going to be upset and Daryl didn't quite know what to do. He didn't want her to be upset. He'd be happy to leave, but he wasn't sure how this worked. He'd never been turned away before and the person that was responsible for paying—the gift giver—had already paid for two hours of his time with the option to extend if that was necessary.
She shook her head at him again, this time with more force than before.
"My best friend did this," Carol said. "She called it a—divorce present. She said it was—getting back in the saddle. She said I needed to...that it would be good for me if I..."
She stopped, sucked in a breath, and then started again. Daryl touched her hand once more before he could tell she was embarrassed. He chuckled to himself.
"I'm a male companion," he said frankly. "A male prostitute. Man-hooker. I'm clean. I'm nice. I've never done a damn thing that no woman didn't ask me to do—and I wouldn't, 'cause I've been asked to do a number of things that I wasn't really thrilled to do. But I was gettin' cash for it, and that's what I was there for. You don't gotta be embarrassed in front of me."
Carol let out something like a laugh without air. She was beautiful, but she was more beautiful when her features turned up the way they would to hint at a genuine smile.
"I'm not really comfortable with this kind of thing," she said.
Daryl chuckled.
"Me either," he said.
"Then why do you do it?" Carol asked.
That was a loaded question. That was such a loaded question. It was one that Daryl wasn't sure he could answer at all, but he was certain he couldn't answer it quickly and succinctly.
He shook his head.
"Life takes you places," Daryl said. "Took me places. Some of them—ain't exactly where you wanna go, but that's where the hell you end up."
Carol frowned.
"Don't I know about that," she said, her voice low and somewhat sad.
Daryl hated that. For some reason, he really didn't want this woman to look scared. He didn't want her to look frightened or sad.
This time? This would be one woman he would actually enjoy making smile...and it made him feel a bit more heated inside than he had felt before, though not entirely in a lustful way. He swallowed.
"What do you want? You tell me—what you dream about. Your desire—and I'll see if I can't make it come true," Daryl said.
"That's what it's like?" Carol asked, sounding slightly amused.
Daryl chuckled at her amusement.
"That's the idea," he said. "I sell dreams."
"You sell fantasies," Carol said. "Short term, by the hour, fantasies. And—I don't know if that can even come close to what I want."
Daryl felt a catch in his chest at her truth for the moment.
"We've got two hours," he said. "And—I get paid whether I stay or you tell me to go. Why don't you—tell me what'cha want, and I'll see if it ain't something I can work at?"
Carol smiled. She shook her head.
"What I want? What I tried to tell Michonne? It doesn't happen in an hour," Carol said. "Or two—for that matter."
She sighed.
"I've got an eleven year old daughter at home—or with her aunt Michonne," Carol said. "I've got—divorce papers. I've got—a life that's barely coming together from falling apart."
Daryl nodded at her. She offered him a soft smile that, perhaps, wasn't entirely sincere.
"What I want? Is what I wanted from a man who let me down," Carol said. "I want—someone to find me beautiful. Someone to want me. Someone to want to—touch me gently. Not to hurt me."
Daryl swallowed. He was surprised at the changing in his heartbeat and at the fact that he was finding it difficult to breathe. When he opened his mouth to speak again, even he surprised himself, and it wasn't just because the quality of his voice wasn't what he expected it to be.
"I think you're beautiful," he said. "And—I want you. Wanna—touch you how you want to be touched. And—I ain't gonna hurt you. Not—if you don't want me to."
He chuckled.
"Some people's into that," he assured her.
Her cheeks turned red.
"But it's for two hours," Carol said, shaking her head gently. "Just—two hours."
Daryl nodded at her and swallowed. Then he laughed to himself and shrugged.
"Everything starts with less than that," he said. "But—no matter the reality? You might just enjoy the fantasy."
He stood up and offered her a hand.
"If you don't—I'll leave the minute you tell me to," Daryl said.
Carol took his hand and stood up. She looked at him, holding him with those piercing blue eyes for long enough that his heart skipped a beat. He hadn't been this nervous since his very first job. This woman? For whatever reason? She did something to him.
"What if I don't tell you to leave?" Carol asked softly, raising an eyebrow. "What if—I don't want you to leave?"
Daryl closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't know what to do with what he felt. He didn't know how to respond to that. It wasn't something he'd ever run into before, and he didn't know if he could answer honestly.
"Two hours," he said. "We'll start with two hours."
He leaned toward her and Carol let him kiss her, softly. It was soft and electrifying all at the same time. Daryl licked his lips instinctively when the kiss was done.
Carol smiled softly.
"Two hours of fantasy—two hours of a dream—it's more than I ever had before," she said.
Daryl felt his heart skip another of the beats it had missed before.
"Me too," he said softly, before he returned his lips to hers for another of the soft kisses.