ivy

The Georgia heat didn't give a damn that the sun had gone down hours ago. It just made your shirt stick to your lower back and your hair curl slightly at the ends. You were up in the watchtower—the one overlooking the field where the walkers tended to herd up like cattle waiting for a slaughter that never really came.

Usually, this was Maggie and Glenn's shift. You'd see them heading up here with that look in their eyes, the one that said they weren't planning on doing much… watching. But Glenn was on a run, and Maggie was helping Beth with Judith, so the usual shift had changed.

Tonight, it was yours and Daryl's.

There wasn't even a chair up here, just the cold concrete and a scratchy blanket you'd thrown into the corner. You were sitting on it now, knees pulled up slightly to your chest, fumbling with the rifle Rick had given you earlier. It felt heavy in your hands, even though you'd been carrying weapons for months now.

Your thumbs traced the scratches on the stock, a nervous habit you always had when you were feeling uncomfortable, though somewhere between the fall of the farm and the discovery of the prison, it got worse.

Shifting the rifle again, you stole another glance at Daryl.

He wasn't looking at you. At least, not openly. But every few minutes, he moved his gaze sideways, and while pretending to adjust your bootlace, he looked again.

Not obvious. Not even enough that anyone but you would notice. But you'd spent enough time watching him since the fall of the farm to recognize his tells: the slow blinking, the twitch of his jaw, and the way his fingers gripped the crossbow stock. Measuring distance, threats… and you.

"What?" You asked under your breath, though you knew he wouldn't answer.

And he didn't.

It should've irritated you, but you were a little too tired already to care right now. Blinking slowly, you tried to fight the urge to just let your head fall back against the wall and drift off to sleep. However, your main problem was that, in the silence, your brain began to wander to places it shouldn't. Back to the farm.

Back to home.

God, it felt like a lifetime ago… A different universe entirely.

Trying to distract yourself, you looked up, watching the silhouette of the man standing at the window. Daryl hadn't moved in almost thirty minutes. He was just as still as a statue, his shoulders tight under that leather vest he seemingly never took off. He even held his crossbow like it was an extension of his arm, not a weapon he could just set down if he wanted to.

It was quiet up here. Too quiet. And again… it gave your brain too much space to wander back to places it shouldn't go.

It went back to the barn. Back to the porch, the smell of tea, and the sound of your dad's voice reading scripture in the living room. You were so different then. You remembered that girl as if she were a stranger—Hershel's middle daughter. The innocent one. The one who wore sundresses and braided Beth's hair and prayed for forgiveness if she even thought a curse word. You were obedient. And you were terrified.

Looking down at your hands, you noticed that there was dirt under your fingernails that no amount of scrubbing could get out and even calluses on your palms from knife handles.

You hadn't prayed in months. Maybe God had stopped listening when the barn burned down, or maybe you just stopped talking when the world started eating itself alive, and you realized there would be no cure.

The time on the road had beaten the obedience out of you, ripped it away bit by bit, until all that was left was this exhausted, tired girl in a new world that was never meant to be.

Shifting on the blanket, you felt it itching against parts of your skin, making you snap out of your thoughts, and you let out a quiet, frustrated sigh, trying to adjust the rifle so the barrel wasn't digging into your hip.

Daryl still hadn't moved an inch.

He didn't look tired like you, and it was almost annoying, honestly. How could he stand there, perfectly alert, while you felt like you were too tired to even stand up, fumbling with your weapon like a child playing soldier?

To keep your eyes from sliding shut, you focused on him again. It was the only thing to do, really. There were not a lot of walkers at the fences right now, and there was no wind rustling the trees, but only the silence and the shape of Daryl Dixon standing guard.

You watched the way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, some kind of restless movement that gave him away.

Everyone else in the group treated the prison like it was the promised land. They had the bunk beds that didn't smell like mildew and the walls that kept the dangers out, as well as a quite regular food supply. You were all settling in, just not Daryl. You'd think he'd finally unclench that jaw of his, but if anything, the prison seemed to make him worse.

Out on the road, he had a purpose—hunt, track, kill, protect. In here? Between the concrete walls, the schedules, and the Council meetings? Well, he looked like he was itching to crawl out of his own skin.

The walls didn't make him feel safe; they made him feel trapped. You'd seen him pacing the cell block at three in the morning when he thought everyone was asleep, checking the locks, checking the perimeter, looking for the threat that his gut told him was always coming.

He couldn't settle and didn't know how to just be without looking over his shoulder.

Now he checked his crossbow again. Probably the fifth time in ten minutes.

It was almost funny, watching him be so careful. Especially in the way he was now with you.

Since you'd arrived here, since you'd survived the time on the road, he'd started treating you like you were made of glass. Like one wrong move, one loud noise, and you'd shatter into a million pieces right there on the concrete.

And he was always near you, or at least close by. Opening doors. Checking corners twice before he lets you walk down a hallway. Checking out your weapons after you cleaned them. And he always made sure you were in the middle of the formation on runs, shielded on all sides.

It was pissing you off. Because it just wasn't how it used to be.

Thinking again, he had been such an asshole back then. Loud and angry white trash. But looking back, with everything you know now, maybe that was just... him.

You swallowed hard, and your eyes looked back at him.

"Daryl?" You said his name softly, but he still didn't move.

"Daryl!" This time, your voice was louder.

His head twitched—but it was not enough to count as acknowledgment or an answer.

"You used to talk to me," you continued. "Even if it was just to annoy me."

Silence.

You remembered one afternoon by one of the wells, the summer heat beating down. You'd been trying to carry a bucket of water, struggling with the weight because you were much weaker then. Daryl had walked past, with a string of dead squirrels hanging over his shoulder. He didn't offer to help. Instead, he'd stopped, spat on the ground near your boots, and smirked.

"Need a hand there, sugar?" He'd drawled, his voice sounding more than just sarcastic. "Careful, 'cause ya don't wanna break a nail. Bet yer daddy won't like it."

He'd stood there and watched you struggle, smirking at you, until you'd gotten so mad you hauled that bucket up out of pure spite, splashing water all over your dress. And Daryl had just huffed a quick laugh—dry and mean.

He used to mock your prayers, leaning against the porch railing while you tried to read your Bible outside, something you always liked to do in the early morning sun, making comments about Jesus and God just to see your face turn red in anger. He'd even make fun of your clean clothes and your quiet voice. If you tripped over a root, he wouldn't help you up; he'd just snort about how girls didn't know how to walk on dirt. He'd even toss gross parts of whatever he was skinning in your direction just to hear you squeal when you were walking to the chicken coop.

Daryl Dixon was mean. He was rough. But he looked at you, and he saw you. He didn't treat you like a porcelain doll that needed to be put on a high shelf; he treated you like a human being and not as if you needed any protection from the world that was about to drag your beliefs down to hell with it.

Now? Now Daryl wouldn't even look you in the eye for more than a few seconds.

It was like he was terrified that if he talked with you, if he acknowledged that you'd toughened up, that you were harder now, he'd lose the only version of you he knew how to handle. Maybe he wanted to keep you innocent. Maybe he wanted to keep you as the farmer's daughter, because that girl might need him sooner or later. This new version of you—the one fumbling with a rifle in the dark, the one who didn't flinch at the sound of a skull cracking—confused him. Scared him, maybe…

But right then and there, you decided that the silence was enough. If Daryl wasn't going to look at you or talk to you anymore, if he wasn't going to acknowledge that you were now a living, breathing person capable of killing a walker just as fast as he could, then you were going to force him to.

You were bored. You were annoyed. And honestly, looking at his back while your own brain replayed the burning barn, the walkers, and everything else you'd lost back then was driving you crazy.

"You know," you started, your voice sounding too loud in the small space. You didn't bother to soften it. "For a guy who acts like such a loner, you sure do stand there like decoration whenever Rick isn't around to give you orders."

Smirking to yourself, you realized that Daryl still didn't turn around. He didn't even tense up. He just tilted his head a bit of an inch to the side, a small movement, and his eyes still looked down on the dark yard below, completely dismissing you.

"Ignore me all you want," you grumbled, feeling a little irritated again. You shifted your legs, letting your boot kick the concrete wall on purpose. "Doesn't change the fact that you look ridiculous. You're trying so hard to look dangerous, but honestly? You just look like a dog."

Still nothing. Just the rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath he took.

It was making you angry. It was like talking to a brick wall that breathed. And Daryl not even trying to react stung more than an insult would have. Standing up, you let the rifle fall away completely to the floor, not wanting to pick it up as you finally walked over to him. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to be even more annoying. You could smell him from here—the dirt, the sweat, and his own personal scent that clung to his vest.

"Is this really it?" You then asked, leaning your hip against the window frame, turning your back to the danger outside just to watch his face. You stared right at his profile, searching for any hint of rage. "Is this Daryl Dixon now? Just… standing? Staring? Acting like the group's favorite guard dog?"

You saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. Gotcha.

"I remember when you weren't," you continued. "Back home, at the farm. You were such an ass. Always spitting on the ground and looking at us Greenes like we were religious little idiots who would've tried to go to church with a walker if we found a prayer that sounded as if it might've helped! But at least you were… I don't know. Alive."

Nothing… Daryl was doing a good job of pretending you weren't there.

"Now look at you," you scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's pathetic. You are pathetic. I bet you don't even remember how to be anything else but a babysitter for Judith."

Pretending to check the perimeter, you turned and leaned forward so your arm brushed right against his vest. It wasn't an accident, and you both knew it. You even felt the muscles in his back stiffen, which was quite a hard, involuntary flinch, but he didn't step away.

"And it's not just with Rick's daughter," you continued, right near his shoulder. "I see the way you trail after Carol. It's sweet, really. Like a little lost puppy that finally found someone to care about. Does she scratch behind your ears, Daryl? Does she tell you you're a good boy?"

He let out a sharp breath through his nose, a sound like a bull getting ready to charge, but you pressed on.

"You used to walk around with that crossbow like you're some kind of dangerous animal," you laughed. "Scowling at everyone. Only grunting instead of speaking. And then I saw you with Judith. 'Little Asskicker…' God, you were practically so happy to hold her! But the vest, the anger, the attitude... Yeah, you're just some white trash redneck playing pretend."

You moved again, stepping around him slightly so you were in his vision, blocking his view of the treeline, and looked at him with pity, though not real pity.

That—somehow—hit. His head jerked to the side, and it wasn't a full turn but a clear sign that was meant to send you a message.

"Ya gotta lot t'say, Greene," he finally spat out, and it sounded like a full, genuine threat, but he still didn't move his body. "Maybe ya shoulda go back t'readin' that damn bible of yers."

You felt a thrill of victory but also a genuine bit of fear. The old Daryl was finally showing up. At least you hoped so.

"Why?" You asked him, refusing to back down. "So I can pray for you? I'm all out of prayers, Daryl. And frankly, the prison is boring. You're boring."

Moving your hand on his back, lower this time, you let your fingers trace part of his belt.

"Honestly, it's embarrassing," you continued, letting your fingers play with the edges of it. "I bet you wouldn't even know what to do anymore! You've probably forgotten how to touch anything that isn't a crossbow or a baby bottle."

You heard his breath hitch, only a little, but enough.

When you stepped an inch closer, blocking his view further, his body reacted before he could think. One hand moved off the crossbow stock, and his fingers flexed like he was about to reach for your arm—to grip you or push you back, you couldn't tell.

But he stopped himself.

"Embarrassin'," he repeated, and he finally, finally turned his head to look at you. Not a glance, but a full-on look. "That what ya think?"

"Looks like it from where I'm standing," you shot back, your heart pounding in your chest.

"A'right. Let's talk 'bout embarrassin'." He turned his body fully towards you now, crowding you without even taking a step. "Let's talk 'bout yer ass. Followin' me 'round since the farm... Think I ain't seein' that shit? Yer hoverin' when I'm cleanin' my kill. Lurkin' 'round me all damn day."

Your face turned red, proving how ashamed you actually felt now. "I never—"

"Yer a bad fuckin' liar," Daryl cut you off, his voice dropping to a growl. "Worse than ya are with that rifle. Ya been waitin' for a fight for weeks. But ya don't wanna fight, do ya? Yer just fuckin' bored. Daddy's little girl ain't got no fences to mend and no dumbass porch t'pray on, so she's gotta find somethin' else to feel useful for once."

Every word was a slap in your face. He saw right through you, past the pretending act and the rifle, straight down to the girl underneath. It was humiliating.

"You don't know anything about me," you hissed back at him, your voice trembling with a bit of shame.

"The hell I don't," he snarled in response, leaning in so close you could feel a few strands of his hair against your forehead. "I know ya still flinch when a damn twig snaps too loud. I know ya can't look at the walkers near the fence for t'long 'fore yer hands start shakin'. Yer ain't shit."

That was what pushed you over the edge somehow, even though you knew Daryl was right. With a choked cry, you swung your hand, aiming to knock that sudden smirk right off his face.

But you never stood a chance.

His hand moved faster than yours, and his fingers wrapped around your wrist, stopping the slap an inch from his cheek and making you gasp at the sheer force of his grip.

"Thought so," he grunted. "All talk."

Daryl yanked you forward, using your confusion against you. You stumbled into him, your free hand flying up to brace yourself against his chest and to push back.

"Ya wanna fight, Greene?" He asked, his face only inches from yours. "Fine! Let's fight."

He shoved you back then, not hard enough to make you fall, but enough to make you stumble. Your boot caught on the edge of the scratchy blanket, and you went down, your ass hitting the cold concrete with the rifle sliding away and toward the wall.

Scrambling back to your knees as fast as you could, you launched yourself at him. But you didn't aim for a slap this time; you went low, trying to tackle him down by his waist.

A grunt of surprise was forced out of him as you pushed him back a step, and for a second, you had him off-balance. Then his arms closed around you.

Daryl didn't even need to try to throw you off; he just squeezed, lifting you off your feet. You kicked and thrashed, your elbows digging into his sides, but it was still like trying to fight a brick wall.

Not being able to do anything to stop him, he dropped down, taking you with him. You both landed on the tangled blanket, the impact knocking the wind out of you. He was on top of you in an instant, his knees pinning your thighs, his weight keeping you from moving, but you still bucked around, trying to throw him off, your hands clawing at his arms, his vest, anything you could reach.

One of Daryl's hands caught not only one but both of your wrists, slamming them down onto the concrete above your head. The hold was rough, painful even, and you were trapped.

"Done?" Daryl growled, his chest heaving, but you yelled at him in response.

"Go to hell, Daryl!"

At your answer, he leaned down, his mouth close to your ear. "Been there m'whole goddamn life..."

You then tried to headbutt him, but he jerked his face back, avoiding it easily, now genuinely annoyed. Adjusting his grip, his hips were pressing yours harder into the floor, stopping your thrashing, and the hard edges of his belt buckle dug into your stomach. You were panting, your chest rising and falling ever so fast against his, but Daryl was breathing just as hard.

He was staring down at you, his eyes searching yours in the near-darkness before he finally felt your body go still beneath his.

​"I ain't pretendin' nothin'," he grumbled. "'M just seein' what's gotta be done. And what's gotta be done is for ya t'shut yer fuckin' mouth and watch that damn fence."

​"No!" You challenged him back, pushing against the weight of him with a tiny movement of your hips. "What's gotta be done is that you stop treating me like I'm still that innocent girl from the farm! I can handle this new life! And I can handle you!"

​The lie was out, but Daryl's reaction was immediate. The hard pressure of his body intensified, pressing you down against the floor with a slow, grinding buck that wasn't intentional but was enough to make you gasp.

​"Yeah? Ya can handle me?" He scoffed, though the sound was a little shaky. His gaze dropped, moving across your face, down your throat, where your pulse was jumping, and stayed near your tits still trapped beneath his chest. "Ya wanna prove that, Greene? Ya got a real stupid way of goin' 'bout it."

​He didn't loosen his grip on your wrists even once. Instead, he twisted your hands just slightly, enough to make you wince, forcing your arms to stretch higher and making your back arch slightly into his weight. You were pinned down, completely under his mercy, completely pissed off, but also terrifyingly captivated by him.

You wanted this. You wanted him. Now. But what you didn't want was to give him the satisfaction of knowing. Of Daryl really knowing how much you desired him. No… You just wanted him to take you. Right there. Right now.And without any hesitation.

​"What's wrong, Daryl?" You then taunted, trying to get your feet back on the ground. To win. "What? Is this more excitement than your little Carol-and-Judith daycare duties allow?"

​His knuckles went white again, and he moved his head back, giving you a snarl of pure frustration, but he ignored your baiting question.

​"When I tell ya to shut up, ya shut up. I ain't havin' ya annoy my ass 'cause yer bored and lookin' for trouble."

​"And if I'm not looking for trouble?" You whispered, your heart now pounding so hard it felt like your ribs might crack. "What if I'm looking for you?"

Daryl froze. Every bit of anger left his eyes, replaced by a sudden confusion and then a shocking realization.

For a long, uncomfortable moment, he just stared down at you, his chest heaving against yours, his breath hot on your face. You could see it in his eyes, how the words you'd just said made him think too much and yet not enough all at once.

The realization didn't come gently; it literally crashed into him. His gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, then back up, and the look there was no longer about winning a fight when his free hand suddenly moved to your face, cupping your jaw, his fingers roughly stroking the skin of your cheek. His touch felt dirty, without any gentleness, but it felt overwhelming at the same time.

​"Shoulda shut that fuckin' mouth now, Greene," he breathed, his eyes seeing you not as the innocent farmer's daughter, but as the complicated, annoying woman who had just brought him to the edge.

​Without giving you any time to answer, Daryl closed the final distance. His lips were on yours—slightly dry, rough, and tasting like cigarettes. He moved his head, grinding his lips against yours, wanting a response that you instantly and violently gave.

Freeing one hand of yours, it shot up, grabbing the back of his neck, holding him to your body as hard as you could, and Daryl finally let go of your remaining wrist, only to move one hand and grab the fabric of your pants, tugging at it.

"Off," he grunted against your mouth, his fingers fumbling with the button.

How could you deny a voice so deep and demanding that it made you shiver?

You didn't hesitate. While Daryl fumbled with your pants, your hands went to the hem of your shirt, yanking it up and over your head in one quick move, along with your bra, throwing it aside into the darkness of the watchtower.

The cold concrete hit your skin, giving you goosebumps, but you couldn't care less.

Daryl broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, just to look at you with eyes wandering over the naked skin of your stomach and your tits. It felt as if for the first time he'd truly look at you—the new you, the actual survivor—and his gaze felt more intense than any touch so far.

"See?" You panted, your voice trembling a little, even though you still wanted to prove yourself. "Not so innocent now, huh?"

Daryl didn't answer with words. He just shoved your pants and panties down your hips in one rough, fast movement, dragging them down your legs and off, throwing them somewhere near the rifle. You tried to kick your clothes away, your movements just as desperate as his.

While you were freeing yourself from your clothes, Daryl worked on his own, his fingers fumbling with his belt buckle. He never took his eyes off you, watching you beneath him, naked and waiting, until you heard his belt opening, followed by the sound of his zipper. He shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, his cock springing out, hard, thick, and leaking already.

Leaning himself slowly back over you, his mouth found yours again in another rough kiss as he moved and positioned himself between your thighs.

You could already feel the head of his cock nudging against your pussy, which only made you wetter—if that was even possible. A choked gasp escaped you, your hips bucking off the blanket, desperately wanting more.

But Daryl pulled his lips away from yours again, his forehead resting against your own. "Look at that," he growled, pushing his face a little bit more toward yours, wanting to make sure you were listening to him. "Fuckin' soaked for me. After all that bitchin'…"

Rocking his hips, he was letting the head of his cock slide through your pussy folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you with what was about to come. The feeling was maddening—so close to what you needed, but not enough.

"Please, Daryl..."

That's when his hand came up again. Not to hold your face like before, but to wrap it around your throat.

Your eyes flew open wide, but there was no fear—only excitement. And Daryl's grip wasn't painful now; it was just right, his thumb pressing against the pulse pounding in your neck. He squeezed, just enough to make the blood flow louder in your ears, to make the world shrink to just his expression above you, his eyes looking into yours, and the slight pressure of his hand.

"This what ya wanted?" Daryl growled, his grip tightening a bit more, stealing your breath away while he stilled his hips, holding himself right at your pussy. "This what ya been followin' me 'round for? T'get yerself fucked by some white trash dick?"

You couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but nod frantically in response, your own hands coming up to grab at his wrist, not to pull him away, but to hold him still again.

Shit… His hands… They were so big and rough… And that one hand was feeling more than perfect around your throat.

Daryl released the pressure just as your vision started to blur ever so slightly, allowing you to gasp and breathe in air again. He watched you quietly now, seeing the effect he had on you, only to do it again—a slow squeeze, holding you on the edge, his thumb stroking almost gently over your pulse on your throat. And each time he tightened his hand, your body would twitch, your hips bucking up to finally get him to take you.

"Ya really ain't that innocent girl no more, are ya?" He smirked down at you, but you knew it wasn't really a question. Then he finally, finally, notched the head of his cock against your pussy properly, applying the slightest, most torturous pressure.

You shook your head, sobbing a little out of frustration that he wasn't fucking you already. "No... Guess I'm not."

Daryl leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as his hand then relaxed around your throat. "Good..."

That was a promise and a threat all in one. And then Daryl began to push inside.

It wasn't the fast, punishing thrust you'd expected, no… hoped for. It was slow. The thick head of his cock pressed into you, stretching you open inch by inch. Your back arched off the cold concrete, with a broken, whimpering moan torn from your throat, and your nails dug into the bare skin of his forearm, but he didn't speed up. He didn't even flinch.

Daryl just watched you.

His eyes were still fixed on your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, and every helpless gasp. He was buried to the hilt now, so deep you were panting, your body waiting and begging for his movement—for more.

But Daryl didn't move.

He stayed perfectly still, with his weight holding you down and his forearms right beside your head next. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant, indifferent moan of a few walkers outside.

"Fuck… Daryl… please," you begged, your voice a choked whisper. You tried to roll your hips to get some kind of movement, but he pressed down harder, pinning you completely.

"'Please' what?" He grunted in amusement, giving you a tiny, circular grind with his hips that made you see stars already. "Thought ya could handle me. This it? This all it takes?"

He pulled out just as slowly as he'd pushed inside, the drag of his cock inside your pussy a different kind of torture, and you whimpered in response, a sound of pure desperation.

"Just—" You whimpered again, trying to adjust, trying to move once more.

But his response was a hissed inhale of breath through his teeth. "Did I say move?"

"P-please…"

All of a sudden, he pushed back in with that same torturously slow pace, filling you up all over again. "Yeah, 'please what,' huh? Use yer damn words, Greene. Y'had so many of 'em 'fore!"

"Please... fuck me," you begged, your voice cracking with need. "Just... move."

"'M movin'," he huffed, pulling back slowly again. His eyes were devouring you, watching the pure frustration in your eyes and the way your mouth fell open, only to close with every dry swallow of air.

One of Daryl's hands moved away from the side of your head, trailing slowly down your trembling side, along your ribs. He watched his own hand as it moved, his calloused fingers scraping a little over your skin, making you shiver. He slid up along one tit next, his finger brushing over your nipple, and you arched into the touch with another gasp.

"Ain't even doin' nothin'. Just bein' inside ya. Y'like that? Like havin' my dick in yer cunt?"

The words from his mouth, so… honest, should have made you feel ashamed. But you could only nod, your ability to form words completely gone by now.

"I asked ya a question."

"Yes! Fuck!" You sobbed in return. "Yes, God, Daryl, please! I'm sorry! Just—"

He rewarded you by pushing deep again, a single, hard thrust that would make you beg for every single inch of what he was about to give you.

And you were. Oh God, you were.

"Daryl... please," you begged again, your voice trembling. "More... shit, just... do it."

He stopped again, his whole body tensing above you. "What was that?" He asked, wanting your words, wanting to hear them louder, once and for all. "Didn't quite hear ya."

"I said, 'Fuck me!'" You cried out, the words tearing themselves from your throat, making your mouth feel dry. "Just fuck me, Daryl, please! I—"

A low, deep growl was his answer—a sound of his satisfaction. It was the sound of him winning and you surrendering, and both of you knowing this was exactly how it was supposed to be in the first place.

Then his hand clamped over your mouth, silencing any other plea you might have had. And the way he thrust back into you with a force that stole the air back from your lungs, the wet sound against the silence of the night, despite the few walkers outside still clawing at the fences, made your choked scream sound muffled against his palm.

Each thrust was moving your entire body, pushing you up the blanket with every buck of his hips.

Daryl's mouth left your ear, moving down your throat next. But he didn't kiss. He bit. A sharp, quick bite on the skin where your neck met your shoulder that made you twitch and cry out against his palm. It was going to leave a mark, a blue and purple bruise you'd have to hide soon, and the thought alone made you shiver.

Daryl was everywhere—his smell, his taste, the weight of him, and the sound of his own ragged grunts in your ear.

"Y'know why I was nice to ya?" Daryl suddenly said, not even stopping his movements. He was teasing you. "Huh? Ya wanna know why I stopped spittin' at yer feet, Greene?"

Wanting you to answer him right away, he gave you a deep, grinding thrust that almost made you go crazy. You nodded, desperate for any piece of him he'd give you, even if it was just words.

"'Cause I saw ya," he answered, his hips never slowing their pace. "Saw ya that day we cleared C-Block. Walker had ya cornered. Ya didn't scream. Didn't cry. Just stuck yer knife right through its eye." He smirked, nipping at your jaw. "Wasn't yer daddy's little girl no more."

He shifted his weight, angling his thrusts differently, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your legs tremble and your eyes roll back.

"Started thinkin'... 'bout what Hershel'd say," he breathed. "Seein' his good, church-goin' daughter... takin' a redneck's dick. Bet he'd pray for yer damn soul."

Those words, the sheer blasphemy of it, with the image of your father, only made your pussy clench around him tighter.

Daryl groaned at the feeling, his rhythm breaking for a second. "Shit... feel that? Y'like me talkin' 'bout yer daddy while I'm fuckin' his little girl's cunt?"

The leather of his vest scraped against your hard nipples with every one of his thrusts; it was almost painful, but you loved it. You loved every moment of it. This was him—all of him that you'd wanted—the dirt and the sweat and the anger, and it was terrifying, but everything.

"'N I had t'be nice, didn't I? Wantin' t'fuck Hershel's daughter. As if ya were a damn preacher's kid. Gotta be a gentleman... Opened doors for ya. Checked yer goddamn weapons. Even made sure ya ate." He said, and suddenly fucked into you faster as if it was nothing. "All I was thinkin' 'bout was this. 'Bout how yer cunt would feel. 'Bout how fuckin' pretty ya'd look with my cum drippin' outta ya."

Daryl had cared, in his own way, while he'd been protecting you because he wanted you for himself, and the thought of anything else touching what he'd already decided was his was unacceptable. This was the man you'd been trying to provoke. And he was fucking you like he was trying to exorcise his own demons right into you.

You could still only moan in response, your body arching and bucking beneath his, desperately meeting his thrusts as best you could.

"Got so damn hard always watchin' ya…"

He finally ripped his hand away from your mouth, needing both hands to grip your hips, his fingers digging in hard as he yanked you toward him with every deep thrust.

"Yer damn daddy," he panted further. "Shit… if he ever looked at me? Would kill my fuckin' ass."

"God, Daryl," you gasped, your head moving from side to side, completely lost in him.

"Shut up," he growled in response. "Needa make sure tomorrow, when yer walkin' past me, all ya can think 'bout is how I feel inside ya."

You were beyond words, beyond any reasonable thought. And it only pushed you closer to the edge. Embarrassingly fast.

"Y'close?" He growled, and it wasn't really a question. He could sense it, the way your body was feeling around his, tightening, ready to shatter like glass. "Yeah, y'are… Gonna come all over my dick, ain'tcha? After all that..."

You swallowed in air, your voice wrecked as you tried to confirm his suspicion. "Daryl... Yes! I'm about to—"

"Yeah," he growled, panting louder as he got closer to the point of no return himself, losing his control. "C'mon. Let me feel it."

And you did.

Your back arched off the blanket, a silent scream stuck in your throat as you came around him, with your fingers gripping uselessly against his vest, your pussy clenching down around his cock in quick pulses. It felt like dying and being reborn all at once, and the only thing holding you back from crying out too loud was the weight of Daryl on top of you.

He was fucking hard into you now, his rhythm completely gone. There was no way he would stop.

"W-wait… Daryl…" You whimpered anyway, your hands pushing weakly at his chest. The reality of what was happening—where you were, what he was about to do—crashed down on you. "Don't… don't, please…"

It was too late.

His body was already tensing up above you. With a final, deep thrust inside of you, he let out a broken groan against your neck. You felt the sudden twitches of his cock and the pulses of his cum shooting into you, making his whole body shudder violently, with his hips giving a few last, helpless jerks as he came inside you.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing. And as a tear you didn't even know you'd cried escaped, Daryl, still buried deep inside you, went still. He felt the tiny, wet tear against his cheek where his face was pressed against yours now and pulled back just an inch, his eyes searching your face and noticing the tear.

"Hey," he started, his voice still rough but quieter now. Still, he didn't try to wipe the tear away with his hand. Instead, he lowered his head and swiped his tongue over your skin. He was tasting your emotion, taking that too for himself.

"Shut up," he growled against your skin, his lips moving to your jaw, then to the corner of your mouth. They weren't kisses, not really. They were more like bites—soft, nibbling bites meant to calm you down and mark you at the same time. "Yer okay… Promise."

You could feel his heart hammering against your own, but it was beginning to calm down when you nodded. A tiny, shaky movement, and your hands, which had been pushing him away moments before, now came up to grab at his shoulders, holding him there.

He growled in approval, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing starting to even out completely. The distant moans of the walkers outside were louder now, making you realize that the new world was still there, waiting. Only then did Daryl's hips give a tiny, involuntary buck, a reminder that he was still inside of you.

"S'alright," he then said, staying like that for a while longer until your trembling finally began to go away too.

But the reality of what he'd done—filling up Hershel's daughter with his cum right there on the watchtower floor—seemed to hit him the second his head cleared.

He pulled out of you slowly, and the feeling of him leaving, followed by the warm dripping of his cum, made you gasp. Your eyes, wide and a little shocked, went right away to his face.

Daryl saw it again. He saw the farm girl in your eyes, the girl who'd cared for him after Andrea had shot him, the girl who was always so kind and nice, but also the one who'd probably never had a man finish inside her, let alone without a second thought. Right now, he looked quite guilty and ashamed. But that was gone fast, leaving only a somewhat defensive scowl on his face.

"Shit," he scoffed, looking down at where his cum was already starting to leak out of you, unable to look you in the eye. He wiped his softening cock with one hand on the edge of the blanket, standing up just as fast. "Hell are ya lookin' at?"

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your body still trembling a little. "You… you just came inside me!"

"Ya got a problem with that?" He shot back, challenging you as he tucked himself away and started fastening his belt. "Ain't like yer damn daddy's gonna find out. 'Less ya run and tell him his good girl got herself filled up by—"

That was it. The mention of your dad again, the sheer audacity of him throwing it in your face now, made you lose control.

With a cry of pure rage, you launched yourself at him, still naked, but furious. You didn't care that you felt his cum slowly slide down your thighs or that your legs were shaking. You just moved.

One of your fists found his shoulder, but it was a weak, pathetic punch that didn't even make him flinch. It just pissed him off.

"Goddammit, woman!" He snarled, and his arm shot out, his hand catching you easily.

The fight was over before it even started. Daryl spun you around, your back slamming against his chest. One of his arms slid across your upper body, pinning your arms to your sides, while his other hand moved across your lower belly, holding you against him.

"Let me go, you bastard!" You yelled, thrashing in his grip, your bare ass grinding against the hard edges of his belt buckle.

But Daryl moved his head, his mouth finding your ear, growling and whispering into it. "Fuckin' stop it," he said, but his voice was not full of anger. The hand on your belly slid lower, his fingers digging into the skin just above your pussy. "Y'want 'nother fight? This how ya wanna get it?"

You went still, panting, and he took full advantage of it. His head moved lower, his teeth finding the same spot he'd bitten into earlier on your shoulder. You cried out, and your head fell back against his shoulder, your eyes closed, and your lips parted on command.

"That's it," he growled against your skin, keeping his lips pressed against it. "Just like that. Fight me all ya want. Just gets me all hard again."

Daryl's hand on your lower belly moved, his fingers sliding through the wetness between your legs, through the mess he'd made that was dripping out of you, and he groaned deeply. "Fuck… Yer daddy's gonna kill my ass."

"Stop… stop talking about him," you begged, but your words sounded way too weak. Your body was betraying you, arching back into him, seeking the feeling of his fingers.

"Why?" He breathed out with a smirk, his middle finger finding your clit, rubbing ever so softly over it, until you jerked in his arms, moaning. "Ya still wanna go prayin' in a church, just t'be spreadin' yer legs for a damn redneck who pisses you off next?"

Daryl's words stung a little, but you knew he was right. He was right in a way that made you want more of this—of him.

"Bet he's sleepin' right now," Daryl whispered, his other arm tightening around your chest, holding you up as your knees began to tremble again. "Dreamin' 'bout his sweet, innocent daughters. Never woulda dream 'bout how I got my cum drippin' outta one of 'em."

You were sobbing now with little broken whimpers, your hands gripping his forearm as the lust was building again.

"Y'gonna come again?" He grunted, his finger moving slightly faster and pressing a little harder.

You couldn't speak. You could only nod frantically, your body twitching in his arms.

"Damn right y'are," he snarled, and that was all it took. Your orgasm came fast, silent, and violent this time, your body tensing in his grip as you shook against him, a long, broken moan finally escaping you. Daryl held you through it with his face buried in your neck, his lips sucking and kissing your skin, bruising it further.

Once it was over and done, your legs gave out completely, and you both sank down to your knees on the scratchy blanket, his arms still locked around you, holding you against him.

"Yeah…" He then said, with his face still nuzzled against the back of your neck. "Ya can handle me."

"And you couldn't just—" You laughed with an exhausted tone in your voice. "You couldn't just... let it be. You had to... had to prove a point, huh?"

Daryl huffed against your back, but what you didn't see was his smirk when he held you tighter. "Point was proved when ya came on my dick the first time."

"I'm—" You answered, trying to squirm, but his arms kept you from moving. "I'm just saying! You didn't have to be such an asshole..."

"Y'started it," he shot back before he shifted behind you, and suddenly, he moved you both once more, back down on the scratchy blanket, your naked skin scraping against it. Daryl then leaned down over you again, trapping you with his body, but that made you angry again.

"Y'shoulda've just asked for it from the start. Woulda saved us both the helluva trouble that ya are."

You tried to kick him somehow, but your leg flopped back uselessly onto the floor. "Go to hell already, Daryl."

"Told ya. 'M already there." He didn't even try to deny it.

You opened your mouth to respond, to call him every name you could think of, but he was faster. His head dropped, and his teeth were finding the already bruised skin of your neck again. Gasping, that sharp bite of his was silencing you instantly while he was kneeling between your legs, and when he pulled back, his eyes were still focused only on you—the bite marks on your shoulder, the sweat on your stomach, and the trail of his cum on your inner thighs.

That's when you saw it. Daryl's one hand was moving past your face, searching for your discarded panties from the tangle of clothes on the floor. He held them up, letting you look at them, before bringing them to his mouth, putting the fabric between his teeth, his blue eyes locked on yours.

"What are you doing?" You asked, trying to sound defiant but only managing to sound confused but ever so curious.

He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back down lower over you.

What the hell was he doing now? And what exactly was he about to do next?

You found out a second later. Daryl's other hand, the fingers still wet from playing with your clit, moved down your throat next. You thought he was going to touch you there again, to tease you further. But he didn't. His hand slid slowly down your body, right to the sticky wetness on your inner thighs. You felt his fingers, two of them, press against your pussy.

And they didn't tease. They pushed inside you in one move, burying themselves deep.

It was an overwhelming feeling. Daryl's fingers inside you, pushing his own cum deeper, stretching you open all over.

"Feel that?" Daryl growled, the words muffled around the fabric in his mouth as his fingers pumped into you once, twice… several times, making you moan and squirm. "Makin' sure it takes... That it stays in ya."

"Stop—" you begged, but it was a lie, and he knew it. Your body was arching into his touch, your hips making tiny, helpless circles. "Stop… talking like that."

Before you could even form another reasonable thought, his fingers slid out of you, dripping and wet. Your mouth fell open, but he didn't give you the chance. His hand moved to your face, and those same two wet fingers pressed against your lips, making you stare up at him in shock until he tilted his head ever so slightly.

For a second, you resisted with wide eyes, your lips pressed shut in a rather pathetic attempt, thinking you could escape this. Him.

Hesitantly, your tongue darted out, tasting yourself and his cum on his fingers. Then, driven by the shiver that went through your whole body, you opened your mouth and took his fingers in, sucking them clean.

Leaning in closer to you, not to kiss you, but to bury his face against your chest, his nose was brushing along your tits, watching as your nipples hardened again, so close to his lips where he still held your panties between them. But Daryl continued to only watch, though his own breathing was already growing heavier again.

When he was truly satisfied, he slowly pulled his fingers away from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. Still holding your gaze, he dragged those now-clean fingers down your chin until he finally leaned back, pulling the panties from his teeth with his other hand.

"Told ya t'shut yer mouth," he said, his voice rough but still amused. "Now y'know how. And y'ain't bored no more, are ya?"

Daryl's eyes immediately dropped from your face to between your legs. He still held your panties in one hand, looking at them, then back at your pussy, so wet and only his.

With a grunt, he shifted down your body, and you thought he was going to fuck you again, making you tense up in anticipation. But he didn't. He only moved lower until his head was between your thighs, his strong shoulders pushing your legs apart.

"What are you—" You started, but the words died in your throat when he buried his face in your pussy, his mouth letting go of your panties.

It was a rough press of his lips and tongue against it, making you cry out when his tongue licked through the mess as it still leaked out of you. The feeling was so shocking that your hands flew to his hair, not knowing whether to push him away or hold him there forever.

"Fuck, Daryl," you groaned, your hips bucking slightly off the blanket. "God…"

He growled against you, the sound a clear command for you to be still. His hands came up to grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin, holding you open for him before his tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it, trying to clean you out, or at least you thought so.

Then you felt it. The fabric of your panties. Daryl had balled them up in one of his fists and was now pressing them against your pussy with his thumb. His mouth then worked your clit, his tongue circling it, but his thumb was there, trying to push the fabric into you.

The shock of it—the feeling of the fabric—made your body seize up. Your legs, acting on pure instinct, clamped shut around Daryl's head, trapping him there and making him curse against your clit. He struggled for a moment, his shoulders bunching, but you held him tight between your thighs. For you, it was a stupid and powerless attempt to stop whatever was happening, an embarrassing move to get back some tiny bit of control.

To no avail, it all just lasted a few seconds.

With a snarl, Daryl ripped his head free, coming up over you fast. His face was wet and his eyes wild. Before you could even take a breath, one hand was around your throat again, not to choke but to hold you still, to force you to look at him.

"Tryna suffocate me, huh?" He asked, his breath hot against your face. "That what ya wanna try now?"

You shook your head, the tone of your voice only a desperate whisper. "No… I just… Look—"

The next thing you knew was that his mouth was on yours again.

This kiss was different. You could taste yourself on Daryl's lips, on his tongue—it was the taste of what he'd just done to you, and he was forcing you to share it. Moaning into his mouth, your hands, which had been in his hair only moments before, now clawed at his back, pulling him closer.

He kissed you like he was trying to win a fight all over again, his tongue moving against yours, stealing your breath and your sanity. All the while, his other hand—the one not holding your throat—was still busy.

It was almost embarrassing when you felt the fabric of your panties again, pressed against your pussy. Daryl broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged.

"Gonna plug ya up," he whispered with a smirk. "Keep my cum inside ya where it belongs. 'Til we get back inside. Ain't gonna waste a drop."

Your eyes widened. "Daryl, you can't—"

His hand tightened on your throat, just a little, cutting off your response. "Can… 'M doin' it already."

And then he pushed.

The feeling of your panties was a strange pressure, not like his cock or his fingers. It was dry against your wetness, feeling so unnatural, but Daryl worked only a tiny part of it into you with two fingers, shoving the fabric not too deep but still stuffing you with your own underwear.

It felt wrong.

It felt insane.

It felt so fucking good, you thought you might come again from the sheer wrongness of it.

Daryl pushed until a small part of your panties was deep enough inside you, and he held his fingers there for a moment, feeling your pussy clench around it, watching your reaction closely.

"There," he smirked as he slowly pulled his fingers away, leaving the plug of fabric behind. "Now y'ain't leakin' all over the damn place. 'N yer gonna keep that in 'til we get back."

He finally released your throat, his hand coming down to move along your waist, almost tenderly if you ignored the fact that he'd just stuffed your pussy with your own panties.

Every tiny shift of your hips, every clench of your pussy, reminded you it was there. Reminded you of Daryl. His cum that he'd left behind.

Then he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear one last time.

"Shift's almost over," he whispered. "Get yer ass dressed."

That was all he said when he stood back up, adjusting himself once more, only to grab his crossbow in silence. And of course, a nasty little voice whispered in your head…

What did you expect? He got what he wanted. You were just a distraction from the boredom.

The Daryl who had just owned every inch of your body, who had whispered into your skin, and who came inside you earlier was gone. In his place was the grunting hunter, already turning his back to you. There was the quiet statue again, the brick wall.

The feeling of shame came back. Daryl had gotten what he wanted, and now he was done. You were just… Hershel Greene's middle daughter again. The one he'd fucked on a dirty blanket.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you pushed yourself up as well. Your body felt used, sore in places you didn't know could be sore. But every movement sure was a reminder. The scrape of the blanket on your bare skin, the bite marks on your shoulder, and most of all, the strange pressure deep inside you. Your panties.

Moving quietly, with your legs buckling as you reached for your clothes, every step you took as you gathered your bra and shirt, as well as the discarded rifle, felt awkward. But pulling your pants on was the actual, and new, kind of torture. The fabric rubbed against the panties sticking out of you, creating a feeling that was anything but comfortable. It made you walk with a slight, awkward hitch in your step, making you squirm in a way you couldn't control, almost making you let go of the rifle.

Daryl heard you dressing up, but he didn't turn, though you saw the way his head tilted a bit, listening to your unsteady movements and fumbling with the weapon.

A while later, you both went down the watchtower in silence, and the second your boots hit the ground of the prison yard, he was moving, not waiting for you, his crossbow slung over his shoulder.

You followed, trying to walk normally, but the panties shifted now and then with the motion, a maddening friction that made it impossible to forget what he'd done. You still felt part of his cum, warm and trapped, the fabric holding it all in.

Suddenly, Daryl stopped. He must have heard the frustrated sigh you let out, but he didn't turn around and just stood there, waiting for you to catch up. When you were a step behind him, his hand shot back, not to grab yours, but to shove you forward a little.

It made you let out a cry of shock, with you jumping a foot in the air at the sudden contact.

"Quit squirmin'," he growled at your reaction and kept walking as if nothing had happened, leaving you standing there, with your pussy slightly pulsing around the fabric inside you.

Hurrying to get inside, to clean yourself up and to pretend nothing ever happened, you were quickly falling into step beside him this time, forcing your legs to move as normally as you could manage. Just as you reached the threshold of the main door to the C-Block, putting the rifle down, his hand shot out again. But this time, it wasn't him grabbing your arm. His fingers hooked into the back belt loop of your pants, yanking you to a stop just outside the circle of light from the inside of the prison. You stumbled back against his chest with another small, surprised gasp.

"Yer walkin' funny, Greene," he growled quietly into your ear. "Like ya got a damn stick up yer ass."

Your face turned red, and you didn't really know how to answer. "I told you, just go to hell!"

"And I—" He started, but you cut him off with a glare.

"I swear to God… If you say that 'you're already there,' I will—" You didn't even try to finish your sentence, shaking your head in annoyance.

Before you could react, Daryl's other hand came around your front, his hand moving down flat and low on your belly as he pulled you back against him. He held you there for one endless, heart-stopping second. And his hand moved. It was so fast, so casual, how he reached down and touched you between the legs, his palm pressing against the seam of your pants, right over your pussy.

Your eyes opened wide, looking around the empty yard, terrified someone might be watching anyway, somehow.

But Daryl just held his hand there, feeling the slight bulge of the fabric inside you.

"Still there… Still mine."

The words were simple, but they made you shiver.

Suddenly, his body shifted again. His hips pressed against your ass, grinding and pushing you against the cold door in front of you. He held you there, not caring if someone might come out, letting you feel his belt buckle just like he did in the watchtower, as well as the undeniable strength of him.

Letting you feel that he was, unmistakably, already hard again for you.

Then, as suddenly as he'd pinned you, he pulled back, one hand grabbing his crossbow while his other hand moved from your body to the handle of the door, pulling it open for you, like all the times he'd done it before.

Quickly taking the rifle back off the ground, you walked inside, your legs shaking and your face still burning. You didn't even dare look back at him anymore. But as you headed towards your cell, the strange, full feeling between your legs felt like a secret only the two of you shared, and you knew one thing for certain now...

Daryl Dixon was nowhere near done with you. And despite everything, a terrified but also excited part of you hoped he never would be.

౨ৎ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @levislolita ౨ৎ

The house has a way of holding its breath, especially at night.

You notice it first in the little pauses between sounds, the tick of the thermostat, the far-off hum of the pool filter, the water heater shuddering and settling. You’re in your room at the back of the guest wing, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a small, accusing mountain of laundry, pairing socks by feel more than focus. Your phone lies face down beside you. You’re too tired to scroll and too wired to sleep.

That’s when you hear it. Not a crash. Not a shout. Just voices, upstairs. Low. Tight. The kind of clipped, knife‑clean syllables that aren’t meant for anyone’s ears. You freeze with one sock half inside out. You don’t mean to listen. You never mean to. But the house carries certain sounds, like secrets, funneling them down vents and stairwells and into the hollow places where silence pools.

“…you’re never here,” a woman’s voice says, the words soft but razor‑edged.

There’s a beat. Footsteps moving, back and forth. Floorboards answer with a tired creak.

A lower voice, flat with exhaustion, “This isn’t fair, Ava.”

“It’s not working,” she returns, and even through the distance, you can hear how hard she bites down on not raising her voice. “It’s not working like this.”

Another beat. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight. You set the socks aside, stare at the pattern of light on your floor. Your chest feels like it’s bracing for something even though you know it won’t be loud.

Matt says something you can’t quite make out. You catch only the last piece as it lands in the quiet, “…I can’t do this every night.”

A door closes, not slammed, not gentle. Firm enough to be final. Your heartbeat stumbles. A drawer. The whisper of fabric, maybe a robe. Footsteps again, sharp, purposeful, down the hall, across the landing, and then the echo of footsteps on the stairs as someone descends. You sit as still as a held breath, hands in your lap, listening to the sound of the front door open and close. Keys. A car ignition. The crunch of tires rolling off the gravel into the street.

Silence crawls back in on soft feet. The house exhales. You don’t.

You stare at your laundry for a long moment, the shape of your reflection dull in the dark window, then tell yourself you’re just getting water, just stretching your legs, just moving. The quiet is too loud to lie in. You stand, tugging your t‑shirt down over your bare thighs, and pad into the hall. 

The guest wing feels like a shadow of the rest of the house at night. Same lines, quieter bones. Your footsteps float over the rug as you cross into the main corridor. The kitchen lights are mostly off except for the hood lamp, a warm gold filmed over stainless steel and quartz.

The kettle’s where you left it at dinner. You reach for it, something to do with your hands, something normal, and that’s when you see him.

Matt is leaning against the far counter like he meant to sit and changed his mind halfway through. Sleeves rolled. Collar open. The sort of posture that would read relaxed if his jaw weren’t tight and his eyes weren’t fixed on nothing.

You stop, fingers still crooked around the kettle handle. “Oh…sorry. I thought—”

His gaze lifts, finds you in the soft light. The edges of him smooth a fraction. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. Neutral. Quiet.

You swallow. “I could ask you the same.”

A corner of his mouth does a tired thing that doesn’t quite make it to a smile. He nods toward the stove. “Tea?”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out softer than you intend. “Do you want some?”

He hesitates. It’s small, maybe a breath. Maybe the thought of saying no and retreating upstairs to the room that smells like lavender and a conversation that’s already been had. But then he nods. “Sure.”

You fill the kettle, set it on the burner. The click‑click‑click of the igniter and the brief flare of blue feel too loud, too intimate. You fetch two mugs: his is heavy and white, with a hairline crack through the handle that he chooses never to replace; yours is the pale blue one, the kids insist is “your color,” and a tin of tea bags from the pantry.

He doesn’t say anything while you move, and somehow that makes every movement feel like a conversation anyway. When the kettle starts to whisper, you reach for the mugs and he reaches at the same time, passing one to your hand. Your fingers brush.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Mm.” He watches the water arc into his mug, the tea blooming like ink. When he takes it from you, his hands close around the ceramic, lingering a second longer than he should. The light catches on his wedding ring when he lifts the mug, then slides away as he lowers it again. For a second, it’s all you can see. Proof of something you shouldn't be standing this close to.

He looks different without the guarded distance he wears during the day. Not younger, just less engineered. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes look tired instead of stern. His mouth looks human, not strategic.

You rest your hip against the island. Neither of you mentions the voices that traveled down like weather just a few minutes prior. Neither of you says her name.

“So,” you say after a sip, because the quiet between you is too much, “tomorrow’s science day for Em. Baking soda volcano?”

He huffs, not quite a laugh, but it skims closer than anything has in the last hour. “I’ll clear the boardroom.”

“She’ll only need the kitchen.” You tip your mug toward the marble. “And an industrial-sized tarp.”

“Noted.”

You talk about safe things first. The grocery list you left on the counter. The way Leo finally learned to snap his fingers and won’t stop doing it with both hands, offbeat and delighted. You mention the neighbor’s dog. He mentions the garage door that’s started making a whale noise when it closes, and you tease him that it’s been doing that for two months. He pretends to be offended, but his mouth loosens.

The talk shifts like the kettle does, from a whisper to a hum to something that curls warm and steady. “Some nights,” he says eventually, and it lands so softly you almost miss the weight of it, “it feels like the only time this house is calm is when everyone’s asleep.”

You watch him over your mug. He’s not looking at you; he’s looking at the way the tea stains the inside rim as it tilts. “When it’s quiet,” you say, “you can hear yourself think.”

A muscle ticks high in his cheek. “That’s part of the problem.”

You don’t fill the silence with anything.

“It’s exhausting,” he adds after a moment, more to the steam than to you, “pretending everything’s fine.”

The truth of it lands between you like the softest possible thud. You set your mug down and don’t offer advice. You don’t know the shape of their marriage, not really, and you aren’t a confessional. You are a person with two feet on kitchen tile, who listens.

“Do you ever—” He stops. Starts again. “Do you ever feel like you started running in one direction and only realized three miles in that it wasn’t the road you wanted?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m on the right road and still want to pull over.”

He looks up then. Not at your mouth. Not at your hands. Your face. He looks like he’s reading something in you that he didn’t know was there, and it makes something low and private inside you sit up straighter.

“What would you do,” he says quietly, “if you could do anything?”

You laugh, a breath through your nose. “That’s the hardest question anyone ever asks.”

“It’s the only one that ever matters.” His voice is different now, it's stripped of the polished, practiced cadence you’ve heard over speakerphone. He sounds like a man too tired to pretend, asking because he needs the answer to be real.

You let the thought linger, then say it anyway. “Kids. My own. A big house with space to fill. Mornings full of light, a yard full of noise, love in every corner. And a husband who wants that life with me, who chooses it every day.” You laugh under your breath, almost like you’re trying to make it smaller. “It’s probably too much to ask.”

“It’s not.” His voice drops, warmer, heavier. “You’d be incredible with your own.” His gaze lingers in a way that makes your pulse skip. “You’re already good with mine.”

Your mouth twinges at the corner. “You’ve said that before.”

“Then I’ll keep saying it.” He pauses, his gaze steady on yours. “And you’re…grounded.”

It’s not the kind of compliment you’re used to, and it hits differently, like a warm hand pressed between your shoulder blades. “You make it sound like that’s rare.”

“It is.” His mouth twists faintly, eyes dropping to his mug. “I used to be like that.”

The words linger between you, heavier than they should be, and you feel that little ache in your chest, the one that comes when he lets you see past the careful version of himself. You shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be talking like this with him, not when the air feels this close and his wife’s presence still lives in the walls. Guilt tugs at you, but so does something else, something warmer.

You clear your throat, pushing it down, reaching for safer ground before either of you tips any further, asking about the trip the kids have been daydreaming over. The beach, the crooked picnic tables at the campsite. His face softens as he tells you about a night a storm rolled in, a tent pole gave out, and his son somehow slept through it all with a gummy bear stuck to his cheek. The mental picture pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop it, loud enough that you cover your mouth. He’s quiet for a beat, just watching you, and there’s something in his eyes that makes the sound feel noticed. Important. When your laughter ebbs, the silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s charged, like the room is holding its breath, waiting to see what either of you will do next.

You glance down at your mug just to break eye contact, but it doesn’t help. You can still feel him watching you, that quiet weight in the space between. The air feels thick, like moving through it will give something away. Part of you wants to say something, anything, just to cut through it. The other part isn’t sure you want it cut at all.

You reach for the tea tin to put it away, your fingers brushing the counter to keep from fidgeting. He moves close enough that the heat from him cuts through the space between you. His hand comes into view, holding out the lid, closer than necessary, long enough that your fingertips graze his before you take it. The contact is small. It’s nothing, but it’s also everything.

“Thanks,” you say, and your voice doesn’t sound like yours for a second.

He doesn’t move back. He leans a hip against the counter beside you. His cologne is faint, worn down to softness over a long day, but it clings to the open line of his collar, the cotton at his throat, the inside edge of his sleeves.

He says your name, just your name. But his voice drops one octave, and your stomach flips. You look up. The light carves his cheekbones sharper and leaves his mouth in a soft shadow. His forearm flexes when he tightens his grip on the mug, a small vein lifting like a wire under his skin. You wonder what it would feel like on your hands. You hate that you wonder and that you can’t stop. There’s a pause long enough to be a question. Neither of you answers it out loud. Neither of you pulls back.

He wets his lips, a tiny, automatic thing that shouldn’t be a signal and is. “Do you ever think about,” he says, eyes on yours, voice careful like stepping stones over a creek, “what you really want?”

He isn’t asking about the sunlight in the mornings or a backyard.

“Yes,” you say, because the quiet insists on truth. Because your mouth is half a second away from saying his name and you need to say something else, or you will.

His breath goes out slow. You can feel it in the way his shoulders soften and in how the room seems to tilt an imperceptible amount toward the space you’re occupying together. Your knees almost brush. Your hip shifts a fraction, like your body decided before you did that closer is the only direction that makes sense.

The silence turns thick. Not heavy in a bad way. Heavy like velvet. Heavy like a curtain that’s about to drop.

You both glance toward the dark mouth of the doorway at the same moment, as if there’s a part of your brains that still seeks safety even as another part is reaching.

He says, softer than steam, “You’re easy to talk to.”

You swallow. “It's easier at this hour.”

One corner of his mouth twitches. “That tracks.”

Your wrist rests on the island beside your mug. His hand moves, slow enough to stop, sure enough not to. His fingers brush your wrist, a touch that feels accidental until it lingers. He doesn’t lace your fingers. He doesn’t catch. He just lets his thumb draw a small line where your pulse beats, like he’s confirming something he already knows.

The shift is unmistakable. Your breath goes shallow. He steps closer, enough that his thigh ghosts your hip. Then his hand lifts, hesitates, and rises again, cupping the side of your jaw. It isn’t a rough grip. It isn’t even firm. It’s a question with an answer he can feel in the way your mouth parts as his thumb grazes the corner of your lip.

“Okay,” he breathes, not for permission. He has that. But as if his body needed the word to cross this line.

He doesn't rush it. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He leans in slowly, close enough that you catch the faint scent of cedar and tea on his breath, close enough for your pulse to trip. When his mouth finally meets yours, it’s slow, warmer than you expect, softer than you were ready for. He kisses you like there’s a truth he can’t say out loud, mapping the edges of the restraint he’s still clinging to. And when your lips part for him, it’s instinct, inevitable, like you’ve been holding this want too long and it’s finally spilling loose.

His other hand plants on the counter beside your hip, bracketing you in without trapping. The cool bite of stone catches under your fingertips, anchoring you to a room that suddenly feels like a secret.

“God,” he murmurs against your mouth, a word and a groan. “You—”

You don’t ask him to finish. You pull him closer by the open edge of his collar instead. The line of his throat is warm under your mouth when you let your lips chart a small, careful path there, kissing where his pulse beats against the hinge of his jaw. The sound he makes is quiet and wrecked. You feel it in your own chest. He kisses you again. Not testing now. Taking. You can taste tea and something that’s just him, and when his tongue slides against yours, your knees soften like they’ve been waiting to be told what to do.

He presses you back into the counter in increments, a negotiation your body conducts without consulting your pride. His hand, the one not caging you, slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, under the edge of your hair, warm and steady. The other lifts to your waist, spans it like he was made to measure you, and squeezes. Just enough to make heat flicker low in your belly.

“Tell me if—” he starts, pulling back half an inch to search your face.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, the truth crowding out anything else you might have said.

Something loosens inside him. He nods once, small, decisive, and his mouth is back on yours, hungrier, the quiet kind of desperate that makes you think of doors locked and lights off and the way people learn to be loud without sound when there are sleeping children upstairs.

His hand slides under your t‑shirt. The first touch of his palm to your back is almost chaste. Warm skin on warm skin, a line of heat, and then he skims up your spine to the clasp of your bra. He doesn’t unhook it. He palms the soft line of lace and breathes a word into your mouth that sounds a lot like a prayer. “Lace?” His voice is a rasp against your lower lip. You feel his smile, dark and surprised, rather than see it. “Of course.”

You want to be embarrassed for half a second, caught in a ritual you’d never admit to, but the way his thumb strokes the edge where lace meets skin makes heat flood your face and throat and lower.

“Pretty,” he says, quieter, like the word isn’t for you so much as for the thing in his chest that just got worse. “You always—”

“Not always,” you manage, dizzy with the way his body crowds yours. “Most days.”

His hand slides around your ribs, fingers splayed. He doesn’t grope. He lifts, just enough, and your breath hitches as his palm curves under the swell of your breast through lace and cotton. The sound you make is small and impossible not to hear. He swallows it with his mouth, deepening the kiss until the kitchen tilts.

“Matt,” you say, and feel him shiver. His name in your mouth does something that makes him hold you closer. His thumb strokes across a nipple as he kisses you, slow and precise, and the rush of heat that chases that touch makes your back arch. You feel the counter edge bite your hips. You feel the doorways of your body unlatch in the quiet. His hips find yours in a line that isn’t the friction you crave, but isn’t remotely innocent. You inhale, sharp. He exhales, rough, eyes closed for a second, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you. When he opens them, they’re darker.

“I keep thinking I should stop,” he admits, voice a low scrape. “And then you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” It comes out breathless, unwisely curious.

“Like my hands are exactly where you've been wanting them,” he says, and the honesty of it burrows into the place you’re already aching. “Like I’m not the only one who—”

You cut him off with your mouth because the confession is too much and not enough, and you’re going to come apart in the quiet if you let him finish. He groans, low, and lifts you an inch with his grip at your waist, a hungry, careful adjustment that brackets you tighter between his body and the island.

Your t‑shirt rides up. His knuckles graze your bare stomach, sending chills through your body. He drops his mouth to your throat, kisses there, teeth gentle, and you gasp before you can stop yourself. He shushes you without thinking, a soft sound against your skin, and the intimacy of it makes your eyes shut. His hand slides lower over the thin cotton of your sleep shorts, fingers curving at your hip. He doesn’t push them down. He doesn’t reach between your legs. He holds you there, thumb stroking the hem where it meets the band of your underwear. Lace again. He feels it and curses softly into your throat, a word that breaks on a breath.

“Of course,” he says again, half‑strangled, half‑awed. “Of course you’re wearing—”

“Don’t make fun of me,” you whisper, smiling despite how close you are to shaking. “I like…pretty things.”

“I’m not making fun.” He lifts his head enough to look you in the eye, his thumb still ghosting the edge of lace like a man about to step over sacred ground. “I’m losing my mind.”

You open your mouth to tell him he’s not alone, maybe to tell him what you’ve done alone in this house with his name in your mouth, but a sound slices through the room so gently you almost think you imagined it.

A far‑off hush. Tire on gravel. The faintest crunch.

Both of you still.

The quiet holds its breath again. The sound comes once more, closer this time. The softened grind of a car easing into the curve of the drive. Headlights sweep in a pale ribbon across the far wall, low and slow, then slip away. Matt’s hand stays where it is for the span of two heartbeats. The look in his eyes shifts all at once from hungry to something like clear. Not cold, just awake. You feel the cool air on your stomach where his palm was as he pulls his hand back, slow, careful, like reversing a spell.

The garage motor hums to life, distant and unmistakable. A signal sent into the bones of the house.

His forehead drops to yours for one stunned, suspended second. You can feel his breath, see the shape of his mouth when he swallows a sound that wants to be a curse and a prayer at the same time.

“Ava,” he breathes. Not a warning, just a fact returning to a room that had no windows for it a minute ago.

You nod, small, automatic. Your hands are still curled in his shirt. You force them to let go. You tug your t‑shirt down with shaking fingers. The hem scratches your thighs in a way that makes your skin feel too new.

He steps back half a pace. It feels like a mile.

The garage door finishes its low thrumming, and the clicks settle. Keys jingle. The house inhales the invisible scent of outside air and asphalt, and oranges from the tree by the side gate. You turn toward the sink because you have to turn toward something. You set your mug beside it with care, like noise might break the bubble of not being caught. Your throat tastes like tea and him.

“Go,” he says, and the word is quiet and useful, not harsh. His voice is wired tight with the effort of being calm. “Please.”

You want to argue that it’ll look stranger if you vanish into the guest wing like a ghost. You want to stand your ground and also drop to your knees and also rewind six minutes, but also never forget a single one of them. Instead, you nod again. You slip past him. The move brings you briefly into the heat of his body, and he goes rigid, trying not to reach for you. Your shoulder grazes his chest. You feel the thud of his heart like a warning or a promise.

The door from the garage clicks open somewhere down the hall. The soft hush of a purse set on a bench. He straightens, one breath, two, runs a hand down his sleeves like that will fix anything. In the mouth of the corridor, you glance back without meaning to. He’s watching you go, jaw tight, hands braced white‑knuckled on the counter. You slip into the dim hall and disappear around the corner just as a voice, careful and tired, floats into the kitchen on quiet feet.

“You’re still up?” she asked, tone calm but carrying that trace of suspicion people get when they’re already wound tight.

Matt’s hand curled around the handle of his mug like it had been the only reason to stand there. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Her gaze swept over the counter, the two mugs, the open tea tin. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“I was busy,” he said. Not sharp, but final.

“Busy,” she repeated, a small, humorless laugh under her breath. “Right. Always busy.”

He set the mug down, letting the ceramic clink lightly against the marble. “We’ve had this conversation before, Ava.”

“And nothing changes.” She put her shoes on the stool by the island, crossing her arms. “Do you even notice when I’m gone? Or is it just quieter for you?”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t rise to it. “I notice.”

“Then maybe show it. Once in a while.” The sigh she let out was tired more than angry. “I can’t keep coming home to this…this wall you put up. You’re either locked in your office or sitting here like a ghost.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms folding loosely. “And you? You leave in the middle of the night after a fight. Come home smelling like…” He shook his head, stopping himself. “You think that doesn’t build walls?”

Ava stared at him for a long beat, something flickering across her face. Hurt, maybe, or just the recognition that they were too tired to dig out the roots tonight. She dropped her arms. “I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.”

She paused at the doorway, studying him. Whatever she was looking for, she didn’t find it. “Don’t take too long,” she said, and disappeared into the hall.

Matt stayed where he was, eyes drifting to the pale blue mug still sitting on the counter. His fingers traced the rim once, like he could feel the warmth you’d left behind. He didn’t pick it up, didn’t put it in the sink. Just let it sit there.

Down the hall, you were in bed, covers pulled up, heart still tapping against your ribs. You had heard the faint murmur of their voices from the kitchen, too low to make out words, but heavy enough to fill the spaces in your mind with guesses.

You turned on your side, facing the wall, the ghost of his hand still warm on your waist. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Footsteps on the stairs. Silence again. You closed your eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Not with the echo of his breath against your mouth, the rasp of his voice saying your name, and the knowledge that whatever line almost got crossed tonight hadn’t gone anywhere. It was still there. Waiting.

a/n: why am i so scared of posting things that dont have smut???

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