heavenlydixon

Now, you were alone. Well, not entirely. You had company. His sonic.

You grinned like a fox as you turned the small device over in your hands, curling up in the pilot’s chair with your knees pulled up. The silver and green gadget felt heavier than you expected, cool against your fingertips, pulsing with faint energy like it had its own heartbeat.

You had found it on the edge of the console, left there like a tempting piece of contraband. He never left it unattended, not unless he was distracted. You’d tried asking him before about it. "How does it actually work?" you'd say while tracing your fingers along the handle as he locked the TARDIS into orbit. He’d mutter something quick and silly like “It just does,” or “Timey-wimey trickery,” before flashing that manic grin of his and whisking you off to face carnivorous books or planets that grew sentient strawberries.

You never got a real answer.

So now? You would investigate for yourself.

Holding the sonic between your thumb and forefinger, you tapped one of the small metal buttons near the emitter. A high-pitched whirr filled the air, and the green light blinked rapidly. The hum made your chest flutter. You didn’t know why, exactly, but there was something strangely… sensual about it. The vibration tickled down your wrist, almost suggestive. You giggled under your breath.

Then you pressed another button.

The TARDIS doors slammed shut.

Your eyes went wide.

"Oops?"

"Oops what?"

His voice came from behind you, low and amused. You turned your head sharply to find the Doctor leaning in the archway, arms folded, jacket thrown over one shoulder like a lazy professor caught watching a student cheat. His hair was still ruffled from earlier, and there was that look again. The one he wore when he was torn between scolding you and dragging you back to bed.

You held up the sonic like a child caught red-handed with sweets before dinner. “I was just… investigating.”

“Investigating?” He sauntered closer, boots echoing over the metal grates. “That’s my screwdriver, you know.”

“I borrowed it. You always keep it to yourself.” You wagged it teasingly before tapping the emitter again, watching the green beam light up. “It’s not fair. I’m your companion. I should get to know your… tools.”

He stopped in front of you, towering with that crooked, boyish smile and eyes glittering with a dangerous sort of mirth.

“My tools, is it?” he murmured, voice dropping half an octave.

“I mean,” you added, suddenly aware of just how warm it had gotten, “you use it for everything. Unlocking doors. Scanning stuff. Disarming bombs. Fixing my hair dryer when we were on the rainy moon.”

“You remember the rainy moon. I like that. You wore that red thing. It was very… stimulating.”

You flushed. “Doctor.”

He took the sonic from your hand slowly, fingers brushing yours. Then he clicked it off and held it up between you like a teacher ready to begin a lesson. “This button here,” he said, pointing, “does basic unlocking. This one’s for scanning frequencies. This little dial adjusts for atmospheric density. If you press them in a certain order, it plays Carmen if you’re very lucky and very bored. But this...” he tapped a hidden ridge on the side and then turned the emitter toward your bare thigh “... this detects heat. Biological warmth. Heartbeats.”

A low hum filled the air again, and you felt a faint buzz across your skin.

“Very useful,” he said softly, “when looking for someone I’ve… misplaced in the TARDIS.”

Your breath caught as he dragged the sonic slowly along your thigh. Not quite touching, just letting the proximity tease. He was watching you now, studying your every twitch, every shiver. His own breathing had gone shallow.

“And when I find her,” he continued, “curled up in my chair, wearing my shirt, playing with my very sensitive sonic… what do you think I should do with her?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. You didn’t know if he wanted an answer. You didn’t even know if you could give one.

“I should confiscate it,” he said. “But she looks like she wants another lesson.”

You nodded, lips parted.

With slow, deliberate movement, he took your hand and guided the sonic back to your fingers. He curled them around the handle and helped you hold it steady, showing you again which buttons to press. His other hand slipped under the hem of his shirt, skimming over your thigh. His palm was warm and slightly rough, always so precise in the way he touched you. He kissed your neck, just under your ear, where he knew your defenses dropped like a collapsing star.

You leaned into him, letting the hum of the sonic and the heat of his mouth send waves through your chest. He always smelled like ozone and tea leaves and something ancient you couldn’t name, something infinite and his.

“Curious little thing,” he whispered as he pushed the shirt higher up your legs, “always wanting to know how everything works.”

Your breath hitched as his lips brushed your jaw. He took the sonic from your hand and set it on the edge of the console again, this time within easy reach. Then his hands were on your waist, lifting you into his lap with ease, your legs falling to either side of his hips.

You kissed him first. Hard, hungry, already melting from how much you wanted him. His mouth opened against yours, tongue slow and deliberate, coaxing rather than taking. He was always so patient with you, even when he was desperate. And God, when he was desperate, he clung to you like you were oxygen. Like the space between galaxies wasn’t big enough without you in it.

He let you grind down onto his lap, fingers curling around your thighs as he pressed you closer. His breath hitched, low and broken. “Always asking questions,” he murmured between kisses, “always touching what she shouldn’t.”

“I can’t help it,” you gasped, nipping at his lower lip. “You make me curious.”

“Then let’s experiment,” he whispered as he laid you back onto the pilot chair, still warm from where you had curled up with his sonic earlier, you knew he wasn’t planning on dragging you all the way to the bedroom. The Doctor moved with purpose, deliberate and slow, like he was savoring every second. Like he was thinking through exactly how he was going to take you apart without moving more than ten steps from the console.

You were already soaked. Your thighs squeezed together for relief, hips subtly shifting as he pulled his shirt higher over your belly. It bunched beneath your breasts, leaving you half-naked for him in the control room of the most powerful ship in the universe. The metal beneath your back vibrated faintly from the core of the TARDIS. The golden light above gave your skin a soft, honeyed glow. He looked down at you like you were his religion.

He sucked in a slow breath, eyes roaming your body with open hunger.

“You know,” he murmured, stepping back just far enough to reach for the sonic where it rested, green light blinking softly, “I don’t usually allow people to touch this. Not just because it’s dangerous, or sentimental, or partially alive. But because it’s calibrated to me. My frequency. My rhythm.”

You swallowed hard, your nipples stiffened under the thin cotton of his shirt, your thighs twitching slightly in anticipation. You knew that look. He was enjoying the sound of his own voice, yes, but more than that, he was preparing you. Letting the tension build between every word.

“But maybe,” he continued, flipping the sonic open and adjusting a dial on the side you hadn’t even noticed before, “just maybe, it’s time we recalibrated it. For you.”

He kneeled in front of the chair, pushing your thighs apart with a command that needed no words. You opened for him instinctively. He tugged your panties aside, dragging the thin cotton down your legs and off with a practiced flick, leaving you bare and slick and needy beneath him.

The first time the sonic touched your clit, you gasped.

It was sharper than a vibrator, not harsh or painful, just focused. It was as if the hum of it was tuned to something deep inside you. A frequency you didn’t know your body could respond to. Your hips jerked, your back arched. The green light flickered between your legs, painting the inside of your thighs in a ghostly glow.

The Doctor watched you with fascination, mouth slightly open, one brow arched as he adjusted the settings. “There,” he said softly, almost reverently, as if he’d just cracked some impossible code. “Oh, my girl. That’s a beautiful reaction.”

You whimpered. “D-Doctor, please.”

He chuckled darkly and pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “You don’t even know what you’re begging for yet.”

He circled the emitter around your clit, slow and devastating, the vibrations pulsing with such precision you thought you might cry. Your hands flew to your breasts, kneading through the thin fabric, needing something to anchor yourself. The Doctor grinned up at you, one hand steady on your thigh, the other guiding his sonic in gentle, merciless loops.

“You wanted to know what all the buttons did,” he said, voice thick with arousal. “You wanted to investigate. This one...” he tapped something and the pitch changed, higher now, almost teasing, “ this one makes you twitch like that. Good to know. Let’s try another.”

You were writhing now, head thrown back against the chair, moaning openly. Your slick coated your inner thighs, your clit swollen and throbbing from the expert manipulation. He was relentless, switching between patterns, rhythms, and pulsing bursts that made your whole body jolt like lightning was threaded through your veins.

He pressed a hand flat to your belly to keep you from squirming away. You were shaking.

And still he didn’t stop.

“You’re close,” he said, almost clinically. “Look at that. My clever little human. So sensitive. So responsive. So mine.”

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave.

The moment he flicked the sonic to one last setting, something low and deep that seemed to vibrate through your bones, your body seized. Your mouth fell open in a soundless cry as your thighs clamped around his hand. The sonic pulsed once more, and you came apart, sobbing his name as the climax tore through you, long and blinding, stretching on forever.

By the time he pulled the sonic away and clicked it shut, your body was limp, quivering, wet and trembling from overstimulation. He kissed your inner thigh again, lovingly this time, tender, almost reverent.

Then he stood, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt with urgency.

“Your turn,” you rasped, barely able to sit up but determined to return the favor. “Let me.”

He paused, breath catching, his cock already straining against his trousers.

You slipped off the chair and onto your knees before him. The floor was cold against your skin, but you didn’t care. He watched you with blown pupils as you unbuckled his belt, tugged open the button and zipper, and slid his pants and briefs down just enough to free him.

You always adored the contrast of him. Tall, manic, often so scattered. But when you got him like this... breathless, flushed, thick and hard in your mouth... he became silent. Worshipful. Reverent.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, tongue swirling as you took him deeper, slow and deliberate, moaning softly as you tasted the salt of his precum. He groaned above you, one hand gripping the console edge, the other tangling in your hair. You sucked him in deeper, letting him slide over your tongue as your fingers stroked what you couldn’t take. You loved making him fall apart.

He rocked his hips forward slowly, trying to be gentle, but the moment you gagged slightly, tears pricking your eyes from the fullness, he lost it.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You’re...God, you’re perfect.”

You hollowed your cheeks, moaning again, the sound sending a ripple through his cock. His grip tightened in your hair as his hips began to move, slow thrusts, just enough to chase the edge. You bobbed your head in time, feeling him throb against your tongue, each twitch more desperate than the last.

You looked up at him, mouth full of him, tears glistening on your cheeks, and he shattered.

He came with a groan so low and deep it vibrated in your chest. Hot spurts flooded your throat, and you swallowed instinctively, never breaking eye contact. His face was slack with pleasure, mouth parted, eyes soft and wild and full of you.

You stayed there for a moment, licking him clean, before sitting back on your heels.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, cupping your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip where his taste lingered.

“My brilliant, filthy girl,” he whispered. “You make me forget how old I really am.”

You laughed weakly, breath still ragged. “I want more lessons.”

• He was loud, bright-eyed, and reckless as a child. He'd climb trees, go bullfrog catching, and go to his neighbors plot to use their dirt bikes.

• He was all those things until he had to start walking on eggshells. Being too loud or too quiet won him the same fate. It started with the back a hand–rough knuckles against his cheek, then a belt, then whatever tool was at his old man's disposal.

• He still remembers being in the garage and his dad reaching for a rubber hood-seal to use as a whip.

• He carried his scars both physically and emotionally.

• Whereas most people had to adapt to poor conditions, being exposed to the elements, hunger, and human depravity when the apocalypse happened, Daryl was already molded to face it from a young age.

• Hungry? Go hunt. It wasn't safe at home? Have a tent in the woods. Getting his hands dirty in a fight? It wouldn't be the first time.

• He hardened out of survival, because no one would ever dare to come close to a dog that bared its teeth.

• Preteen Daryl would tag along with Merle and his older friends. Merle would tell him to go get his jacket only for Daryl to go back and find they had left without him.

• It turned into him trying to prove himself. He'd pretend to handle bets like stealing from stores, burning himself with lighters to see how long he could last before his eyes swelled with tears, and drinking above his limits to appear grown.

• Merle would go along with the jokes—not wanting to show he actually cared about someone other than himself, but when his friends planned pranks on unconscious Daryl, like suggesting throwing him in the motel pool across the parking lot they were hanging around in, Merle would cuss them out then carry Daryl home like he were six again—Daryl's head against his shoulder.

• Daryl liked to remember his older brother that way. Like someone that would've changed for the better if the clock hadn't run out of time.

• Teenage Daryl was the kid your parents warned you about, not because he was a bad kid but because of the family name. He did dress the part, though—the bike, the permanent glare, the poorly made tattoos he did on himself.

• He's allergic to red tattoo ink, he found out.

• He started school later in life, and it showed from his social skills and reading and writing. He only liked books with pictures, and his writing was unreadable.

• Most teachers were cautious, because they had already faced the older Dixon. Though Daryl, for the most part, surprised them in a good way.

• He kept to himself, quiet; he'd fidget with his pencil, chew on the pink rubber end. Only once did he get bullied, being called "trailer trash," and it ended with a visit to the school nurse for the other kid. After that, he was cast out by his peers.

• Math was his worst subject due to his dyscalculia. To this day, he still counts with his fingers—the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration. His favorite subject was history— stories about the revolution, and extracurriculars, like carpentry. He would carve small sculptures, and found buffing and glossing wood to be just as therapeutic as working on cars with Merle.

• His carpentry teacher once put a hand on his shoulder, saying he was proud, that he saw greatness in him. It was the most positive reaction he had gotten from school, from anywhere, yet that was what made him step back and decide he wasn't cut out for it—For books, schedules, and having someone expect something from him, so he dropped out at sixteen.

• If Daryl wasn't alone in the woods or working on something with Merle, you could find him at the local theater at any given hour, watching reruns—bucket of popcorn between his thighs. Rarely did he pay for the ticket, having figured out how to open the flimsy fire exit from the outside.

• Secretly, one of his favorite movies is Hook.

• It was a regular Tuesday when the outbreak happened.

• He was an adult now but still trying to survive like his younger self. Life was hard, with or without the end of days. The only difference was there were no social norms, meaning the masks people once wore dropped. If you were a bad person, there was no law to stop you; if you were poor, it didn't matter because money was something you used as a fire starter.

• And if you stayed soft, you got eaten.

• Daryl was in his element. People who once would have changed direction to not cross his path were now depending on him to learn how to hunt, to track; they trusted him to keep them in one piece in the face of a threat—undead or living.

• He could have lived his whole life alone in the woods if he wanted. The rest of the world could burn and rebuild itself, and not much of his routine would have changed. Staying hidden would have saved him from going through so much loss and heartache, that's for certain, but it was those moments that shaped him into the person he later became.

• Still quiet, still all bark and bite when provoked, just brave enough to let people into that place he guarded with clenched fists for so long.

• With age, Daryl is even more stubborn, but he has accepted his limitations with a grumble. He knows there's no way around his hair graying and his steps slowing.

• He used to believe his value came from what he could do for others: protect them, search for them, give them the food from his plate, and the vest off his back if they shivered in his presence.

• Getting old felt more like a burden than a privilege.

• But he is reminded that love is a give-and-take deal. That means caring for others and letting others care for him back.

• Old Daryl drinks black coffee while the birds sing in the morning. He works on his truck in the shed—bike resting against a wall, since it hasn't felt the dirt road for a few summers now.

• In the afternoons, he lights a cigarette, sits in his rocking chair, and lets the buzzing of cicadas lull him into a nap. There he sees old, familiar faces and hears the laughter of his children, who are now all grown up.

• When he wakes up from his nap, he denies ever letting his guard down. He takes the mug from his lover's wrinkled hands, then drinks. He takes his time, for there's no more running, no more looking over his shoulder. Just tea on his lips and stories to tell when the grandkids visit.

• Once, a long time ago, a girl told Daryl he would be the last man standing.

• Daryl is still living up to those expectations, just not alone.

Dividers by: @kthice

Note: Share your Daryl headcanons if ya'll have any! I love reading them. I didn't touch on Daryl as a partner/dad in detail because those can be a post of their own.

Been working on some fics in the shadows...

My drafts are tired of seeing my dumbass. I have a mechanic bf a/u, trailer park a/u, period comfort, and a doll collector fic to finish editing. Gonna post this first, and tomorrow I'll post something else. Unless I get cold feet. Haven't written a full-on fic since The Boy came out. YES, my type is quiet, dirty men. Bye.

🫶🏻 tagging the talented @holdmytesseract in this short n sweet headcanon post! Ain't gonna put ya through the mess I have in store for later🤭🤣

Daryl Dixon recent work:

Baby I'm Yours fluff-smut trailer a/u

Before you'd even spread his ashes, you had started making the place your own. Potted flowers and herbs, lace curtains, fairy lights, and even a radio by a foldable lounge chair outside.

It only took a couple of hours for the radio to get stolen from your little piece of trash heaven, though it only took Daryl a couple of minutes to get it back. It wasn't even a nice radio, but the fact that it was so easy to take it from you was a good enough reason to do it.

Yet god forbid some bastard steal the view from his window: You turning red as a tomato, mouthing the words to songs that were older than you both combined.

You were across from him, laundry basket propped against your hip, hauling sun-dried items from the clothingline. You never bothered removing the clothespins properly; the tugging sent little plastic clips flying into the grass, where they'd stay forgotten until your next laundry day or until you had to retrieve them before his mower turned them into confetti.

He had warned you not to whine if and when his ol' reliable shredded whatever shit you left outside, and so far, that was the longest string of words he'd said to you.

Your sandals were his first victims

Your gnomes were a close second

Last time, though, he almost mowed over your underwear.

Daryl was ready to keep his word and run over that item of clothing that fell from the basket on your way back inside—but he didn't. Instead, he found himself bending down, balling them in his hand, and stuffing them into his pocket.

Those panties with a blue bow were still in his bedside drawer, waiting for their next date with his fist and cock. If he kept watching you sweat through your tank top, a rosy blush spreading across your nose and bare shoulders, he'd be doomed to indulge every perverted movie running through his head tonight, assuming Merle didn't drag him off somewhere first.

He wondered if you missed those panties, if their absence would have you retrace your steps, leading you to him. If you saw him taking them, saw him bringing your radio back. Saw the scrapes across his knuckles, because that's the only way people kept their belongings off limits around here.

He wondered why he cared at all.

You pulled the last shirt from the line, tossed it into the basket, then glanced over your shoulder to send him a nod. It was a I've felt your eyes on me for fifteen minutes straight and I'm not making this a thing type of nod. Not that you owed him more than that, but still, it bothered him. You'd been neighborly before: small talk, weather, the usual. He'd gotten used to it, even though his dry attitude gave you the opposite impression. Guess it was a matter of time before you'd stop being friendly. That bothered him even more.

So he cleared his throat.

"I was thinkin'..." he began, his southern drawl cutting through the lulling sounds of late summer surrounding you both. The humming of cicadas, and the wind chimes hanging from your awning became background noise to whatever he was making an effort to vomit out. "Since I'm mowin' yer side, it's only fair ya do my laundry." Could've jus' talked about the heat, dumbass.

You blinked, glancing between him and the yard like you were checking if he was talking to someone else, not expecting him to start a conversation let alone make—what you assumed was—a joke. "I said I'd pay. You didn't take the money," you reminded him, thinking back at the first time he crossed the invisible line separating his side from yours two months ago.

~~~His short hair, the color of oats, stuck to the back of his neck as the lawnmower chewed through the weeds and anything in its way. You waved a couple of bucks, yelling over the motor for him to take it and asking if he wanted something to drink too. He didn't talk. Didn't even look at you; he just waved you off like a pesky mosquito buzzing too close to his face, then kept mowing. ~~~

"I ain't want ya money, girl. Maybe I jus' want my stuff to smell like roses too."

Playing along, you tilted your head as if considering it. "So you trim my grass...and in return...I have to clean skid marks off your boxers, correct?" Youd set the basket down and moved closer with a smirk. "Not sure if that's a fair labor trade."

"Watch it," Daryl snapped, but there was no real bite to it. He pushed himself off the steps to meet you halfway because, if he planned jerk-off to you later, he might as well get a good whiff—for the sake of a vivid fantasy, of course.

It was the only motive behind the conversation, at least that is what he said to himself.

"Dirt and motor oil I can own ta that," he said. "But shit? Ya leave that to my brother, Merle."

You snorted, loud and a little apologetic, your eyes crinkling as you smiled at him. The unladylike sound made the corners of Daryl's mouth twitch, but he wiped that look off fast before it got comfortable enough to stay, though not fast enough that you missed it.

You couldn't really miss much standing so close to him.

He had eyes the color of wornout denim

Two moles on the corner of his mouth

Sweaty

Earthy

He smelled like concrete after lightning

"I'll bake you something," you said, folding your arms.

He blinked. "What?"

"I said...I would bake you something." Your eyes dropped to the ground as you rocked back and forth on your heels, suddenly feeling a little silly for suggesting it. Judging by the look on his face, it was as if you’d spoken another language. "You know...as payment for mowing my poor excuse of a garden."

He felt his ears burn. This wasn't part of the plan, though he hadn't exactly had one to begin with. "Suppose that ain't a terrible trade..." he muttered, scratching the hollow under his cheekbone; his eyes avoided yours and landing on the dumpster by his trailer instead. S'many goddamn bees 'round since you got here.

You smiled, victorious. "Good. We have a deal then, neigh—"

"Daryl."

One beat

"...Daryl," you repeated with such sweetness that he could hardly believe that was his name he was hearing. You turned to retrieve the basket before heading inside, waving goodbye as the screen door shut behind you.

By the time you had crossed the distance to your trailer, his heart sped up like it had accepted something before he had.

Ah, Fuck.

He took a step back and inhaled as if he'd been underwater. How he managed to keep a conversation with you going was one thing, but getting a cake from it all? Maybe he should've played the lottery while he was at it.

Maybe things were turning around for him.

Maybe—

He sneezed loud enough to lose his balance.

He'd been so fixed on you that he hadn't realized he felt like complete and utter dogshit. He wiped his runny nose with his forearm—the fever officially welcoming summer.

You hadn't seen or spoken to Daryl in two days. In fact, the man had not stepped out of his trailer once. You knew this because you'd gotten into the habit of watching him from behind your curtains. It had started as a way to pass the time after moving in, but somewhere along the way, curiosity had turned into something you couldn't name.

You'd learned that Daryl was a creature of habit.

He woke before the mourning doves even began to coo and vanished into the woods for hours, returning either with nothing at all or enough meat to last the week. He took on odd jobs around the trailer park, fixed cars for cheap, and spent most of his time alone rebuilding an old bike he'd salvaged. At night, he would leave with his older brother, and you wouldn't catch sight of him again until the next day.

The nights when he stayed in were the ones you preferred, because he would sit outside for hours and stargaze with such an unguarded look on his face that you felt compelled to look away, but you never did.

Perhaps, like everyone else, you were only meant to see the scowl he wore for the world—and that version of him was like nightshade blooming, something rare in nature, reserved only for the crickets and the moon.

Or maybe, with proper care and patience—and cake—he would open up to you too.

The lack of rain meant the grass was brittle and dying before it ever grew past your ankles, so his mowing wasn't in the cards yet. You could bake him something for the previous mowings, though. It seemed fair, and it was an excuse to go see him. You didn't want to dwell on why you wanted to see him, so you snatched your apron and got to baking instead.

Unsure of what he liked, you decided on something safe. He wasn't picky—you'd seen him haul roadkill enough times to support your theory that he would eat anything. Just nothing with peanuts, in case he was allergic.

An hour later, the cramped kitchen smelled of lemon citrus and powdered sugar.

The bees crawled up and down the screen door, desperately trying to get inside. They had claimed your basil and lavender as their own, but this cake was off-limits.

By the time it was cool enough to dust with powdered sugar and little daisies, the sky had turned indigo, and the streetlight had beckoned all the flying insects in a mile radius with its flickering to come closer.

You skipped the short distance between trailers with the cake in your hands.

It had been a long time since you baked something for someone else. Like your parent— wherever they were—you had a persistent itch to move around with barely any money, which meant not staying in one spot long enough for strangers to turn into acquaintances. It felt nice, though, to put time and care into a place and someone else. You still weren't sure how long you'd stay at the trailerpark. The plan had been to put your time into being your grandpa's caregiver, knowing he would changed his mind and decided he would rather be alone eventually, but death took him before he ever got the opportunity to kick you out. You thanked thanked him for his timing.

You knocked on the door

Fixed your dress

The door opened

Your smile dropped

It wasn't Daryl

Merle stood there at the top of the steps instead, leaning against the frame with the same hooded yet ready-to-bite look he always carried around like a pocket knife.

"Well, well," he drawled. "What do we have here? Ya lost, little lady? Y'trailer is that way." He pointing downward with his index finger and made a small circling motion for you to turn around.

"Not lost, just wondering," you looked past him into the empty trailer, 'if Daryl is here?"

He scratched his chin. "Depends. That cake ya holdin'—is it for him?" His eyes landed on the cake, on your face, on your knees poking underneath the short dress, like he was giving his eyes enough time to decide what looked better, because for people like him, it was a sight for sore eyes.

Finding dog shit in his mailbox? Sure. Getting a brick thrown at his window because he may or may not have slept with someone's sister? Possible. A pretty youngling like yourself bringing cake to the Dixon residence? In his wet dreams.

"It is. For being helpful with mowing my side."

"That so? Quite the oasis y'got over there." He chuckled. "How about this. I will personally give it to him, alright? He’s out. Somethin' about a headache. Dunno. Might be a while." He tilted his head toward the doorway. "Unless ya wanna wait in—"

You shook your head before he could finish asking. 'Tell him thank you," you said, handing over the cake. "And that I hope he likes it."

"Will do." He smirked, lifting the cake to his nose and taking in a loud sniff. "Don' worry, buttercup. I know my baby brother appreciates such a tender gesture."

He shut the door with his boot before you could ask about the headache.

The next day, sitting hunched on a milk crate with a screwdriver in hand, Daryl worked on replacing the clutch on his bike, muttering a deflated curse every time a stubborn screw refused to cooperate.

The flu had a tight hold on him. Every time he looked up, pressure throbbed behind his eyes, and every time he looked down, his sinuses clogged until he was forced to breathe through his mouth. His body begged for a few more hours of sleep—for a bowl of chicken noodle soup, for a cool cloth pressed to the back of his neck.

Like a sissy, he thought, too stubborn to rest. He had lived his whole life without any of those things, so why expect them now? Hell, if his old man was still kicking, he would've gotten the whooping of his life for complaining or being useless.

Daryl had been so wrapped up in his own misery to pay attention to what was going on across from him. It took a loud crash to cut through that fevered haze that dulled his senses, and when his head shot up he found you getting cornered by a stranger.

The man laughed humorlessly, swinging his leg as far back as it could go before bringing it forward—boot striking the ceramic gnome, sending it flying towards the side of the trailer, missing you by an inch, and shattering into pieces like the first one.

Daryl wasn't sure how he made it to you so fast, because one second he was by his bike, then the next he was pressing the tip of the screwdriver against the man's throat, as a string of pleas came out of their mouth.

Sharin'

Whore

Relax man

Don't!

"If I catch ya 'round here again—messin' with my neighbor, I will have yer ass breathing through a custom airhole, understood?" He pressed the tip deeper, voice low, then louder. "Understood?!"

"Y-yes, yes! Understood!" The man begged, tossing his head back in a weak attempt to make space between his throat and the rusty tool.

Daryl used his last ounce of strength to hurl the man to the ground, where he stayed for a second, before scrambling back on his feet to run off. Daryl held his ground until the man disappeared from sight, and only then did his shoulders slump. He braced a hand against the trailer, visibly struggling to stay upright.

You quickly moved towards him, offering a shoulder for him to lean on. "Daryl, what is it?"

He shook his head, trying to straighten up on his own. "M'fine, girl. Just the heat."

You frowned, pressing your hand against his damp forehead. "You're burning up! Come on, let's go inside."

Daryl resisted yet somehow ended on your couch.

He groaned, watching the ceiling fan spin on the ceiling, though it was turned off. Or was it turned on? Everything in the room was spinning, regardless.

He turned to the side to find you hovering over him, messy hair spilling from your bun—brows knit together, focused on taking care of him as if he was worth the trouble. You brushed the damp strands from his forehead before pressing an ice pack against it. He flinched at the cold shock, then sighed and melted deeper into the nest of cushions.

S'comfy... smells good...

"The hell is this?" He muttered, attempting to lift his head to look around, only for you to stop him.

"You're in my place. Now stay still. Don't be difficult."

"Difficult? I jus' saved yer ass."

You clicked your tongue, both grateful and mad at him. "Well maybe next time, don't tell other people I pay manual labor with cake, alright? Apparently, that's code for something else around here..." You tried to brush it off as a minor inconvenience, as a joke even, but it was clear you were shaken up by the situation. He could feel the unsteady grip you had on the icepack—eyes darting from him to the door as if expecting another unwelcomed visitor, sent by Dixon, to show up.

Daryl wrapped his fingers around your wrist, lowering your hand with the icepack. The kicked puppy look on your face made his chest ache more than any sickness. "Not sure if it's the fever, but yer makin' no sense. I didn't say any of that, y/n."

The gentle yet firm hold he had around your wrist—the way he called you by your name made your heart flutter. You wanted to believe that at least one person had your back around here. You wanted to believe him, especially.

So that meant—

"Oh." You let out a dry chuckle at the realization. "Guess I made the wrong impression on your brother."

"Merle? What does he have ta do with this?"

"Last night, when I dropped off your cake he—"

Daryl didn't need to hear the rest to figure it out. He abruptly got up—fever be damned—ready to beat the shit out of his own flesh and blood.

~~~He'd made his way back to his trailer late at night from a walk to the gas station for painkillers. He glanced at your trailer to see if all the lights were out before heading inside. He found Merle in front of the TV—mouth open, empty cans sprawled around his feet. Nothing out of the ordinary, but then he stopped and squinted, doing a double-take when he noticed a powdery substance around Merle's mouth. Damn pig, he thought, but he was too tired to question it, let alone care.

He would not know you'd been there a few hours ago. ---

"Merle, you son of a—" He felt a flicker of disappointment for missing the cake you made for him, but it was overrun by the anger he felt towards Merle for running his mouth like that—dragging your name through dirt before you'd even settled down. He knew how fast rumours spread around here, and how hard they clung once they did.

He wasn't sure if it was the fever that made him want to vomit on the carpet in that moment. No. It was the guilt in his stomach trying to claw its way out.

He had stolen from you.

Fantasized about you.

Like his brother, like that bastard moments ago...

He wasn't any better.

You pressed a hand to his chest, easing him back onto the couch before he could throw himself into a fight you knew he had no chance of winning in his condition. "Did you at least get to try the cake?"

Daryl just turned his head away.

You took that as a no and walked to the stove to make tea—something with ginger and honey for him. His voice was still charmingly rough, but you could tell each word scraped at his sore throat. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you were the one who said those things about me," you said, grabbing two of your silliest mugs, hoping it would lighten the mood.

Daryl winced. "The hell are ya apologizing for? The only thing y'done wrong is move into this dump," he muttered, eyelids becoming too heavy to keep open.

Christ, if it was easier when the only thing I wanted was to jerk-off to yer panties.

The realization landed like a punch. He wanted you to bake for him—to fuss over him when he got sick. He wanted to stay on your couch, drink tea from that ridiculous mug with boobs on it... He wanted to know how your days went. He wanted to keep you safe, help you with your garden tomorrow, then the next day, and the day after that, for as long as you'd let him.

Daryl wanted whatever this was with you.

You sat down on the coffee table in front of him and set the mugs aside. Sometime during those minutes you were making tea, he'd stretched out, muttered something about you living here being a mistake, and then closed his eyes.

You knew better than to take anything he said in his state personally, yet you still found yourself sitting alone with your thoughts, and the possibility of staying or going.

You leaned forward to trace the slope of his nose with your fingertip, getting a twitch from him before he swatted lazily at your hand.

"You saying I should move away, Daryl?" You whispered it more to the room than to him, but still, you hoped he would wake up and tell you what you wanted to hear.

You could move away as many times as you wanted, but loneliness waited for you everywhere you went. It had become a sort of entity that, in its attempts to protect you from other people and the heartache that came with them, only made things worse.

Daryl saying that you being here was wrong felt like waking from a dream before the good part happened. Deep down, you were just a lonely girl who always kept a suitcase within reach, never stopping her dreams of the day she would turn around and find she was worth chasing after.

Maybe it was time for you to wakeup for good.

smut below the bow

You sighed, getting up to leave when a hand reached out for you.

Daryl's calloused fingers found their way to the back of your neck, pulling you in until his mouth crashed against yours, drawing a gasp out of you.

The kiss was messy. Salt from his fever mixing with the lingering sweetness from the tea on your tongue. Inexperienced. Teeth crashing. Noses in the way. Desperate. In its attempt to keep and possess something too precious to let go of.

He pulled you onto the couch, rolling on top of you, tossing cushions out of the way to make space. He wasn't sure if this was a fever-induced dream, but he couldn't stop kissing you—not when you were finally within reach, yet talking nonsense about leaving.

He felt your hands ball in his shirt, struggling to push him off. He groaned, unlatching from your mouth unwillingly, but with enough restraint left to do so.

You looked wrecked trying to catch your breath—eyes glossy, bottom lip swollen, a string of spit that could've belonged to either one of you on your chin, and sweat pooling in the hollows of your collarbone due to his fevered body heat. He cradled your face with his hand, and you melted into it—breaths evening out and eyes fluttering shut to take in what just happened.

You looked so sweet that he couldn't believe it, so he pinched your cheek hard enough to make you yelp.

"Mm! What was that for?!"

He shrugged. "Jus' Checkin' if I'm dreaming.'

"That's not how that works, idiot!" you snapped, then turned your head away when he didn't break eye contact, like you were used to. Oh, and now he kissed you? The fever must've melted something in his brain, you thought, looking for an explanation for your dreams becoming tangible.

"You're not thinking straight. We shouldn't b—"

"Not like I'm drunk, girl."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smile.

Then you noticed the hollows under his eyes and the tremors in his arms on either side of your head. Clearly, he was fighting to keep from collapsing on top of you, and you couldn't just ignore it.

"You need to rest, Daryl."

"Nah, I need..." He signed hard. "I need ya, please."

You swallowed the lump in your throat—heart racing, resolve crumbling just from a plea and from the way he looked at you, like you were the night sky. It made your hands reach for him before your brain decided otherwise. "Just go slow."

"Slow's alright."

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the flush across his cheeks, before drawing him closer—his eyes closing. The meeting of lips was slower this time, but just as needy. He let out a whine against your mouth, and the sound made heat pull between your thighs until you felt a heartbeat there. Your hands moved across his shoulders, tracing the curve of his strong biceps before sliding down his toned back. You found the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to slip your hands underneath the fabric—fingertips mapping the line of his spine, tracing the unexpected ridged scar tissue that made your brows knit together in wonder.

He tensed.

"Don't." The word came out harsher than he intended, but the vulnerability under it didn't escape you. "Jus' keep 'em on my hair."

"O-okay."

When he felt your hands settle in his hair again, he relaxed then kissed your neck, the space between your breast, your belly. His decent continued until he settled between your thighs, hoisting them so they would rest over his broad shoulders. He pushed up your dress, exposing another exact pair of the panties he took.

He cursed under his breath or maybe it was a prayer; you couldn't hear clear enough over your own breathing.

He leaned forward and tugged at the little blue bow with his teeth, the elastic snapping back against your skin with a sting. You giggled, nervously, and ruffled his hair. He smirked, nuzzling the damp spot forming in the center of your panties.

You gasped, lifting your hips to chase the teasing friction. He gave your clit a kiss over the cotton, then another. It felt better than you could've imagined, but it wasn't enough. You didn't want him to go slow after all. "More, faster—anything," You whined, impatiently. "Please, it aches."

"Mm, that right?" He teased, hooking his finger around your panties to pull them to the side, exposing your drenched pussy. "Look at ya, S'pretty." He drawled, before he licked a stripe from your entrance to that engorged, pink button. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste and those shy little sounds you made after each kitten lick.

His poor cock was strained and leaking precum inside his boxers, so he couldn't help grind against the couch—desperate to ease his own ache. If it wasn't for the fever he would've carried you to bed and fucked you properly by now. Make every fantasy he once poored into your panties a reality.

He tried not to think about it too much for the sake of keeping his load in, but it was easier said than done.

his cock bulging in your belly, cum spilling out when he was finished, only to go at it again and again, until you got knocked up with his redneck babies—trapping you forever.

Breathe, dammit. Gotta make her finish 'fore I pass out or cum, he thought, and then the possibility of just dying while eating you out made a delirious, gravelly laugh rumble in his throat.

The never-before-heard sound made your head clear up abruptly. You knew he wasn't in his right mind, but still, you felt your face burn from whatever it was he found so funny. Without so much as a second thought, you flicked his forehead hard, just in case he was laughing at you.

Daryl sent you a glare—giving your hip a sharp smack in return, before he gave you something better to blush about. His lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on it until your eyes rolled back into your skull and your fingernails clawed at his scalp.

"Ohmm—fuck!" You cried, squirming under him—shyness out the window.

He groaned against your skin, his mouth relentless. That' more like it.

He swirled your clit over and over, guessing you were close by the drunk look on your face, and the way you began to fuck youself up into his mouth with short rocking motions.

"Ya like that, huh?"

"Y-yeah, baby, so good," you whimpered, the petname nearly undoing him on the spot.

Baby? Shit, I ain't gon' last.

Daryl lifted his head, replacing his tongue with his thumb, drawing tight circles around your clit, while he waited for saliva to gather under his tongue. "Fuuck—Come on, sweetheart." He spit right on your pussy, thumb speeding up and mixing all the fluids together. "Y'can do it."

That definitely did it.

You cried out as the tight knot in your belly finally snapped. Insides spasming. Vision blurring. Heat spreading from your core to your limbs, until you trembled.

He groaned against your pussy as a warm gush of juices hit his tongue. He lapped every drop, like the parched mutt he was, until his poor cock couldn't take it anymore. He dropped his head on your lower belly cursing through gritted teeth as he drove his hips against the couch hard, until thick ropes of cum shot out, leaving a pathetic mess in his jeans.

The room fell silent as you both went slack, leaving only the electric hum of the old appliances and the patter of rain against the windows fill the space was once occupied by ragged breaths and pleasure-slick skin.

Then Daryl's breathless voice cut through the silence. "You move away, sweetheart...I'll hunt ya down."

The tender threat pulled you out of your dazed state. Your opened your mouth to say something—you needed to—but then you heard it. You lowered your gaze toward the sound, expecting blue eyes to be waiting for you. Instead, you found his cheek smooshed against your belly, brows relaxed, and his lips slightly parted.

Snoring

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh, then ran your fingers through his hair—gentle enough not to jostle him awake, though even in sleep, he frowned and tightened his hold around your middle.

He could sleep for as long as he wanted, you thought, because for the first time in a long time, staying exactly where you were didn't feel like such a bad idea.

🐝 FIN 🐝

Note:

I love old Daryl, but I had this scenario of young 20's Daryl living in a trailer park snatching panties, and yup.

This is my first time writing smut, so have mercy on me!!!

The word clit doesn't sound like a real word anymore.

Anomia will forever kick my ass. It took me 10 minutes to remember the word curtain.

Hope ya'll liked it! This was so far the longest fic in my drafts. Never again. Gon' stick to shorter ones for a while. My poor brain.

(Dividers by: @uzmacchiato and @kthice )

Some little fun facts:

• Concrete after lighting is a perfume that exists.

• The title of the fic is the song reader was listening to while tanning.

• Read an article on autism symptoms improving amid a fever. Being sick = clarity of mind, better eye contact, less anxiety. That influenced how I wrote Daryl. I just noticed.

• Merle is an ass (Gotta love him though)

Why do I get the feeling that reader will not only get sick after this, thanks to Daryl, but get knocked up embarrassingly quick, like after their first time, and become young parents?? Uncle Merle is just relieved that his baby brother isn't a fairy, like he suspected for a second there. Pfft funny.

Bonus! perfume moodboard:

This work of fiction was written while listening to...

The First Kiss

This one would not be smooth, at all.

Daryl would spend weeks, possibly months, working himself up to it, second guessing every look and every touch until one quiet moment became too much to ignore.

After staring at you for several long seconds like he was trying to gather every ounce of courage he possessed, he would lean in slowly enough to give you every opportunity to stop him.

You would never stop him.

The kiss itself would be soft and hesitant, because despite how capable Daryl was in almost every other aspect of life, this would be one area where he genuinely felt vulnerable.

When you kissed him back, the relief alone would probably make his knees weak.

The “I Missed You” Kiss

These would happen after long runs.

You barely have time to greet him before he pulls you into his arms.

Not rough.

Not desperate.

Just deeply relieved.

Daryl would bury his face into your hair first, holding you close for several seconds before finally kissing you like he needed proof that you were really standing in front of him.

These kisses always lasted longer than usual.

The Desperate Reunion Kiss

This type happened after something went wrong.

Maybe a herd separated you. Maybe a building collapsed. Maybe Daryl genuinely believed he lost you.

For hours.

The moment he finally found you again, every bit of composure disappeared.

Daryl wasn’t usually someone who acted first and thought later.

Except when it came to you.

The second he realised you were alive, he’d be crossing the distance immediately, grabbing your face in both hands before kissing you hard enough to leave you breathless.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he needed to.

Because the thought of losing you had hollowed him out from the inside. The first words afterwards would probably be:

“Don’t ever do that again.”

As if the separation had somehow been your fault.

The Forehead Kiss

These were Daryl’s favourite.

He gave them when words failed him.

When you were tired, upset or sick. When he simply looked at you and felt overwhelmed by how much he loved you.

A forehead kiss from Daryl always meant the same thing.

The Protective Kiss

These happened before dangerous runs.

Before battles.

Before anything uncertain.

Daryl wasn’t good at goodbyes.

Never had been.

So instead of saying everything he wanted to say, he’d pull you close, press a firm kiss to your lips, then rest his forehead against yours for a second.

It was his way of saying:

Come back to me.

Without actually having to say it.

The Jealous Kiss

Rare.

Very rare.

Daryl wasn’t the type to start fights over jealousy.

But if somebody had spent the entire day flirting with you and refusing to take the hint?

The second you found yourselves alone, he might wrap an arm around your waist, pull you against him, and kiss you slowly enough to make a point.

Not to you.

To himself.

Because sometimes even Daryl Dixon needed reminding that you were really his.

The Sleepy Kiss

These might be the sweetest.

The reader wakes up before sunrise and finds Daryl already getting ready for a run.

Before leaving, he’d lean down and press a sleepy kiss against your forehead or temple, thinking you were still asleep.

Then he’d freeze when you smiled.

“You’re awake.”

“Apparently.”

“Go back ta sleep.”

The Angry Kiss

After an argument.

After hours of stubborn silence.

After both of you have had enough.

Eventually one of you says something emotional.

Something honest.

And suddenly all the frustration turns into relief.

These kisses are intense.

Messy.

Emotional.

The kind where neither person can quite decide whether they want to keep arguing or start apologising.

Usually both.

The “I Love You” Kiss

The most important kiss Daryl ever gives.

Not because it’s dramatic.

Because it’s simple.

One ordinary evening, maybe while you’re cooking or sitting on the porch together, he looks at you and feels so much affection that he can’t hold it in anymore.

He kisses you gently.

Then quietly says:

“Love ya.”

And just like that, the words he’s struggled to say for so long finally become easy.

Because they’re true.

The Old Married Couple Kiss

Years later.

After everything.

After surviving the apocalypse together.

These kisses happen absent-mindedly.

A kiss on the shoulder while passing each other in the kitchen.

A kiss on the cheek before bed.

A kiss against your temple while sitting together on a porch watching the sunset.

Nothing dramatic.

Despite everything people assumed about Daryl Dixon, despite the cigarettes and the silence and the rough edges that made strangers dismiss him before he even spoke, his first instinct had always been loyalty. “Ain’t runnin’ from it.” And you knew him well enough to know he meant it.

The months that followed were ugly in ways neither of you had expected. Not because of the baby, but because the world around you made it painfully clear how little faith it had in the possibility of people like you surviving together.

Your parents looked at Daryl the way people looked at storms rolling over the horizon when they'd just planned to go out: dangerous, inconvenient. Your mother cried quietly over dinner while your father spoke in measured, humiliating sentences about ruined opportunities and "so much wasted potential", about all the money spent on private schools, ballet classes, and piano lessons just to watch you throw your future away for some mechanic from the “wrong side” of town who barely spoke in complete sentences.

Daryl sat through every word with his jaw clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack from the pressure. He never defended himself, raised his voice or begged. He simply endured it because you were pregnant, exhausted, and scared, and somewhere in that silence he had decided your comfort mattered more than his pride.

Your son was born during a thunderstorm after nine painful hours of labor. It felt like the weather itself mimicked your screams with thunder shaking the hospital windows. And against your parents’ wishes, Daryl stayed beside you the entire time.

The gentle nurse who spoke to you afterward admitted she had never seen a man more terrified in her life than when he heard you screaming in pain.

Once the baby was finally placed against your chest, Daryl felt his entire world change. He muttered something under his breath while staring down at the tiny screaming infant wrapped in blue blankets, looking stunned in the purest sense of the word. The baby had his eyes.

For a while, the two of you tried. God, you tried harder than most people ever knew. Daryl picked up extra work wherever he could find it, often coming home with grease on his hands and exhaustion dragging beneath his eyes so heavily it aged him years overnight, while you balanced college classes with motherhood and constant battles against your parents’ disappointment.

You were exhausted all the time, surviving on burnt coffee, interrupted sleep, and a stubborn love that refused to die even when life gave it every reason to.

But eventually the pressure became unbearable.

Your parents escalated from disapproval to ultimatums, threatening to cut you off completely — tuition, housing, every safety net you and your son had left.

You and Daryl had your final fight the night your son turned three, screaming at each other in the apartment kitchen while the little boy slept in the next room. You knew in that moment that you would remember the look in his eyes for the rest of your life, the exact moment Daryl realized you were drowning beneath expectations you could no longer carry.

“Ya think I wanna be the reason your whole damn life falls apart?” he snapped, voice raw with frustration and heartbreak tangled together. “Think I don’t see what this is doin’ to you?”

“It’s not you." you cried back immediately.

“But I’m in your way.”

“Daryl—”

“Yer family’ll never see me as one of ‘em, and they already said they’ll cut you out if ya stay with me.” He cupped your cheeks, taking a deep breath before continuing, calmer now. “I don’t want our son havin’ a life like mine.” a tiny pause. “He has opportunities here.” the last sentence was barely above a whisper.

You let out the most heartbreaking sob he had ever heard, simply because loving someone wasn’t always enough to survive the machinery of the world crushing down around you.

You separated six months later. There were nonstop tears, shaking hands, and promises to stay kind to each other for your son’s sake, and somehow, against all odds, you managed it. You became good coparents. Great ones, even. Better friends than lovers by the end of it, as you liked to lie to yourself.

Daryl stayed involved no matter how far life dragged him, showing up for birthdays with awkwardly wrapped gifts and scraped knuckles, teaching your son how to fish before he learned long division, how to track deer prints through mud, how to throw a punch without breaking his wrist, how to survive disappointment quietly.

Your son adored his dad with that fierce, uncomplicated love children reserved for fathers who made them feel safe, and Daryl loved the boy with a devotion so profound it terrified him.

You kept your relationship heartfelt, every time you asked him how he was doing it was genuine, and vice versa. Every year since your son turned four, you sat on the corners of his birthdays enjoying to catch up with eachother, slipping curious questions like "Are you seeing anyone?" after some alcohol kicked in and the answer was always no, of course it was no.

Truth be told, you kept expecting something change and finally get over eachother, but you weren't really willing to let go, some time after his 13th birthday party ended, you caved in, had a relapse, snuck out with Daryl like a teenager and had sex on his trailer. The next morning you came back home with the bitter taste you weren't allowing yourself to have more of him purely out of cowardice, that you should face it like an adult and allow yourself to be fully happy for once.

Then the world ended.

You had taken a trip with your son to visit your aunt Deanna miles away from where Daryl lived, the true love of your life, if you were honest enough to admit it. You were ready to be back and tell him how sorry you were that you didn't try harder, you didn't push more and you didn't face your folks for him. And then you grieved him again. So much harder this time. You spent two years believing Daryl Dixon was dead.

Alexandria smelled like fresh bread and woodsmoke the afternoon everything changed. The gates opened to receive Aaron back with another group of survivors. You'd grown fond of him in these years and he treated you and your son like his own family.

Aaron walks in first, dirt-streaked clothes and a tired look on his face. You were halfway through unloading crates with your son, he was talking about his last hunting trip when he suddenly froze mid-sentence beside you. Almost sixteen now, he towered over you already — all broad shoulders and long limbs, his sharp blue-gray eyes mirroring his father’s so painfully that sometimes you had to look away not to cry.

The abrupt tension that overtook him made you glance to where his eyes layed immediately. Then you understood why. It felt like a mirage. You had dreamed of this moment so many times before that your first instinct was to believe this was just another cruel fantasy made up by your brain, that it would disappear the second you blinked.

But it didn't. He didn't.

A group of strangers entered through the gates alongside him, people you had never seen before. They looked exhausted, starved, worn down by the world. And right in front on them, Daryl.

He stood only a few feet away near the gate. A crossbow hung oven one shoulder and he looked older now, older than you'd expect someone to age in two years. His hair was long, streaked faintly near the temples, his gaze was harsher and his face was scarred in ways visible even from a distance. Grief had settled like concrete into the lines of his face the way exhaustion settles into old soldiers.

But his eyes were exactly the same. And they locked onto you so intensely you felt it burn.

A woman with snow-white hair stood beside him saying something he clearly wasn’t listening to, because he had gone completely still. Completely, horrifyingly still.

For one suspended second, neither of you moved. The noise around you faded strangely, like the entire world had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale again.

The crate slipped from your hands and hit the pavement hard enough to crack open one corner, canned food spilling across the ground, but neither of you cared because Daryl’s expression had already begun collapsing into something raw and disbelieving and dangerously emotional. You watched his gaze move frantically over your face like he was trying to confirm you were real before running to your encounter, he hugged you tighter than he ever did "You're alive." he kept repeating hoarsely, over and over like he genuinely could not process it. “Jesus Christ, you’re alive."

When he finally opened his eyes to look behind you, he shifted his gaze to your son. The boy stared back at him in stunned silence, every feature unmistakably Dixon beneath the years neither of them had shared together, and Daryl looked like someone had physically struck him across the chest.

The woman beside him glanced between all three of you once before realization visibly dawned across her face, then spread silently through the rest of the group nearby.

Daryl Dixon had a son, a nearly grown son. And somehow none of them had ever known. He'd mentioned having lost people, they all did, but nothing ever specific.

“Holy shit,” a tall, muscular redhead muttered somewhere behind them, not even trying to lower his voice, and nobody corrected him.

Daryl broke from your hug, finally took one shaky step forward, then another.

His breathing looked uneven now, chest rising too sharply beneath the worn fabric of his vest, and you realized with sudden overwhelming clarity that this man had mourned you. Deeply mourned you. Somewhere out there in the brutality of the apocalypse, Daryl had believed you were dead all these years, and whatever walls he had built around himself afterward were cracking apart in real time right in front of everyone.

His voice broke the second he spoke your son’s name.

He blinked rapidly, clearly trying not to look emotional in front of an entire audience, but his composure failed almost instantly. “Dad?”

The sound that escaped Daryl after that barely qualified as human. He crossed the distance in seconds.

And when he wrapped his arms around his son for the first time in two years, holding him so tightly it looked almost desperate, the entire courtyard fell silent around them because nobody there had ever seen Daryl Dixon unravel before. Not with tears visibly gathering in his eyes while his son clung back just as fiercely, laughing shakily despite himself because he could barely breathe beneath the force of the embrace.

When they parted he held you again, afraid that if he let go maybe you'd vanish on thin air. And just like that, the pain of the years apart disappeared between you. There was no more space for it. You had spent years regretting letting him go after believing the two of you had been permanently separated forever.

Now, standing in his arms again, you could physically feel the love that had lingered there all this time. Quieter now. Older now. Reshaped by time and grief and survival. But still there.

Hershel's farm seemed like a damn miracle, water in a desert. The white house, seemingly unaffected by the chaos outside the perimeter, was a breath of fresh air.

The path to get here was not.

The group had been surviving on fumes, running around in desperate search of anything that could be utilized for the good of the group.

Until Sophia got lost.

The frantic, racing thoughts and constant noise of searching for that little girl nearly put everyone over the edge. Hell, even Rick was beginning to lose it.

It wasn't until Carl was shot that anyone had a clue about what lay beyond that highway.

After a few days, Carl was feeling better. And life seemingly had color again.

"Y/n, you and Daryl will work on gettin' those tents up. We're camping outside for the time bein'." Shane ordered everyone around, seemingly a distraction while Lori and Rick coped with their son's healing process.

As Shane barked orders across the yard, you glanced over at Daryl, who shook his head with a brief scoff.

"Who made him the boss?" Daryl mumbled, watching you crack up in quiet laughter.

Daryl made life a little easier. His calm demeanor, the way he was able to joke around with you, even in the darkest situations.

He never failed to make you smile.

"C'mon, these tents ain't gonna make themselves." You shoved his shoulder as you walked by to grab one of the folded-up tents from the RV.

As you began placing them, your eyes lingered on Daryl. His lean muscles flexed in the hot Georgia sun as he helped you, skin shimmering with sweat. His shirt clung to his skin, revealing the outline of his body.

If this wasn't the end of the world, you wouldn't bat an eye at the sweaty man helping you make tents. But getting to know him, helping him while you were camped out at the quarry.

You've got to see his kinder side, the one that everybody else had trouble seeing.

"S'hot out here, might wanna take this off." You smirked at him as you poked his shirt. "I sure wouldn't mind." Your banter with Daryl was always flirty, always pushing boundaries.

Daryl looked up at you from where he was securing the tent, hammering stakes into the ground. He snorted softly. "Shut up, ya' just wanna get a good look at me."

He stood up and stretched his back. "Gonna have to try harder than that."

The sun began to set across the fields and the farmhouse. The orange and yellow hues reflected off the grass and white wooden boards.

Now it was Daryl's turn to stare at you. His eyes traveled across your skin, admiring your furrowed brow as you worked.

Sweat dripping down onto your chest.

Goddamn you.

Weeks had passed since Daryl met you at the camp just outside of Atlanta. Merle just about made you throw a few punches within the first hour of you being there.

After shutting down his older brother, he got to know you in a way that he hadn't known anyone else in the group.

The tents were all set up, with Daryl's several meters away from everyone else's. "What, you don't wanna hang out with the rest of us?" You held your arms out as if you were offended by his lone wolf-ish style.

Daryl tossed you an eye roll, the corners of his mouth moving up to a smile. "Don't wanna hear the little love triangle bickering all night. Should move your tent with mine so ya' don't hear 'em." He pointed to Rick and Lori, who stood on the porch discussing something, holding hands in an oblivious manner.

And Shane was watching, brooding.

"Startin' to think you just want me sleepin' next to you." You blow Daryl a kiss, watching a bright red blush spread across his face.

"Shut up, woman." He ran a hand over the back of his head and went to go let Shane know that everything was done. You followed him, staying back to hear the conversation.

"Shane, tents are all set up." Daryl leaned against the pillar on the porch, the muscles in his arms bulging and flexing as he crossed his arms.

You nearly drooled at the sight and glanced down at your feet to give yourself a breather. Staring at Daryl put you in a trance, and you knew exactly what that was.

That feeling.

Love. Affection.

Quickly, you were brought out of it by Shane's words. "Thank you, Daryl. Swear to god we're the only ones who give a damn about survivin' out here." You cleared your throat to make your presence known.

Shane leaned over to look at you. He said nothing, moving inside to go check on Carl.

Daryl turned around and approached you with a smug smirk. "Yeah, should put in more work 'round here." He teased you with a shrug, earning himself a prompt shove.

Daryl nearly fell over, catching himself by wrapping an arm around your waist. "Nearly took me out, ya' tryin' to prove somethin'?" His laugh was confident, relaxed.

"Yeah, prove that you're an idiot." You placed a hand on his where it lay on your waist.

It was right then that Daryl realized what he was doing. He pulled his arm away, his heat leaving yours just as quickly.

For a second, you swore you could see his brows furrowed in some emotion that was indescribable.

Anger? Disappointment?

You pushed it down, taking the rest of the evening to help out the rest of the group.

Morning approached fast, and the sunrise made your eyes peek open to start another day.

Well, that and the scratching at your tent. "The fuck?" You slowly opened the zipper and poked your head out to see what was happening. An uncertain, nauseous feeling rose in you at the thought of danger approaching the group in the night.

But, when you glanced out, you were met with Daryl poking your tent with a stick to wake you up.

"You awake?" He had his crossbow slung around his shoulders.

Daryl couldn't sleep. His mind was spinning, thoughts of you surrounding him and flooding his senses. He couldn't stop thinking about you, how you looked last night as you helped him, how his hand fit perfectly around your waist.

And how you didn't pull away. He did.

Daryl could hardly think about anything but survival these days, but everything was blurred and complicated when you were around. Many nights after he met you, he'd spent lying awake on the ground obsessing over your every move.

Many nights spent with his hand.

"I am now, thank you very much." You let out a sigh and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes. "Real charming, y'know. Poking me with a stick." A yawn escaped your tired frame.

Daryl just stood watching you, a giddy feeling washing over him. The way your eyes were barely open, still trying to shake the sleep from your body, made the corners of his mouth curve into a smile.

And how the strap of your tank top slid down your shoulder…

"At least get me some breakfast in bed?" You stepped out of your tent and fixed your clothes, all twisted and disheveled from a night of sleeping.

"This ain't a damn romance movie." He shook his head at your statement.

Even if he wanted to be romantic like that, the best he could do was a cooked squirrel.

And even he knew that wouldn't be the most romantic gesture.

"No? Coulda' sworn it was from the way you're lookin' at me." Eyes meeting his, you brushed your arm against him.

As quickly as the words came out, his eyes averted from yours as if you'd turn him to stone.

Daryl didn't want you to get the wrong idea, but you made it so damn hard not to fall for you. The teasing, the way you could point out every thought he was having.

It only made his denial harder to justify.

After taking a few minutes to collect some supplies for the search, you set off into the forest with Daryl to look for Sophia. The ground was uneven and rocky as you crossed creeks and large tree trunks to look for the missing girl.

"Can we take a quick break?" You tapped Daryl's shoulder and slung your backpack off of your back.

Daryl gave you a silent nod and stepped a few feet ahead to scan the safety of the perimeter. Once he confirmed it was all clear, he grabbed a water bottle from his own bag. "Need a break already?" A smirk formed on his face as he took a swig of water.

"Hey, speak for yourself. I can hear that you're out of breath." You took a sip from your own water bottle, eyeing him from where you sat below him. "Would'a thought you had more stamina…" Your voice trailed off at the end of your sentence.

From the way his jaw tightened, it seemed that your words had the exact effect you wanted them to.

Daryl clenched his fists. "I'll show you stamina, sweetheart." A shudder ran through you at the way his tone changed.

"Right now?" As much as you'd love to take him right fucking there, you both were a tad exposed in the woods.

"Nah, my tent. S'far away from everyone." Daryl wiped a layer of sweat from his brow, his whole body on fire in anticipation. "Tonight?" He asked you.

He didn't even have to ask.

"Tonight. Then you can show me what you got." Running a hand down his torso, a smirk made its way onto your face at the way his stomach tensed.

Daryl broke away first, his attention returning to the task. "Gotta keep lookin'" You felt whiplash at the abrupt change in topic, suddenly speechless.

The way he would avoid you, avoid your touch.

You'd never tell him, but goddamn did it make you feel insecure. Like the things you did just weren't enough to earn his affection.

Later that night, it seemed like Daryl was around you more. At dinner with Hershel and his family, his hand grasped your thigh firmly underneath the table.

In the back of your mind, confusion still raked through you. Maybe Daryl was acting tense earlier because of Sophia?

The sound of discussion from the rest of the group was drowned out as the feeling of his gaze made your skin heat up in anticipation.

"Still on for tonight?" Daryl leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"Yeah, but you better not be mean like you were today." You admitted, it sounded a little childish but it was true. His affection would hit you suddenly and then leave without a trace.

"Won't be too mean, promise." He pinched your thigh, a smirk plastered across his stubbled face.

After dinner, you were helping the rest of the ladies clean up and get the dishes washed. In that time, Daryl had disappeared from your view. Part of you felt this longing, an impatient rush running through you.

Because once this line was crossed, things would be different.

Eventually, everyone had settled in for the night, the sun had fallen behind the trees several hours ago.

Shuffling over to Daryl's tent, you felt nervous.

After weeks of teasing and flirting with seemingly no intent to actually do anything about it, you couldn't help but feel hopeful that maybe this would finally be your peace, your reminder that the world can still be somewhat normal.

"Psst! Daryl! You awake?" In a whispered breath, you contemplated turning back around when there was no response.

Guess he forgot.

"Shoulda' just stayed in my own place." You mumbled to yourself.

"Will ya' give me a minute, woman? Christ." He unzipped his tent to let you in. Daryl was shoving something into an empty beer bottle, his back turned partially to you.

A hot blush spread across your face in embarrassment. "What'cha got there?"

Daryl turned to face you where he was sitting inside his tent. "Somethin' I found, thought ya' would like it."

It was a small bunch of beautiful wildflowers, sprouting with blue, yellow, and pink hues on their petals. Your heart was nearly bursting as you took it from him. Sure, it was stuffed into a beer bottle, but the gesture was sweet nonetheless.

"They're so pretty! When did you find time to do this?" You set the bottle next to you and scooted closer to him, your knee touching his.

"Jus' thought they look nice, s'all." He shrugged away your compliments and wrapped an arm around you.

Daryl walked around the farm for half an hour while you were busy talking to Maggie. He figured that he should at least try to do something romantic for you.

Especially since he had been wanting you and begging himself to make a move for weeks now.

"Hm, maybe you were expecting something in return?" Your hand pressed against his chest. You knew Daryl wasn't that shallow, but the teasing made his ears flush red anyway.

His brain froze for a moment, eyes flickering down to your hand and then back up to your eyes. "What would I get in return?" His hand brushed across your jawline, eyes glancing over your lips.

The wait was too unbearable, you closed the distance with a light kiss. One that Daryl deepened almost immediately, his hands tightly grasping your waist to keep you close.

Leaning into you, his body pressed against yours as you both collapsed onto the tent floor, thin blankets being your only mattress for the time being.

But that didn't matter.

His hands were all over you, frantic and attentive. A quiet groan vibrated against your lips as he kissed you.

All restraint was lost, his stubble lightly scratching your skin as he pushed your shirt off. The kiss was messy now, his tongue slipping inside your mouth, and one of his hands cupping your cheek.

As Daryl pulled away, you could see the look on his face. His lips were a shade of pink now from his kisses, and his eyes were traveling all over your body as if he were memorizing your frame.

He leaned back in, this time attacking your neck with kisses and bites. "Can't stay away, can ya'? Been comin' onto me since we met." He wore a smirk as he shrugged off his vest. An offended expression washed across you.

"Look who's talking! I know you've been wanting this since Atlanta, don't even try to deny it." The silence gave you an answer.

Daryl huffed and pulled his shirt off, hands grasping at your hips to pull you closer. "Gonna get these off f'me?" He helped you unbutton your jeans and pull them off.

"You need help pulling a girl's pants off? Wow, very sad." You snickered to yourself, blissfully unaware of the stare he was throwing you.

Daryl had little patience left with your teasing.

"Gonna do what I promised earlier, sweetheart. On your knees." Large hands wrapped around your waist to help you flip yourself over onto your knees. A low heat grew in your core, sending an unbearable satisfaction up your spine.

His hands caressed your skin for a moment, sliding down over your ass to admire you. "Y'gonna do what I say? Or should I shut you up instead?" He unzipped his jeans, slipping them off quickly to reveal the large outline in his boxers.

You glared at him from your position, head turned to look. "We do have all night, if you really wanted to."

Daryl groaned at your words, fingers palming his erection through his underwear. "Shut up, woman." His strong hands pulled your hips against his, giving you a feeling of just how badly he wanted this.

Moaning quietly and pressing your heat against him, you were fucking dripping at the thought of him inside.

And it was obvious to Daryl when he pulled your hips away to see a wet spot on his boxers from where you pressed against him. "Fuck, such a good girl f'me." He couldn't wait any longer to see you, to see your aching core that was practically begging to take him.

He yanked off your panties and left them hanging around your knees. Dragging a long stripe up your cunt with his tongue, he tasted your arousal with a deep hum.

"Taste even better than ya' look." He pulled away to shove his boxers down to his knees as well, hands quickly returning to grip your hips with a bruising hold.

He got his revenge when he rubbed the tip of his cock on your entrance, hitting your clit and threatening to push into you.

"Daryl please-" You gasped as your plea was answered immediately. The tip of his cock pressed into your entrance, both of you letting out a heavy sigh.

This was a long time coming. Impossibly long nights alone with nothing but your hand and the thought of how he flirted with you that day; they seemed to wash away all in one fell swoop as he finally inserted himself where you both wanted him to be.

"Jesus-" Daryl let out a choked groan and pressed in further, eyes glued to the way your cunt took him so well. "So good-" he caressed your sides as he felt you struggle to relax enough to fit his large size. "So good f'me."

Leaning over you, he pressed kisses into your back and over your neck.

Gentle, but the way he stretched out your pussy was not.

Daryl gave you a minute to adjust before tapping your hip. "You good?" He was biting his lip to keep some semblance of control, but fuck the way your back was arching against him, it was almost unbearable.

After hearing a whimpered "yes" from you, he pulled out agonizingly slow. Without warning, he slammed himself back into you with one thrust, making you jolt forward with a scream.

"Holy shit!" You managed to get out before Daryl's hand found your mouth and covered it.

"Shh, can't have the rest of the group hearin'." A thought flashed into his mind as he began hard thrusts into your tight cunt with a grunt.

If only things could stay this way. Maybe there was truly some hope that he could keep you, have you near to him when he needed you. Not just for sex, but when either of you were feeling lonely.

A lover.

"Feels good-" You bit back a moan as Daryl slammed your hips back onto his cock. He hummed in response.

"I know baby, I know." He shifted his position to angle his thrusts into you, striking your spot as he mercilessly fucked you.

You stuffed his sleeping bag into your face as you screamed his name, your legs beginning to shake. Daryl was holding you up at his point, fucking into you with no abandon, like you weighed nothing.

Daryl was beginning to lose control as well, his head thrown back in pure bliss as long groans escaped his mouth that was hanging open.

Squirming against his grip, you felt the white-hot pleasure building up in you with every thrust he pounded into you. "Please-" you sobbed out, "Please don't stop!"

Oh he wouldn't dare. Not when you could barely hold yourself up from the immense pleasure, your legs beginning to close upon themselves.

Before you could collapse under his grip, he sat up abruptly.

Bringing you with him.

You were now sat in his lap as Daryl was on his knees, his hips jackhammering into you. Daryl wished he had a mirror right now so he could see the way your tits bounced as he drilled you.

Now, you were an absolute mess. Tears were flowing down your face as he held onto your ass. "Know you're close, sweetheart. Let go f'me, wanna feel that pussy cum on me." Daryl was breathless as well, his words coming out in pants as his orgasm rushed closer.

With his pleads for you to cum, your high hit you intensely. Neither of you cared about the sound anymore, with you moaning his name loudly. You practically melted in his grasp, your body jolting and convulsing in pure pleasure.

Daryl came right after you, pulling you close to him as his hips bucked up into you uncontrollably. His warm cum seeped into you, earning an appreciative hum from Daryl. "Oh-" He groaned into your neck. "Oh fuck."

A fucked-out smile spread across your face. You used all your energy to toss him another tease.

"That good, huh?"

Daryl huffed at your teasing and bit your neck gently, making you yelp.

Jerks of pleasure hit both of you as you separated briefly. Daryl wiped you off with a clean rag he had managed to find in his tent. "Says the woman who couldn't stop sayin' my name. Whole camp knows who fucked ya' now."

Daryl couldn't shake the pride that he felt in that fact.

That you were his, that you were here in front of him.

You curled up to him despite his teasing, your bare skin touching his in a way that he could only describe as freeing.

How often did two people have a real connection during the current world situation?

Daryl wrapped an arm around you and managed to cover both of you in the thin blanket he had in his tent.

"You're stayin', right?" The question sounded more like a command, but you nodded anyway.

"Since you're begging, I guess I have to." You giggled to yourself and pressed a kiss onto his stubbled cheek.

"Hush." He shook his head, letting silence fill in the gaps of your conversation.

The crickets outside were blaring, reminding you of the dark world that lay outside the tent. Small lights flared up around you as lightning bugs flew by, offering just enough light to see a smile on Daryl's face as his eyelids began to droop.

"G'night." He mumbled against your ear. The warmth from his body kept you from freezing in the night breeze as your eyes closed alongside his.

Morning broke through Daryl's tent, the early sun shining bright onto his face in a comforting warmth. But there was more warmth than he'd been used to.

Then he suddenly remembered last night. With one glance down at your sleeping body, blissfully unaware of his gaze, a knot formed in his stomach.

A new day brought new concerns, new worries.

Daryl slowly moved away from you, so as to leave you undisturbed by his movements. He stumbled to put his clothes on, his hands beginning to tremble.

Because it was all hitting him at once.

How could this ever work? How could he be so stupid?

Daryl took one last look at you, eyes ghosting over your naked body in admiration. If things were different, if there wasn't this danger hanging over everyone's heads, he'd love to wake up to this sight every morning in a nice warm bed.

But things were different. He couldn't even take care of himself, couldn't even find Sophia.

How on earth could he protect you?

Daryl unzipped his tent quietly and slipped out, fingers fumbling with the zipper as he zipped it back up.

Thoughts swirled around him faster than he could even process them, making his feet move faster to find a place of solace. Alone.

He ran his hands over his face to try to wipe away his stress, his worry. But no such luck.

Folks were dying, and people went missing all the damn time. If he gave into this feeling, this thing that the two of you shared last night, he couldn't afford to lose you.

Anyone but you.

Daryl made his way over to his motorcyle, grabbing his gun out of one of the compartments. If he was going out to look for Sophia, he'd be going alone. There's no way in hell he could even fucking look you in the eye without hurting.

Hurting inside because he couldn't be with you. You didn't deserve it, and neither did anyone else in the group.

Attachments get you killed. Can't feel sad about it if you didn't associate with them in the first place, right?

And the worst part was; he believed this could work. He picked out those flowers, thinking of you in every one he plucked out the ground. A sliver, a shimmer of hope that this could work. He fell asleep with you last night, imagining that this is how it could be every night, you curled up next to him with that beautiful smile.

What a goddamn idiot.

He jumped a mile at the sound of your voice.

"Daryl? You didn't wake me." Your voice only twisted the knife he had voluntarily stuck in his side to rid himself of the feeling he had for you.

And then, a hand was on his shoulder, fingers brushing against his vest like this was some kind of romantic greeting from his lover.

He pushed your hand off. "Didn't need to. You're grown." He stepped away, making distance between you.

"Just thought you might've wanted to take advantage of being the first two people awake." Approaching him, you placed a hand on his chest, the same way you did last night.

He flinched, as if you had burned him. "Wanted to get an early start. Been too distracted lately, probably why I couldn't find her." Adjusting where his crossbow strap sat on his shoulder, he looked in an off-direction.

"Alright, let me grab my things-"

"You ain' comin'." Daryl grunted, his jaw clenched tightly. You looked offended at that, brows furrowed in confusion.

"And why not? We could take advantage of the alone time?" You reached to grab his hand when he yanked it from your grasp.

"Will you stop trying to touch me, woman? S'bad enough what we did last night." He shouted at you, alerting some of the others who were sleeping nearby.

"Excuse me?" You were angry right back at him, as he knew you would be. You were tense as you stood in front of him, your eyes narrowed to hear his explanation.

"Ain't nothin' good can come out of what we did last night. S'best we both forget it." He got in your face this time, his finger pointed at you accusingly.

"And what the fuck does that even mean? You regret it?" Anger was racing through your veins, making your fists clench up in rage. He seemed so sweet, so different last night. What happened?

"Hell yeah I do!" He shouted, throwing up his arms in rage.

You felt the air leave your lungs all at once.

"Really? You regret everything?" Tears pricked at your eyes, more out of anger than anything. Because it wasn't just a fling. You bared yourself to him, physically and emotionally. You spent hours getting close to him, finding your peace with the man.

And he regrets it?

Your arms were crossed against your chest, your brows furrowed as you gazed harshly at him.

"Every goddamn thing." He snapped back at you.

You laughed sadly. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"You're my problem! People are dyin' every damn day. Hell, Sophia's still out there because I can't do my goddamn job and find her." He was shouting at you, ignoring the approaching group.

"Oh so that's my fault now?" You were breathing heavily now, suddenly becoming very aware of the eyes on the both of you. Rick and Shane were staring at you with a look that you could only pass off as judging.

Daryl was pacing now, his crossbow dropped somewhere in the heated argument. "Can't do a goddamn thing to save anybody 'round here! Everybody's either hurt, missing, or we lose 'em."

"And you think that's my-" You were cut off sharply.

"And I can't lose you, too!" He shouted, his voice breaking as he spat out his last few words.

Both of you just stood there. The confession hung in the air, unaddressed, unquestioned.

The silence broke Daryl from his white-hot rage, and he glanced around at the camp's nosy eyes observing him. He was near tears, his chest heaving with the emotions swimming through him.

"Show's over." He managed to speak out, albeit cracked and unsure. Daryl grabbed his crossbow and took off towards the forest.

Standing there, Carol was quick to come over to console you, or at least drag you away from prying eyes. It was difficult to process the bag of complex emotions that Daryl had dropped on you that morning.

Did he really regret it? Or was he scared of losing you?

Hours had passed since you had seen Daryl, and, from the sympathetic looks given by the other camp members, he wasn't back yet.

You were sitting out with Carol doing laundry, hanging clothing out on a line to dry it. Andrea, who was sitting on top of Dale's RV, stood up quickly.

You were a few meters ahead of Andrea, and you could see what she was looking at. It was a figure coming out of the woods.

Bloody, beaten, slow.

"Walker?" You glanced back at Andrea as she tried to look through the scope.

"Yup. I'll get that fucker." She settled into position to shoot the figure. And your eyes followed where she was aiming.

Only, you realized the walker was holding something.

"Hand me those binoculars." Carol passed you her binoculars with no hesitation.

Your heart sank into your stomach at the sight. It was Daryl.

Not a walker, but so bloody and bruised that he looked like death himself. And Andrea was about to shoot him.

"Andrea, fuck-" You tripped over yourself trying to reach her. "Don't shoot, it's not-" A shot rang out, and you turned just in time to see Daryl collapse.

And you froze. Like time itself had stopped, like nothing else mattered in that moment.

You couldn't hear anything else in that moment, just your heartbeat and your feet brushing through thick grass as you ran over to Daryl. Rick and Shane had followed, reaching him before you.

As the men were assessing what happened, you stopped yourself from joining them. A sick feeling rippled through your body.

The last talk you had was in anger, in hatred. And now you were losing him, the one person here who you felt truly understood you.

You didn't even feel the tears that streamed down your face until you could taste them on your tongue. Wiping your face, you watched through teary, blurred eyes.

Rick and Shane lifted Daryl up, carrying him across the field. His head was bleeding.

"Oh god-" A quiet sob broke out from you.

Carol rushed over. "He's alive. Look, he's alive." She pointed to the way his legs tried to keep up with how fast Rick and Shane were dragging him.

You let out a shaky, heaving breath that you had been holding in. The thought of losing him broke you. He was alive, but for how long?

Laughing sadly to yourself, you came to the realization of what Daryl meant. Why he was so upset.

Because now it was your turn to feel this. To experience the loss he feared.

After a few hours, Hershel came out to give you the news. "How is he? Is he going to be okay?" You were trembling, exhausted from the emotional journey this whole day had been.

"Thought his girl should be the first one to know. He'll be fine. He's just getting dressed. The bullet grazed him, no harm done, but he's very lucky." Hershel chuckled at the hug you gave him after hearing his news.

It made you feel warm inside being referred to as 'his girl'. But that was definitely due to the heated and very public argument you had this morning.

"I will let you know, he's very upset. I don't know exactly what went down this morning, but I suggest you give him some space for a little bit." Hershel gave you a tight-lipped smile before walking back inside his house.

You decided to listen to Hershel, even though you were practically shaking in anticipation of getting to see him. That only lasted about 20 minutes, and you were unzipping his tent to visit him.

"Daryl." You peeked inside to see him lying down, his head supported by a pillow and wrapped in a large bandage. The sight made your stomach churn.

He didn't say anything, just stared out the tent entrance with a loaded glance. You could tell he was deep in thought by the way he was biting his lip.

"Can I come in?" Your voice was soft and pleading. Hell, you probably needed this more than he did.

Daryl gave you a nod and turned to look away from you as you stepped inside.

"Fuck, she really is a good shot-" You reached to hold his head in your hands, and he didn't resist.

He just let you with no protest.

"You're never going out there on your own again. Could have lost you." You let out a deep sigh, your eyes meeting his.

Daryl felt the guilt sink in his stomach. "M'sorry for this morning. Was just scared, s'all." His eyes scanned you for any anger. He felt horrible for blowing up at you, when it was his own damn fault that he couldn't cope.

"No, I understand. I was a mess when I thought Andrea had actually shot you. Could barely breathe thinking I lost you." Daryl was your best friend and the one man you truly thought you could form a stable relationship with.

Daryl reached out to you, his fingers nudging your hand. You grasped his hand firmly, a smile growing on your face. "I thought you said you regret everything?" You questioned him, trying to ignore the flashes of last night that moved through your mind. "You really hurt me, y'know?"

"Was bein' an asshole to you." He couldn't even look you in the eyes, the guilt overwhelming him.

"Never regretted nothin'. Just wanted to push ya' away so I didn't have to lose ya'." Daryl shrugged, squeezing your hand. "M' sorry."

"You know you can't get rid of me that easily. Wasn't gonna let you." You heard him laugh, a sound that made you feel like everything could be alright again. Like you could move past this.

"Should've dragged you back here for yelling at me like that." You smirked at him, fixing the bandage and kissing his head gently.

Daryl grabbed your waist and in one move, pulled you up into his lap. A quiet yelp escaped your lips. "What're you doing?" You hold onto his shoulders for some solid grounding.

"Wanna show you how sorry I am." He looked up at you from where he was lying down.

"But your head-"

"Should'a stayed here this morning. Ya' looked so good all laid out from last night." He hummed quietly.

"Daryl Dixon, you're gonna open your stitches, stop it." You grab his cheeks in between your hands to focus his attention.

"Nah, long as you can keep your hands off my head." His hands roamed your body, traveling from your waist down to your ass, grabbing a handful and squeezing.

"Will you at least let me do most of the work? You can lay there and heal. Like you're supposed to be doing." You grabbed his hands that were pressing your hips down into his.

Daryl grumbled and nodded. "Fine. Y'gonna close the tent?" He snickers as you roll your eyes.

"You couldn't have waited until it was dark? Anybody could see us!" You crawl over to go close the tent zipper. Daryl's eyes fell to your ass, letting out a satisfied hum.

"Nope." His arrogance started to shine through again, making you smile to yourself. Finding your way back onto his lap, you felt his erection pressed against your core.

"Pervert." You pressed a kiss to his lips, one that he returned hungrily. It was gentle, his lips moving with yours slowly but in a way that let you know he was so desperate.

You slipped off your shirt, leaving you in your bra. Daryl pulled away to watch you, his hands flying up to squeeze your tits through the rest of your clothing you still had on. You quickly unclasped your bra and let it fall down your shoulders, not missing the way he let out a relieved sigh at the sight of your breasts.

"Prettiest sight ever." He grumbled, his fingers unbuttoning your jeans, eyes never leaving your chest. Daryl tried to sit up, pressing open-mouted kissed onto your tits. A quiet moan left your lips before you gently pushed him back down onto his back.

"No no, you just lay there. Let me do the work." You smirked at his annoyed huff and stood up to push your jeans off, bringing your underwear with it.

"Should be makin' it up to you, not sittin' here makin' you do everything." Daryl's lip jutted out in a small pout. He slipped off his jeans as well, shoving his boxers down to his ankles before kicking them off.

"Mmm, next time be nice, and you can have me however you'd like." You slipped back onto his lap. "Hate to say it but you got your karma." Running a finger down his chest, you stopped right at his hip. Daryl's breaths were heavy as he watched. Your teasing was driving him crazy.

His hands held your hips firmly, eyes glued to where your hand was lining his cock up with your pussy, dragging him through your arousal with a whimper.

Sinking down onto him, a loud gasp escaped both of you. You took him about halfway before you winced, your cunt adjusting to his size despite the way he was stuffing you last night.

His hands held you in place, a reminder to pace yourself. Glancing up towards him, you saw his eyes staring at you in pure awe.

After about a minute, you sank down on his cock, taking the rest of him with a heavy sigh as you tilted your head back in pleasure. "Holy shit-" you whimpered.

Daryl rubbed circles into your waist, his chest heaving as he tried to keep his composure. He could just thrust up into you if he wanted. But seeing you have control over this, over him.

It made him impossibly harder.

Before Daryl could speak, you began to slowly ride him, your cunt squeezing him tightly as you moved up and down. His head fell back onto the pillow, jaw wide open in an 'o' face.

You were barely moving and Daryl was already gone. "You like when I'm on top, huh? Like when I'm ridin' you?" You bent down to whisper in his ear.

Daryl gasped quietly as you picked up speed, your hips bouncing on his cock like you had done this hundreds of times before. "Mmhm." He whined with a quick nod.

You pressed your lips to Daryl's shoulder, desperately trying to mask your moans as you rode him harder. Daryl's hands held onto your ass and hips, helping you bounce on his cock.

The feeling was fucking euphoric. Your pussy squeezed him as you let out a high-pitched whine against his skin. The sensation made him thrust up into you instinctively.

"Oh my god-" You moaned loudly and clasped your hand around your mouth. You kept up your movements, riding him with fervor, your tits bouncing with every movement you made.

Daryl was beyond control now. His hips were bucking up into you wildly, ensuring you took all of him down to the hilt. "So pretty, so sweet f'me." He groaned as his hips pistoned into you. "You gonna come f'me, sweet girl?" His voice trailed off into a high-pitched whine, nearing his orgasm with every rough thrust he pushed into you.

"Fuck-" You cried out, hands grasping his shoulders firmly. "Yes baby, keep going please!" You were trying your best to keep up with him, to ride him without collapsing onto his body.

Pleasure ran up his spine at you calling him 'baby'. "Shouldn't have yelled at you this morning-" he cut himself off with a loud groan, his fingers trembled against your skin. "Should'a stayed here-" His forehead fell against yours.

"You mean everything-" He kept up the pace, his hips thrusting into you more than you were riding him. His hands were grasping onto your hips tightly, listening to the way you were a whimpering, shaking mess on top of him.

"Daryl please I'm so close." You pressed a kiss onto his lips, the gesture making him melt. He planted his feet and fucked up into you, his eyes shut tight. His orgasm was so goddamn close. But he had to wait.

He would not come without making you come first.

"Give it to me, please sweetheart. Need to feel you-" He was begging at this point, his skin burning with the desire to let go.

With that, your orgasm hit you hard. You screamed into your hand, body shaking and jolting with shocks of pleasure as Daryl kept pushing into you mercilessly.

Daryl was so blissed-out. Watching your orgasm made him reach his own, his arms wrapping around your waist as his thrusts slowed to a stutter. His breath was incredibly shaky and mixed with pathetic whines.

"Fuck- I love you." He groaned, the words leaving his mouth before he could process them and stop them.

You collapsed onto him, his words just starting to come to your brain. "W-What?"

His eyes widened like he'd seen a ghost. "M'sorry- fuck." He ran a hand over his face. He couldn't even say anything else. It was too late to take it back, especially with the stunt he had pulled this morning. "Don't have to say it back."

You took a beat to respond. And in that silence Daryl's heart could have pounded out of his chest.

Maybe he should have just taken it back, told you he didn't mean it, told you it was a spur of the moment emotion.

But then your hand came up to his cheek, your fingers rubbing his stubble affectionately. He melted into your hand, his eyes closing for a brief second.

"No, I love you too. Why do you think I tolerate you so much?" Your body was still trembling against him, his softened cock still stuffed inside you, cum threatening to spill out.

He lifted you off of him slowly, the both of you wincing at the cool feeling that came after. "S'why I can't lose you." He was being sincere in this moment, his eyes meeting yours with heartbreaking sincerity.

"Can't promise anything. You know that." You started, heart hurting at the way his face dropped. "But we're here now. We're safe." You placed a kiss onto his forehead.

"You have me now. And I have you. That's what matters." You were trying to get your point across.

That even though tomorrow may not be promised, you can find peace in what is here right now, in this tent.

Spencer Reid is an exception. He’s the exception, really; you can’t think of anyone else you’d do this for. Nobody else has burrowed deep into your brain the way he has. Nobody else would make you peel back layers of protection, shed every boundary the way a snake sheds its skin, the way you have for him.

Maybe he’s managed to reach in and sink his fingers into the only softer parts of you that remain. Or maybe you, as a whole, softened for him.

Maybe it’s just a fault. A flaw in your proverbial programming. Your feelings for him aren’t rational, your fixation on him doesn’t make any sense—but what does? 

You’re human, animal, driven by instinct. What is rational is subjective, the definition of sense ever-changing. Logic and reason are little more than facades, costumes worn to make people feel better about themselves, to keep the animal at bay. They ought to realise that life gets a hell of a lot more interesting when they stop following rules, scriptures, telling them what’s right, and instead follow what feels right.

That’s your philosophy, anyway. You’re sure you’d be hard-pressed to find many people that agree with you. 

Not even Spencer agrees with you, but you aren’t sure you can trust the moral rulings of a man who’ll happily fall to his knees at the feet of a serial killer. He’s a hypocrite, forever condemning your actions, calling you sick, all while going along with whatever twisted game you decide to play like a dog on a leash. He’ll bend to your every whim, mould his morals to better suit your desires, but he’ll roll his eyes and moan about it first—like that somehow cleanses him of sin.

Spencer sleeps with his door open—why, you’ll never understand—and you’re grateful, because it means you can waltz right into his bedroom without needing to worry about any squeaky hinges. And you wouldn’t want to wake him. No, that would ruin the fun.

He’s lying on his back, blankets kicked off, all leaden limbs and deep, slow breaths. Tousled hair and parted lips. A true sleeping beauty. It is, perhaps, the most at peace you’ve ever seen him, unblemished by the chaos of his conscious mind, by your presence. You could quite happily linger in this doorway, watch him sleep until the sun rises, treat him as you would an art exhibit; look, don’t touch.

You take your time crossing the room, as though any sudden movement, however silent, may disturb him. Spencer’s a light sleeper, easily stirred, never able to let himself go. It’s no wonder he’s so tired all the time; even in his sleep, he can’t truly rest.

The mattress sinks slightly under your weight as you crawl onto the bed. Your breathing is so quiet, so shallow, that you may as well be holding your breath as you carefully shuffle closer.

A streetlamp bleeds into the room through the blinds. Diffused streaks of pale light stretch across the bed, his face, like half a dozen halos. You tilt your head, taking a moment to admire his face. The sharp angle of his jaw; his brows, relaxed; the undeniable softness that replaces the tension you are so used to observing, and that, to you, seems almost alien.

You trail your fingers, touch awfully light, along his thigh. His pyjama pants are soft, freshly washed, covered in a purple plaid pattern that is just so Spencer. You’d consider stealing them if they were more your colour. Your hand dips to his inner thigh, drawing lazy patterns before grazing his crotch. The contact is so brief, so mild, he probably doesn’t even feel it.

You watch him closely, studying him for any sign of a reaction, before you grow bolder. You cup his cock through his pants, relishing the warmth under your palm, the way it sends a rush of heat straight to your core.

His body responds to your touch without protest. Like it knows you, trusts you. His cock stirs, presses against your hand.

Now you’re actually holding your breath. Biting your lip. Clenching your thighs. Fighting to contain the adrenaline that’s coursing through you as it increases by the second, pushing you to act faster, to lead with a heavier hand. You have to remind yourself to breathe, to take it slow, to control yourself before you wind up waking him.

You palm him through his pyjamas, steadily, movements so languid it’s almost annoying. His breathing shifts. His brows crease. He shifts against your hand, just barely. Yielding to your touch, asking for more.

Precious. That’s what he is. He’s fragile, like this. Delicate in ways he’d never allow himself to be when awake, when with you. When there’s always a game to play, a façade to keep up.

You struggle with his pants, with finding the balance between eagerness and prudence, as you try to get what you want without shattering this moment. His pretty cock springs free, already half-hard, and impatience has you abandoning his pants at his thighs so you can grasp it gently, listening to the way he sighs under your touch.

It’s maddening, almost, the way his erection realises itself in your hand, the way his body reacts, even when unconscious, to your gentleness. He groans, and it’s one of the softest sounds you’ve heard as you work his cock, keeping your gaze on his face, watching the slight twitches in his sleepy expression, manipulated by tender hand. 

Your mouth has run dry. You lick your lips, chew on the plush, as you exhaust the last of your restraint.

You lean down, drag your tongue across the head of his cock, and almost moan at the taste of him—do moan at the little noise he makes when you take him into your mouth. Can something be maddening, if you’re already mad? Is there a limit to insanity? Do you breathe the surplus into him? Every time you fall into bed together, it seems he breaks that little bit more, and you heal. Piece yourself back together with all that you’ve taken from him.

His cock twitches against your tongue. This is another thing you’re taking. Another line you’re crossing. Another thing he’ll hate you for, and love you for. He’s a masochist that way. You wouldn’t take so much if he weren’t so willing to give it. If he didn’t kneel at your altar, present his neck for your knife. You’re both damned.

But doesn’t every relationship consist of rotten priest and innocent lamb? Sinner and saint? Corruption and consecration? That’s how it’s supposed to be, no? You trade places every now and then, wear each other’s skin like shitty Halloween masks, pretend that the sacrifice holds any semblance of power. That’s all the sex is: Spencer, desperately imitating control; and you, holding the knife behind your back, pretending it isn’t there, pressed so deep into your skin you’d never be able to let it go, even if you wanted to.

A jerk of his hips, and his cock hits the spongy back of your throat. You just about hear him gasp over the sound of your own gagging, and then his fingers are in your hair, tearing you from him so fast you’d think you’d bitten him.

You meet Spencer’s awake, wide-eyed gaze with your own deer-in-headlights stare. He’s half-sitting, propped up on one elbow. Mouth slightly agape. Cheeks flushed the same shade as his spit-coated cock.

“How did you get in here?”

And the game’s up. Shame, you were just starting to enjoy it.

“I used a key,” you say simply.

Spencer blinks at you. His grip on your hair starts to loosen, like what you’re saying might, for a moment, make sense in his sleep-clouded mind, but then he returns to his senses. “You don’t have a key.”

“I, uh—” you clear your throat, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before flashing him a smile. “I copied yours.”

“You—” he releases your hair, retracts his hand like you’re something filthy. “You what?”

“Just in case you…” Smoothing out your hair, you sit up. “…needed help, or something. I was looking out for you, really—”

“No.” Spencer cuts you off, shaking his head as he rubs his eyes. “This is— do you have any idea how out of line this is? How on earth could you possibly think this was appropriate?”

You shrug, opting to play dumb as you straddle him. He doesn’t try to stop you. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“You broke into my apartment.”

“I used a key,” you repeat.

“That’s still illegal,” he hisses. “Copying someone’s key for the purpose of entering their home without their knowledge, and with criminal intent, is a crime.”

“Criminal intent?” you scoff, biting back a grin. “I didn’t come here to rob you—”

“No, you just came here to touch me in my sleep.”

You nod eagerly. “And you have a problem with that?”

Instead of answering your (very simple) question, Spencer just leans his head back against his pillow, muttering under his breath. You think you hear “God” slip between his lips. Typical.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he grumbles, returning his hands to his face.

You click your tongue, trailing your fingers across the front of his shirt. “I can go back out and knock, if that’ll make you feel better—”

“Don’t,” he warns, voice firm. “You are just…so…”

He never finishes that thought. Instead, he reaches over to the bedside table. At first you figure he’s reaching for his glasses, but then his fingers graze the handle of the drawer, just barely out of his reach.

He taps your thigh. “Get off of me.”

“Oh, come on,” you whine.

“I’m not asking.”

“Can’t we just—”

His hands are on your waist and, before you can finish complaining, he’s pushing you away. You land on the mattress with a petulant huff, resigning yourself to staring at the ceiling as he rummages through his drawer. You hear the familiar rustle of his condom box, followed by the softer, quieter sound of his pyjama pants being thrown aside.

“You’re no fun,” you mutter, “you know that?”

Spencer doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even give you a huff, or a sigh. He just rolls the condom on.

He’s sick of you, or claims to be, yet he still yields to you every time. He still plays the game, still entertains your desires even when he knows that he shouldn’t—that doing so is only reinforcing your behaviour.

He’ll complain about you breaking in, but he’ll still fuck you, even though you haven’t asked him to, because the truth is that he needs this just as badly as you do—if not more so. Spencer needs to give just as badly as you need to take, and he’ll pretend it’s the other way around. Utter subservience masquerading as dominance; it’s his drug.

Fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls you back up to meet his lips. He kisses you like he’s starved, one hand tangled in your hair as the other slips up your thigh. He tugs at your panties, tears them off when you lift your hips. Tosses them into the dark before pulling you down on top of him.

You straddle him like it’s second nature, and the two of you slot together like pieces of a puzzle. Him on his back, and you above him. Half cast in shadow, half painted in the subtle glow of the streetlight, whispering curses into his mouth as his fingers find your dripping cunt.

“God,” he breathes, almost groans. He sets his hands on your hips, gives you a gentle nudge so you pull back. “You really were enjoying that, weren’t you?”

You smirk as you sit up, adjusting yourself so you’re lined up with his cock. Grasping the base, you drag the tip along your slick folds, relishing the way you can feel him pulsing under your palm. “We both did,” you tease. “Actually, I think you might’ve been enjoying it more—”

A sharp gasp cuts through your words, followed by a poorly muffled cry as Spencer forces your hips down. His cock pushes into you without warning, and the pain—the pleasure—has tears pricking in your eyes before you can think to stop them.

He throws his head back with a hiss, fingers digging into your soft skin as he sinks you onto his cock, guiding you to take every too-big inch of him, until you’re sat flush against his hips. A choked whimper is all you can muster as your tight walls flutter around his length.

“Fuck—”

“I’ve got you.”

And he has got you. He’s holding you there, keeping you stuffed full of him until your body gives in.

He only lets go once you’ve relaxed around him, once your whining has stopped and you’re making subtle movements of your hips, desperate to keep going now that the discomfort has subsided—and he lets you.

You settle into a rhythm quickly, and Spencer’s even quicker to sink into the mattress, letting his hands roam the plush of your thighs as you take the lead. Your name leaves his lips in a whisper, and you swear the sound is more intoxicating, more addicting than any drug out there. His touch, his voice, the little hitches in his breath every time you roll your hips—it’s enough to drive you fucking crazy.

And when he meets your gaze, you almost come undone on the spot. Because what you find plastered across his pretty face is worship. The kind you can make out even in the dark; broken, but perfect.

Is this something you’re taking, or something he’s giving? Is there a difference? If there is, does it even matter?

His thumb brushes your clit, and your thoughts turn to static. Debating the ethical nuances of such a sinful relationship becomes difficult when you’re like this. Pleasure is pleasure, no matter how rotten.

Spencer could be your sacrificial lamb, the moth to your cursed flame, or just a sick flagellant—you don’t care.  Not when he’s beneath you, biting back moans and telling you just how good you are at taking his cock, acting as the votary to your twisted godhead.

Tension builds in your core, compounded by the attention on your clit. The effortless workings of his hands have you inching closer and closer to the edge, and he isn’t even looking at what he’s doing. He’s watching your face, transfixed. His hand, so perfectly tuned to the needs of your body, is the last thing on his mind; pleasing you is second nature. Like breathing, it doesn’t require thought.

Curses tumble from your lips as your hips stutter. You reach for the headboard to steady yourself, but as soon as you lean forward Spencer’s bending a knee, setting his foot on the bed so he can thrust up into you at a faster, harder pace. His hands grasp your hips, press indents into your skin that are bound to leave a mark, and hold you in place as he fucks you.

You’ve no choice but to surrender yourself, at that point. Back arched, both hands on the headboard, head thrown back as static crackles in your veins, mounts to something that is so dangerously close to catching fire.

“…’m close—”

Spencer mumbles something the same time you do. Equally as breathless. Words laced with an equally depraved amount of need. He’s echoing the sentiment, fingernails cutting into your skin as his leg starts to tremble.

You come undone first. The orgasm hits your hard, and you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound as you come on his cock. Spencer groans as your cunt clenches around him, hugging his length tighter with each thrust as he fucks you through your release, and his follows close behind.

In the breathless space between moments, your mind moves slower than your body. You allow yourself to collapse on top of him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as you try to tame your ragged breathing. And he lets you.

His hand cups the back of your head. The other rests on the small of your back. He keeps you close. Presses his nose to your hair, lips following shortly after. 

Seconds pass before you finally gather the strength to raise your head, to check if he’s lost his mind, but Spencer’s face betrays nothing. His brows are set in his usual frown, but the dark softens his features, and you can infer warmth where there shouldn't be any.

"Do you, um—" You clear your throat, lips curling into that signature sly smile. "Do you want my key, or should I keep it? Save it for a rainy day—"

You hiss as spencer pushes you off him. Instead of complaining, you curl up at his side, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest before he decides it’s time to get up. He doesn't answer your question, and you don't push him to.

He rises to his feet, takes care of the condom, the wrapper—any evidence of what just happened. You think he's going to take care of you, too; drag you out of his bed, throw you out on the street, but he doesn't. 

He glances back at you as he picks your panties up from his floor. He tosses them to you, but not without asking, in a quiet tone, "Are you going home?"

The question gives you pause. It's the inflection, the way his words are weaved to obstruct something else, spoken with a stiffness he knows you'll pick up on.

You narrow your eyes, tilting your head to one side. "Do you want me to go home?"

He grabs his pyjama pants, ignores another loaded question. Because the day Spencer Reid is ever open with you will be the day Hell freezes over.

"There's nothing to do here," you add, seeing right through his silence. "I’m not gonna be able to sleep just because you fucked me. You—"

"I know, but—"

"—aren't that good."

Spencer still doesn't share in your humour, despite how much time you've spent together. He'll break every rule, bend every moral, but he'll never laugh at your jokes. He doesn't even crack a smile, just sighs and pulls his pants on.

"I was going to suggest you read a book," he says, voice flat.

He gets back into bed without another word. Faces away from you. Holds his breath in the silence that follows.

He wants you to stay.

"…okay," you answer, quietly. "I’ll go…peruse your reading material."

All he gives you in response is a low hum.

—

Spencer wakes hours later to the sun streaming through his blinds, head resting on something that isn’t a pillow; pillows don’t have heartbeats. 

His arm is draped over your waist, fingers loosely curled into the fabric of your nightgown the same way yours are curled into his hair. 

Memories return in quick succession, each one adding to the discomfort simmering in his stomach, visceral. His skin crawls at the thought of you spending the night.

So, he raises his head. In the light of day, he sees you clearly: the book lying open across your face, shielding your eyes; your slow, deep breathing; your arm lying limp at your side.

The world goes quiet. He blinks, and the discomfort fades into a memory, the way it always does.

He brings his head back down to rest against your chest, and he closes his eyes.