holly🧁

Daryl’s fucking weird.

From the second you stagger through Alexandria’s gates, half-starved and asking for shelter, his attention latches onto you and doesn’t let go. It isn’t a passing glance, or even curiosity. It’s steady. 

Intent. 

The kind of stare that feels less like looking and more like measuring, like he’s trying to figure out what you are and hasn’t decided yet.

At first, it almost makes you smile. There’s something about the way his eyes narrow, the way his shoulders stay locked tight, like he’s braced for something that hasn’t happened. So you humor it. You lift a hand, offer a small wave, an easy gesture meant to smooth over whatever tension he’s carrying.

He watches you do it, then turns away like you weren’t worth acknowledging.

Alright. Message received.

You chalk it up to attitude, to whatever brand of personality he’s got, and by the time Maggie’s tour of Alexandria starts to blur into a string of houses and unfamiliar faces, you assume that’s the end of it. First impressions made, filed away, done.

It isn’t.

Because you keep catching him.

Across the yard while you’re talking to someone else. Leaning against a post like he just happens to be there. Standing off to the side during introductions, quiet and still, doing nothing except watching. He’s never close enough to interrupt, never far enough to miss anything, always somewhere in that middle space where you can’t quite ignore him.

And every time you look, he’s already looking back.

You try to make sense of it. Alexandria’s small. People overlap. You’re new, and someone keeping an eye on you isn’t exactly strange.

But this doesn’t feel like someone checking in.

It feels like being tracked.

Over the next week, that feeling settles in instead of fading. 

No matter where you go, there’s this quiet awareness trailing behind you. You’ll be mid-conversation, half-listening, and something in your gut will tighten just enough to pull your attention away, to make you glance up or over your shoulder.

He’s always there when you do.

The same expression, or lack of one. Mouth set, eyes narrowed just enough that everything about him reads a little too close to irritation, even when he’s doing nothing at all. 

Maybe that’s just how his face rests, but it doesn’t make the weight of it any easier to ignore.

Especially since he still hasn’t said a word to you.

Not a greeting, not a warning, nothing that gives any shape to whatever this is. 

Rick had told everyone to give you space while you settled in, and you’re grateful for it. After everything, the quiet helps.

You just wish someone had told Daryl.

You stay with Maggie and Glenn at first, drifting through those first few days in a strange, cautious haze, until ten days later you’re handed a place of your own. 

It’s far more than you expected. Far more than what you’re used to, and you’re stepping through the front door for the first time when that familiar prickle crawls up your spine again.

You turn before you can stop yourself.

He’s across the street, sitting on the front steps of the house opposite yours like he’s always been there. Chin propped in his hands, elbows on his knees.

You flip him off and go inside.

Another day passes, and you’re coming back from the infirmary after helping Denise.

And there he is again, sharpening a blade on the stoop.

When he does look up, it’s subtle. Only his eyes move, flicking up until they land on you without hesitation.

Your neck prickles when they stay there, heavy.

The blade stills in his hand.

For a second, nothing moves. Not him. Not you. Just that stretch of space between you, pulled tight like a wire.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts the knife.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The tip angles toward you, not quite level, not quite careless either, like he hasn’t decided what it is yet. A gesture that could be nothing. Could be everything.

Your stomach drops anyway.

He tilts it slightly, inspecting the edge, turning his wrist just enough that the light catches along the blade. It flashes once, quick and clean, and for a split second it lines up with you again.

Like he’s sighting down it.

He drags his thumb across the edge, not enough to cut, just enough to feel it, then nods like it meets whatever standard he had in mind.

Only then does he look back down, returning the blade to the stone.

Shhk.

Shhk.

The sound picks up again like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just feel the distance between you measured in inches instead of yards.

Like that wasn’t meant for you.

You retreat inside and lock the door.

You stay there longer than you mean to, back pressed to the door.

After some deep breaths, you start moving through the house under the pretense of getting settled. 

The kitchen alone feels surreal, stocked in a way that almost doesn’t make sense after everything you’ve gotten used to, and you end up making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just to prove to yourself it’s real.

Even as the afternoon slips toward evening, you’re still being watched.

You notice him through the windows more than once. Sometimes he’s working, sometimes he’s just adjusting his crossbow, but his attention drifts back to your house again and again, like it’s tethered there.

It starts to get under your skin in a way that doesn’t dull with time. If anything, it gets more acute.

By the time you finish collecting all of your laundry in the back bedroom, your nerves are worn thin enough that you decide to shower before dealing with any of it, just to reset. 

It’s been too long, longer than you like to think about.

You’ve bathed in rivers when you could find them, used rainwater when you were lucky, and you haven’t had anything close to proper soap for well over a year.

You cleaned up at Maggie and Glenn’s, but you didn’t feel safe enough for a full shower.

So standing in a real bathroom again feels unreal. Clean tile beneath your feet, thick towels within reach, even a razor sitting on the edge of the sink.

You hesitate longer than you should before finally giving in.

It should feel safe.

For a moment, it does.

Then you notice the window.

Bare glass, wide open to the outside, with nothing covering it. No blinds, no curtains, not even the hardware left behind. Just an unobstructed view straight out into the side yard and the street beyond.

It feels wrong, immediately.

Not just because it’s missing, but because it was clearly removed.

The holes where something used to be secured are too clean for anything else.

A quiet tension tightens in your chest as you step out into the hallway, checking the rest of the house with a growing sense of certainty.

The living room is the same. The kitchen too. Every window stripped down to nothing but glass and frame, like the ability to block the outside world was taken out on purpose.

You don’t react right away. You just take it in, filing it away the same way you’ve learned to do with anything that doesn’t seem right.

By the time you reach the back bedroom, you already know what you’ll find.

Still, you check.

The windows are bare.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself as your thoughts start to align instead of scatter. You’ve trusted people before. Taken things at face value. It never ended well, not out there where trust had a way of turning into a weapon if you weren’t careful.

So you learned.

Look twice. Question everything. Assume there’s always something you’re not seeing.

And right now, that’s the problem.

There’s nothing you’re not seeing.

Your attention drifts, inevitably, back to him. To the way he’s always outside, always within range, always watching without ever saying a word.

You’ve known men like that before, even if the faces were different. The pattern isn’t new. Watch first. Decide later. Act when it suits them.

When you check outside again and find the stoop empty, your stomach drops.

God, you never see him move. He’s either there or he isn’t, and the absence feels worse than the presence because it leaves you guessing.

Leaves you exposed.

Of course he moved.

Because you did.

You head back to the bathroom, your knives already in your hands before you consciously decide to grab them. You press a towel up against the wall where the window sits. It takes a few quick motions to pin it in place, blade biting into drywall until the fabric holds well enough to block the view.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s enough.

You shut the door, undress, and step into the shower, letting the water hit. It’s hot and steady and endless, and for a few brief minutes, it’s enough to pull you out of your own head as the last two years start to wash away in pieces.

You linger longer than you should.

Long enough for your guard to soften.

Long enough for the quiet to feel safe again.

But the second it slips, thoughts of Daryl careen through your mind. That alone is enough to pull you out of it.

You shut the water off and step out, reaching for your towel—

Then stop.

The bathroom door is open.

Not by much. Just enough.

You stare at it, your mind catching on the detail with immediate certainty.

You closed it.

You know you did.

For a second, that old unease tries to creep back in, that cold, distant sense of being watched from somewhere you can’t see.

But it doesn’t settle the same way this time.

It burns.

Because now there’s context.

The missing blinds, the open lines of sight, the way he’s positioned himself day after day. You blocked the only clear view he had, and the timing lines up too neatly to ignore.

Your grip tightens around the towel.

If he wanted a different angle, he had to come inside to get it.

The thought lands hard, and instead of fear, it sparks something hotter, angrier, cutting clean through whatever hesitation you might have had before.

Fine.

You dress quickly, dragging your last dirty outfit from the basket without caring that it isn’t actually clean anymore. When you realize your panties are missing, the same pair you know you tossed in there earlier.

It only feeds the same conclusion.

You pull your jeans on anyway and head straight for the front of the house, your focus narrowing with each step until there’s nothing left but the need to confirm it.

The windows come into view.

And so does he.

Back on the stoop.

Like he never left.

He’s on the same steps, same posture, easy and rooted, a bucket settled near his boots.

Walnuts this time.

He cracks them open with a knife in quick, practiced motions, dropping the meat of them into a container at his side. Busy hands. Relaxed body. Like he has all the time in the world.

Of course he’s back.

You don’t stop to think it through. The door swings open hard enough to smack the wall, then slams behind you as you cross the street in a straight line, gravel crunching under your boots, loud and unfiltered.

Daryl looks up.

His head tilts slightly as you approach, his gaze dragging once down your legs, your hips, then back up again.

It lands.

And lingers.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he almost lets his amusement show, and then reins it in.

You stop a few feet in front of him, breath sharp, anger simmering just beneath your skin.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” you demand, low but cutting. “You get off on this or something? Watching people through their windows like a fucking creep?”

The shift in him is immediate.

Whatever that almost-smile was, it vanishes, replaced by defensive anger so quickly you get whiplash.

“What?” he snaps, sitting up straight. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Oh.

His voice is nice.

This is the first time you’ve heard it.

It only pisses you off more.

“Don’t play dumb,” you fire back. “You think I haven’t noticed that every window in that house is bare?” A humorless laugh slips out. “I finally block your view, so you break in?”

Color climbs up his neck, fast and hot. “What are you—”

“You’re a fuckin’ pervert, aren’t you?” The conclusion lands all at once, too clean to ignore. “Turn out your pockets.”

"Why?"

"So you can give me my underwear back."

That hits.

His shoulders go rigid, jaw locking so tight it ticks. For a split second, something flashes across his face, too fast to name—surprise, maybe, or something closer to oh, shit.

“I ain’t—” He cuts himself off abruptly.

Not because he doesn’t have the words.

Because he’s looking past you.

"You are," you grit, voice rising. "Now give me back my underwear, and stop staring at me."

His head turns, eyes flicking toward the rest of the community, scanning the conversations happening in streets, the houses, like he’s checking who might be listening.

Your stomach swoops in realization.

"Afraid someone's gonna find out that you're a pervert?" you make sure to really articulate that last bit. Loudly.

He steps in, closer than before, hand coming up in a quick, sharp motion, pointing in your face.

“Hey—” His voice drops, urgent now. “Keep it down.”

A hush.

A warning.

Like you’ve just said something you weren’t supposed to say out in the open.

Your pulse spikes.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, louder if anything, the words cracking with disbelief. “You are a perv—”

“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you now, still scanning, still tense in a way that doesn’t match the argument. “Ain’t somethin’ you go yellin’—”

That’s it.

That’s the moment it locks.

Because he’s not confused.

He’s not denying it.

He’s trying to contain it.

“Are you serious right now?” you laugh, sharp and incredulous, taking a step back just to look at him properly. “You’re only worried about people hearing?”

His eyes cut back to you, something dark flashing there, but it doesn’t matter.

You’ve already decided what that look means.

“You didn’t even deny it,” you push, voice rising again despite the way he tries to rein it in. “You just told me to be quiet.”

“‘Cause it goes without sayin’. You’re being—” he starts, frustrated now, but you don’t let him finish.

“No, no, I just find that really interesting,” you cut in, shaking your head, the anger coming back twice as hot. “That’s what you’re worried about? Not that I’m wrong, just that I’m loud about your little panty kink?”

He exhales hard through his nose, jaw flexing, clearly trying to get a handle, but the damage is done.

Because from where you’re standing, it doesn’t look like denial.

It looks like guilt trying not to get caught.

“No, that’s it, isn’t it?” you press, stepping closer, the edge in your voice turning sharp with something almost triumphant. “You like peepin’ on girls. Sniffin’ their underwear—”

“Enough,” he growls. “You got somethin’ wrong with you—”

“I’ve got something wrong?” you echo, incredulous now, your voice still rising despite yourself. “You’ve been following me since I got here, like—”

“Like what?” he snaps, pushing to his feet, the bucket tipping as he moves at you. “Ain’t my fault you keep lookin’ my way.”

“Yeah, because I see you looking at me!” you shoot back. "You're not my keeper."

His jaw works, fingers tightening around the knife still in his hand.

You feel it then.

The shift.

Conversations around you falter, voices dipping, attention turning like a slow ripple. Somewhere behind you, Rick’s voice carries in that low, steady way of his, not words yet, just presence closing in.

You don’t look.

Your focus stays locked on Daryl.

He’s glaring now, breathing heavier.

But he’s also clearly humiliated. His eyes scan over your shoulders, then land on someone. Probably Rick.

“Nah, I’m done with this,” he mutters, rough and cutting, turning like he’s already checked out.

Then he adds, nonchalantly and distracted. “You’re bein’ a bitch.”

It lands like a spark in dry grass.

Your hand moves before you think better of it.

The crack echoes sharp across the street as your palm connects with his cheek. His head snaps to the side with a bitten curse.

For a second, everything stills.

Your hand tingles. His fingers come up slow to his face, pressing there like he’s holding the sting in place.

Then he looks back at you with a glare that doesn't waver.

It almost scares you.

“And you’re stupid too,” he grinds out, voice low. “Slappin’ a guy with a blade in his hand.”

He steps in, closing the space, eyes narrowing down at you.

“Go ahead,” he adds, quieter, more dangerous for it. “Try that one more time.”

Your fists curl at your sides, anger coiling tight.

“That a threat?”

“Is if you swing again.”

You step forward anyway, and so does he. Your bodies are close. And now you can smell him. Cigarettes and sweat and leather.

You hate how pretty his eyes are.

So much that you do move to swing again.

Movement cuts in from your periphery, fast and solid, and then Rick’s between you before you get the chance. One hand lands firm on your shoulder, the other planted against Daryl’s chest.

“Easy,” he says, steady but commanding. “Both of you, take it down a notch.”

Daryl bristles immediately, pacing behind him like something caged, but Rick doesn’t give him an inch.

“I don’t care what he did,” Rick adds, glancing back at you. “You calm down. I’ll handle him.”

“She came at me with this crazy shit,” Daryl snaps, trying to push forward again, his focus still locked on you. “You off your wacko meds or somethin’?”

“Daryl,” Rick warns.

He keeps leaning forward until he’s back in your face, nudging Rick off balance. “Maybe you’re on the fuckin’ rag—”

“Daryl!” Rick turns and shoves him back harder this time.

You drag in a breath, the tremor in it betraying how tightly wound you are.

“Rick,” you start, forcing it steady, “there are no blinds in that house. And he hasn’t stayed more than a hundred feet away from me since I got here. And—”

Deanna steps in then, calm and composed, taking in the scene like she’s reading smoke before it turns to fire.

“The blinds were taken down years ago,” she says gently. “The previous owners were renovating before the outbreak. I never had the means, or the time to replace them. No one’s been inside that house since.”

The words settle.

Slow.

Heavy.

Behind Rick, Daryl stills, then tilts his head slightly, amused.

“Guess all that bitchin’ was for nothin’, huh?” he says, low, almost conversational, but edged enough to make your blood hum.

“Daryl, if you don’t stop I’ll hit you myself,” Rick murmurs.

You feel it then, the anger draining out and leaving something hotter in its wake.

Embarrassment. 

You don’t stay.

You turn and walk back to your home without another word, the weight of it pressing in as the adrenaline burns off.

An hour later, there’s a knock.

Gabriel, Glenn, and Maggie stand there with an armful of curtains between them, soft colors and heavy fabric. They help you hang them, filling the house in piece by piece until the windows stop feeling like open eyes.

They stay for dinner.

You ask them all what Daryl’s deal is, and while they admit that his apparent fixation seems a little odd, they claim he just... does that sometimes.

Zones out.

Which is so completely valid. You do the same.

But he is not zoning out.

He's zoning in.

On you.

You tell them that.

But they spend a long time assuring you that Daryl isn’t the creep you think he is. That he’s definitely an acquired taste in terms of personality. 

First and foremost, all of them go on to stress his loyalty to this group. 

Which also confirms your first theory about him: that he’s likely just sussing you out.

He’s not quick to trust.

Neither are you.

And you just made a fool of yourself in front of half the community. The rest have likely heard about it by proxy.

The next day at the infirmary confirms your suspicions.

But everyone subverts your expectations. Mostly the women.

Rosita gives you knuckles and calls you a badass, Denise praises the fact that you got a hit in, and Tara says that she’s wanted to do that before, but didn’t have the balls.

Another month goes by, and you still have a shadow with a crossbow.

You start spotting him without meaning to, like your brain learned the shape of him and now pulls it from the background automatically.

You test it.

Throw a middle finger over your shoulder without even looking.

Wait a beat.

When you glance back, he’s already got two fingers raised right back at you.

“What’s your fuckin’ problem with me?” you ask him once.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nothin’.”

Like the word’s worn smooth from overuse. Like it’s the only one he’s willing to give you.

Nothin'.

Fucking douche.

By the third time you ask him for an explanation, you’re grinding your teeth.

Nothin'.

By the fifth, you’re imagining creative ways to shut him up indefinitely. You linger on the thought of his throat under your hand, the heat of his carotid pumping.

You swear to all that’s holy, if you hear that word one more time, you might actually try it.

He’d probably just smile at you while you did it.

Just to piss you off some more.

And the worst part is, you can see it. Clear as anything. The way his mouth would pull, just barely, like he’s in on something you’re not.

Another month bleeds into the next, days folding over each other in that quiet, relentless way Alexandria has. 

Routine settles in, but he never quite becomes part of the background. Not fully.

If anything, he becomes a bigger focus for you.

You start noticing where he is without trying. Catching the shape of him in your peripheral before you even look. Listening for the soft creak of those steps, the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice when he bothers to use it.

It’s irritating.

Like a tongue worrying a sore spot.

Three months in, you start noticing something new.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. That same prickle at the back of your neck, that instinct that tells you when he’s looking, except now when you turn, his gaze isn’t where it used to be.

It’s lower.

You catch it once. Brush it off.

Twice. Coincidence.

By the fifth time, you know exactly what you’re seeing. You’re on a supply run with Rick, Abe, and unfortunately…

Daryl.

And he’s staring at your ass.

Just fixed there, like he forgot himself for a second and didn’t bother correcting it.

Hell, maybe he’s been doing it since you arrived, and he just doesn’t care if you notice anymore.

Your chest twists. Not quite anger. Not quite anything you want to examine too closely.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath the next time it happens, not even bothering to hide it as you turn, fully catching him in it.

He doesn’t turn away.

Doesn’t even look embarrassed.

His eyes merely lift, slow, dragging back up to meet yours like he meant to do it. Like he’s daring you to say something, head tilted back, looking at you down his nose.

The frustration is familiar now, but not entirely unwelcome. You latch onto itt before it can turn into anything else.

“You serious?” you snap, hands braced on your hips. “You gonna keep staring, or you wanna explain yourself for once?”

His shoulders shift in a half-shrug, casual as anything.  “Nah. Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

Rick groans in annoyance beside you guys. “Guys, seriously. What part of stealth is so hard to understand?”

Abe leans over. “Ain’t your fault your mama blessed you with that ass, sweetheart.”

You know what? Hell yeah.

It actually feels like a compliment coming from Abe. The fact that Daryl refuses to practice any introspection is what really infuriates you, because that just makes it all the more obvious that he’s trying to fuck with your head.

The arguments come easier after the ogling starts.

Small things at first. Sharp words tossed back and forth when you cross paths, irritation snapping quick and hot before either of you bother cooling it. Then bigger ones, louder, edged with threats.

You call him out. He deflects. You push harder. He pushes back just enough to keep it going.

It never resolves.

It just resets.

Over and over.

You have to be separated at council meetings so often that they stop inviting both of you for a few weeks at a time.

He’s contrarian, patronizing, and just a general jackass. 

Like he’s made it his life’s purpose to test you.

The worst part is that he usually lets up, pulling back from the argument only once he’s got a rise out of you. Like that was all he wanted in the first place. To piss you off and make you burn red.

Dammit.

And your fucking panties start going missing again.

At first, it’s easy to brush off. You’ve been on your own for a long time, living out of scraps and half-systems that only made sense to you. Things get misplaced. Left behind. Forgotten.

It happens.

Maybe your washing machine has a thing for eating black lace.

Except it keeps happening.

And that doesn't make sense either, because as itappears, they never make it to the washing machine.

They always vanish after they've been worn.

You notice it the third time. Not right away, not in some dramatic flash, but in that slow, creeping way where your brain starts pulling threads together without asking permission.

You remember putting them in the basket.

You remember it clearly.

And then they’re just… not there.

You stand in the doorway of your bedroom, staring at the half-filled basket in pure perplexity.

What the fuck.

You check the bathroom. The floor. The corners. Under the bed. In the sheets. Hell, even under the rugs. Anywhere they could’ve slipped or gotten caught.

Nothing.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand over your face. “Fine.”

You tell yourself you dropped them somewhere else. That you’re tired. That your memory’s playing tricks after everything you’ve been through.

It’s a decent explanation.

Until it happens again.

And again.

By the fifth time, it’s not an accident anymore.

It’s. a. fucking. pattern.

Screw this.

You adjust.

You stop using the basket. You think you could start setting them aside somewhere else, somewhere hidden.

A drawer. Under your pillow. No, tucked into the back of your closet behind a stack of folded clothes sounds like a great spot, even if it feels asinine. Like you’re hiding something from yourself.

You place them down. You look at them. You tell yourself, out loud, they’re here.

You leave.

You come back.

Gone.

Not shifted. Not misplaced.

Gone.

The first time it happens, something cold slips down your spine.

The second time, you don’t even feel surprised.

Just… tired.

Frustrated in a way that doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Because there’s no proof. No sound. No sign that anything’s been touched. The house stays exactly the way you leave it, neat and still and quiet.

You start checking the windows again. The locks. The doors. You take your time with it, methodical, hands steady even when your thoughts aren’t.

Everything is exactly how it should be.

Every time.

And that’s the part that gets to you.

Because if nothing’s wrong—

Then what the hell is happening?

You catch yourself standing in the middle of your bedroom one night, staring at the empty space where you know your pack used to be, and for a second, something ugly curls in your chest.

Doubt.

Not about the situation.

About yourself.

You press your hand to your forehead, hard, like you can force that thought back where it came from.

No.

You’ve survived too much, too long in this world to start second-guessing yourself now.

You know what you saw. Where you put it. What you remember.

Which leaves only one option.

Daryl.

Your jaw tightens as something sharp and restless settles under your skin.

You’re not crazy. He's fucking with you.

A few nights later the air in your home is thick with silence. You’re alone in your bed, or at least you presume to be, but the absence of proof isn’t proof of absence. You know that now. 

The thought coils in your stomach, hot and restless, as you press your thighs together under the thin sheet.

Daryl’s been gone for three days on a supply run, and the relief should be palpable. Instead, it’s just… hollow. Like the space he leaves behind is somehow louder than his presence ever was. 

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers twitch against the mattress, restless, like they’re waiting for permission you refuse to give.

But tonight, you’re done waiting.

You slide your hand down your stomach, slow, just to prove you can. The fabric of your shirt skips under your palm and you bite your lip. 

It’s not about him. It’s not. It’s about the tension in your muscles, the ache between your legs, the way your body craves what your mind keeps trying to forget. 

You press your palm flat against your underwear, exhaling sharply through your nose when you feel how wet you already are. 

Pathetic. You’d laugh if you weren’t so fucking frustrated.

The first touch is clinical. Testing. Like you’re still convincing yourself this is allowed. But then your fingers dip beneath the elastic, and the gasp that punches out of you is anything but detached. 

You arch off the mattress, hips lifting instinctively, chasing the pressure. 

Fuck. It’s been too long. 

Your thoughts stutter. Images flashing behind your eyelids: rough hands pinning your wrists, breath that smells of cigarettes, hot against your neck, the sharp sting of teeth. 

You squeeze your thighs together, trapping your own fingers. The friction burns just right.

Your shirt rides higher as you palm your breast, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple. Not teasing, not exploring, just needing. The pressure sends a jolt straight down to where your other hand is already working in tight, impatient circles. 

You don’t have the patience for slow tonight. Not when every press of your fingers feels like scratching an itch you’ve ignored for years.

With a frustrated groan, you kick your pants and panties off in one sharp motion, letting them land in a heap on the floor. 

The air feels like frost spreading along your bare skin, clinging to the sweat you’ve worked up already. You drag your fingers through your slick, hissing at the contact, and then you’re pushing two inside your cunt without hesitation. 

The stretch burns so good, and you turn your head into the pillow with a whimper as you curl your fingers, searching.

Legs spreading wider, you hook a knee over your elbow, pulling yourself open as you fuck into your fingers into your cunt.

It’s not enough.

You add a third finger, biting back a whine when your muscles clench around them.

Fuck, you’re so wet. It’s so stupid and embarrassing, like your body’s been waiting for this even when your brain refuses to admit it.

And then—because you’re weak, because you’re angry, because you must hate yourself—your mind flashes to him. 

Daryl.

You imagine his calloused hands replacing yours, his rough grip yanking your thighs apart, his voice growling something filthy. Insulting you. Degrading you.

His cock ruining you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and yearning.

You press your heel into the mattress, lifting your hips higher, fucking your fingers harder—like if you just push, just take, you can chase that feeling out of your system. 

But of fucking course it’s no use.

The more you touch yourself, the clearer the images become: Daryl’s teeth sinking into your flesh, his hands holding your breasts, his cock filling you up so much better than your hand ever could.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the betrayal of your own pulse joins the ache between your legs.

A whimper claws its way up your throat as your fingers speed up.

"Fuck you," you grit out between clenched teeth, your fingers working faster now, slick and desperate. "Fuck you, fuck you—" The words come out whiny, choked, like a mantra. 

Your thighs tremble, your hips angling as you chase that crest, so close you can taste it.

Just a little more—just a little—

The sound splits through the air like a gunshot.

Floorboard.

Hallway.

You recognize it instantly, the way your body knows hunger or thirst or the sting of a fresh wound. Your fingers go still inside you, muscles locking so fast it hurts. The wet sound of your own touch hangs in the air, obscene in the sudden silence.

Your bedroom door is open.

Wide.

You didn’t think you needed to close it.

Daryl’s not supposed to be here.

Breath trapped in your throat, you don’t move. 

Don’t blink. 

All at once, the dark of your bedroom feels alive, pressing in from all sides. Your pulse hammers against your ribs, loud and fast like it’s trying to punch itself out. 

Then, another sound. A shift of air.

Slowly.

So slowly your muscles protest, you turn your head toward the doorway.

The hall is darker than your room, a void where the weak moonlight doesn’t reach.

Instinct takes over before thought can catch up. 

You wrench the blanket around yourself and bolt upright, moving before your brain registers the command. You dash across the bedroom and flick the light on, the sudden brightness stinging your eyes. 

The room is empty. Exactly as it should be.

Then—

Thump.

Upstairs.

A sound so deliberate it doesn’t even pretend to be accidental.

You know it’s stupid. You know running toward danger instead of away is the kind of shit that gets people killed in this world. Half naked, no less. But you don’t care. 

You’re wired, adrenaline singing through your veins like a live current as you take the stairs two at a time, bare feet slapping against the wood.

The upstairs hallway stretches before you, shadows clinging to the corners. You never come up here. The air is thick with the scent of dust and—

Cigarettes.

You whirl into the first room, then the next, checking corners, behind doors, under the bed like some frantic animal.

Nothing. No one. 

The house is still. Too still.

Then you see it.

The curtain in the bedroom across the hall sways, just slightly, like someone brushed past it moments ago.

Maybe you did.

Maybe you’re imagining things again.

Your throat goes dry.

You step closer, every muscle in your body coiled tight. 

The window is cracked open—just enough for a hand to slip through, to lift from the outside.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

You slam the window shut and lock it.

You should feel relieved that you didn’t find anything other than a cracked window. You should sag against the wall, laugh at your own paranoia, chalk it up to the house settling or your own fucked-up imagination.

But the heat under your skin doesn’t fade. 

You storm back downstairs, your breath coming fast, your thighs and fingers still sticky with your own mess. You step back into your bedroom, then promptly freeze.

Your panties.

The ones you’d kicked off in a frenzy—

Gone.

A laugh claws its way up your throat, jagged and wild. 

Of course.

Of fucking course they are.

Hours crawl by in a slow bleed of shadows, your fingers clenched around the knife under your pillow until dawn streaks the sky in grays and blues. 

You don’t sleep. You don’t even think you blink. 

Every creak of the house feels like a taunt, every rustle of wind a whisper against your skin. By the time the sun finally lifts over Alexandria’s walls, you’re already dressed, already moving, your body thrumming with a restless energy that demands action.

You leave Alexandria under the guise of going on a solo hunt, claiming you didn't sleep well. You also ask tersely about Daryl and when he’s returned. 

Rosita’s quick to tell you that he’s still not back.

Which you’re still pretty confident is utter bullshit.

She pulls the gate open for you without asking any questions, and you make a beeline for the forest. The spot isn’t far, a mile or two beyond the eastern tree line, where the land dips into a shallow cliffside.

You found it months ago, back when you still bothered mapping escape routes, back when trust was a currency you hadn’t yet wasted.

The alcove is quiet, sheltered by a natural curve of rock that funnels walkers away like water around a stone. Today, though, luck’s run dry. A single walker stumbles between the trees nearby.

Your fingers flex around your knife as you stomp toward it to put it down.

The walker's milky eyes lock onto you, its jaw working like it can already taste your flesh. You roll your shoulders back, flipping your knife in your palm—a quick, practiced motion that should feel satisfying but just leaves your fingers twitchy. 

Whatever.

At least this is something you can fix.

You take two steps forward—

Thwip.

An arrow—no—a crossbow bolt hits dead-center between its eyes with a wet crunch, sending the walker crumpling to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings. 

Your pulse rushes and thumps in your ears so loudly that you go half-deaf.

No way.

There's no fucking way in hell that he actually followed you out here.

You whip around to see, who?

Daryl Goddamned Dixon, stepping out from between the trees, crossbow still raised.

That’s it. 

Enough.

You snap.

The moss underfoot muffles your steps, but your rage isn't quiet. You stomp toward him, snapping twigs under your boots like they're his bones. 

His smirk is infuriating, like he’s won. When his mouth opens, you already know what’s coming before he says it.

"You're welcome," he drawls. The crossbow dips lazily in his grip, like this is nothing. 

Like you're nothing.

Your fist connects with his jaw before you even consider the repercussions. The impact jars up your arm with sharp, satisfying pain as his head is thrown to the side, and for one glorious fucking second, you think he might actually take the hint.

But then his hand shoots out, fingers digging into your chin hard enough to grind your teeth into the inside of your cheek. You taste the tang of your own blood when he yanks you forward.

His mouth crashes into yours—no softness, no asking. Just heat and teeth and the taste of contrasting iron on his split his lip.

You bite back, literally, sinking your teeth into the affliction until he grunts, but he doesn’t let go. His other hand fists in your hair, pulling just shy of painful, and you growl as you arch, because fuck him, you won’t be the one to break first.

His crossbow hits the ground somewhere beside him, forgotten. You shove at his chest, and the kiss breaks as he stumbles backward.

His eyes lock onto yours.

Dark, feral. 

God, it makes your pulse kick harder. 

You barely have time to react before he’s surging forward again, closing the distance between you like a predator cornering its prey. 

You swing again, fist aimed for his ribs this time, but he catches your wrist.

"Let go—" you snarl.

He yanks you forward so hard your shoulder protests and you collide against his chest. The heat of him burns through your clothes.

He leans forward, breath rasping against your ear. 

"Have a little fun without me last night?" His voice is low, taunting, rough with something that isn’t just anger.

“Damn you!” You feel a scream building up in your throat. “I knew you were—”

Daryl slaps you across the face, and your scream comes out gritted.

You don’t dignify it with words. Instead, you jerk your knee up—aiming for his gut, his balls, anywhere that’ll wipe that smug look off his face—but he twists, taking the hit on his thigh with a grunt.

His hands move fast to your shoulders, where they grab fistfuls of your jacket, fingers digging into the lapels before he dips his thumbs beneath and shoves down.

Daryl gets your jacket off, and you only realize it’s off when you see him toss it aside. The fabric drapes over a log before crumpling to the ground.

For half a second, you both just stare. Chests heaving, lips parted around ragged breaths.

You can see the exact moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

Your neck.

Ultimately landing on your tits.

You shove at his chest again, but he prepares for it this time. He barely moves. Just rocks with it, steadies, and looks back at you like you’ve done something mildly interesting.

One hand finds your waist, molding to the dip there.

“Pervert,” you spit, but the word lacks venom when his thumb brushes the strip of bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’re foul—”

His mouth crashes into yours before you can twist away, and fuck, it’s infuriating how good it feels. How your body curls into him, how your fingers claw at his vest just like he did with your jacket. 

Dammit, he groans against your lips, rough and possessive. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into your ass overtop your jeans. He yanks you forward against him.

You can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this when his hips nudge into you.

He's rock hard.

Your fingers push at his vest, fumbling in the heat of it all. He shrugs it off for you instead. 

The shirt beneath is a button up flannel, and you don't bother taking it off the nice way. You just slide your fingers into the closure, grasp, and rip apart.

Daryl grunts as he looks down. He doesn’t help this time, just watches you tear his shirt open with that infuriating half-smile of his, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

The fabric splits with sharp, satisfying pops, exposing his scarred skin beneath.

Your brain short circuits.

Long enough that Daryl has a chance to hook his fingers into the neckline of your tank top, finger burying in your cleavage.

Then he yanks down, rough and impatient. The fabric stretches, then splits down the middle with a sharp rip.

Before you know it, your bra is exposed and Daryl’s gaze drags over it. 

It makes your skin burn. You don’t know whether to cover yourself or punch him.

You quickly decide to go with the latter.

Your fist connects with the side of his ribs hard enough to make him curse and cough. Daryl staggers, one hand clutching his side, but his grip on your tank top doesn’t loosen—instead, he uses it to yank you forward, off-balance.

He just manhandles you.

You stumble forward, and before you can right yourself, he shoves you back again. Hard.

Your calves hit something solid. 

His fucking crossbow. 

And then you’re going down. 

Your elbows slam into the dirt first. The impact jolts up your arms, then your shoulders hit next, then your spine. The breath punches out of your lungs in a sharp wheeze. 

Above you, Daryl’s shadow blocks out the sun. His shirt is gone.

One of his knees lands between your thighs, his weight pressing down into you before you can twist away. You buck around under him, snarling, pushing on his chest, slapping his face, nails scraping over his shoulders. 

You put a hand in his face and push up. 

“Get the hell off’a me,” you snarl, twisting sharply to the side.

It works—sort of. 

Daryl thrashes to get your hand off his jaw, but he takes long enough for you to roll over. You crawl out from under him, scramble to get up, but he grabs your ankle. 

You topple with your forward momentum just as he drags you back toward him. You hook your fingers into the soil and drag, but it’s useless.

You spin and try to land a kick on his nose. He leans back and avoids it, like he knew you’d try.

You start kicking the fingers wrapped around your ankle instead. He lets go.

Good.

You stand up and run for your pack and your jacket, but he’s on you again, fast.

Then, ostensibly, you’re both rolling across the dirt, grappling like feral cats. You manage to land another punch on his cheek, but it doesn’t land right. 

His knee catches you in the ribs, and you cough.

But then you’re on top, straddling his waist with your thighs locked tight around him. You raise your fist—

And he catches it this time, dammit, fingers clamping down like a bear trap.

You snarl, trying to wrench free, but he uses the momentum to flip you again. Leaves and sticks splinter beneath your back, and Daryl’s wedging himself between your thighs.

His free hand slides up your side impatiently, then his palm closes over your breast, squeezing and kneading you.

“Asshole,” you spit, arching into the touch despite yourself.

His mouth curls into that infuriating smirk again. 

You try to push him up, but he catches both wrists and pins them high above your head while his hips press down. The firm line of his cock rubs between your spread legs.

Deliberate, taunting.

Hell, maybe even a fucking warning. Because he stops and just pushes against you and stays there.

Your traitorous body responds instantly, heat pooling low in your belly. Grinding back and forth, rubbing your clit wetly on the seam of your jeans.

You hate him for it.

So you spit in his face.

Daryl whips his head away, then he turns, lip curled in anger. 

Then he does the same right back. 

It lands hot and wet on your cheek. You shrug your shoulder up to try and wipe it off, but you don’t get far because he’s leaning down to capture your mouth in a kiss again. 

Messy. Rough. 

All teeth and tongue.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Just his tongue shoving into your mouth like he’s trying to choke you with it. You suck, then drag your teeth along it while he retreats. 

You’ve never heard someone actually growl before, but he certainly does. The sound rumbles against your lips, his fingers tightening around your wrists until your skin burns, but you don’t pull them away.

Mostly because you can’t. 

Instead, you arch up and lock your legs around his waist. You grind and rub on his cock, because two can play at that game. 

You’ll take what you want from this, too. 

Daryl groans, pulling back to start kissing down your neck. Then he’s biting a line down your chest, teeth dragging until he reaches your exposed breast. 

His free hand yanks at your bra, rough and impatient, the cup snapping down and curling under the swell of you. His palm is calloused, hot against your bare skin, and then he gives you a punishing squeeze. 

A moan stumbles out of you once he leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth.

“Fuck you,” you grit. 

Now you knee him in the ribs—same spot as your punch—and he grunts, his body buckling just enough for you to twist your arms out of his grip.

Your thighs clamp around his waist as you flip the both of you until he’s flat on his back in the moss and dirt. 

His belt is thick, worn leather, and you don’t bother with finesse. You jerk the buckle loose, knuckles brushing the soft swell of his stomach, and he slaps you, open-handed while you work his jeans open, sharp enough to make your head snap to the side.

Your cheek stings, but you don’t pause. You just punch him in the gut in retaliation. A quick, brutal jab. 

Another slap lands on your face and you don’t react to it. 

But God, it hurts. He does it again, then another smack lands on your tit.

Aside from the impacts, he’s not resisting you. Not really. 

You pull the zipper next, and Daryl’s breath hitches when your fingers brush lower.

Then he puts up a fight again.

One hand fists in your hair, yanking you down and wrestling you onto your side. One of his arms is already under you and circles around your waist. He drags you on top of him this time, your spine to his chest and staring up at the canopy overhead.

“Let go of me,” you snap. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

His hips grind up against your ass. "Winnin'." His voice is so fucking deep it rumbles from his chest and right into yours.

Fuck.

His free hand slides down your stomach and digs into the button of your jeans like he's trying to crush it.

You writhe against him, twisting your hips sharply to get his hand to stop its assault, but Daryl just grunts at the friction and holds you tighter. His forearm is like a steel band around your ribs. 

You gasp when the button of your jeans pops free. The zipper rasps down next before you can do much else.

His fingers dive into your jeans with no courtesy. 

“I hate you,” you grit. You start thrashing around, but his arm is steadfast, holding you in place with so much force it's hard to take a full breath. 

You hiss, thighs snapping together instinctively, trapping his wrist between them.

He’s already there though.

“No panties today, huh?” he chuckles.

God.

“Gee, I sure wonder why—”

“Slut.”

“I hate you.”

"Fuckin’ liar," Daryl growls against your ear, breath hot and ragged. His fingers curl, pressing harder, dragging through the wetness he finds there like he’s proving a point. "Tellin’ me you hate me when your cunt’s drippin’."

His finger drags along the seam of you regardless of the space you give him, rubbing rough and torturous. 

You choke on your own breath. "I do hate you," you spit, but the words crack when he presses lower, and your legs part, because fighting him just hurts more. 

You whine and immediately despise yourself for it. The callouses on his palm grind against your clit like cat’s tongue while his fingers properly glide around through your slick heat. 

It feels so much better than you thought it would.

You can feel how wet you are. He slips and slides in it, and you really hate giving him the satisfaction.

So you grab his wrist and pull on it.

Doesn’t stop him though, he's too strong.

You realize with a sinking feeling that you’re fighting a losing battle when you try to pull again, because he doesn’t flinch. 

He’s rigid, immovable.

He lifts his knees and spreads them. The movement forces your thighs to separate wide just as two fingers plunge into your cunt.

"Shit," you hiss. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"

His teeth graze your shoulder, sucking and marking you, and God, your hips jerk into his touch like some desperate little thing. You keep fighting him, even as his fingers piston inside you.

"That why you’re grindin’ on my hand?" Daryl's breath hitches, like he's just as affected by the touch. 

His fingers curl, dragging out a slow, filthy stroke that punches a ragged noise from your throat. You buck against him, nails scraping skin from his forearm, but he just tightens his grip around your ribs with a grunt.

Your scratch makes him bleed.

He doesn’t care.

You feel helpless. 

So for a short while, you just let his fingers fuck into you, let his breath sear the back of your neck, let the weight of his arm hold you atop him like you’ve surrendered. 

Daryl’s grip on you gradually loosens, his rhythm slowing like he’s caught off guard by your fawning.

And that’s all you need.

You twist violently, wrenching your hips sideways, and his fingers slip free. Just when Daryl thinks he has you pinned again, you throw your head back.

The back of your head collides with his in a rough crack—bone meeting bone. It sends white-hot pain spiderwebbing through your own skull.

"Shit–!" he shouts.

His hold on you drops away, and you scramble free, rolling onto your knees beside him in the dirt. 

Daryl's groan is muffled behind his hands—fingers pressed to his forehead where you'd cracked into him.

He sounds pissed.

Good.

Pride flares just like the pain in your skull as you kick your boots off in quick, jerky motions, the laces creaking under the force. Your jeans follow, shucked down your thighs with rough impatience, then you kick them aside entirely.

Daryl's hands drop from his face just as you swing one leg over his shoulders, knees bracketing his head. His pupils dilate when your thighs come together around his cheeks.

Confusion flickers, then his pupils flare.

His lips part before you even settle down fully, tongue already dragging over his bottom lip like he's starved of you.

You dig your thumb into the swollen red spot on Daryl’s forehead, just because. He grunts in pain, turning his head sharply to dislodge the pressure. 

His arms snap up and surprise you, circling around your thighs with a grip like iron. 

You panic, because you’re caught again, and he pulls you. You wanted some semblance of control, but he keeps taking it from you.

As much as you try to fight him and gravity, you know it’s a losing battle. 

Your body drops abruptly toward his face, and he tilts his head up to meet you.

The first hot swipe of his tongue against your clit is a shock—wet, deliberate, and filthy. You try to jerk back up instinctively, but his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, securing you there. 

His mouth seals over you, tongue dragging slow and rough from your entrance to your clit in one merciless stroke.

Daryl’s laps at you, messy and drooling and moaning like you’re some fucking delicacy. You stare down at him, and you really hope he can’t tell how much his enthusiasm turns you on.

He chuckles deep in his throat the second it crosses your mind. 

You tremble involuntarily, spine bowing. “God, you’re a jackass.”

You suck in a shaky breath and it comes back out as an equally shaky moan. His nose presses into your clit with every rough drag.

You hiss through your teeth, fingers twisting tighter in his hair—not guiding, just taking, grinding down against his face like you want to suffocate him with it. 

Drown him in your cunt.

Daryl’s groan vibrates against your skin, hot and ragged. You dig your thumb into the bruise on his forehead again, pressing hard enough to make him growl. 

Not in pain apparently. 

His eyes roll white and flutter shut, and the bastard still doesn’t stop. If anything, his tongue works harder, slides up and flicks against your clit like he’s spelling his name on you.

You whimper his name without meaning to, and his eyes fly open, brow scrunching in concentration as he looks up at you. 

His hands slide up your thighs, callouses catching on your skin. They skim over your hips, one palm sliding around to smack your ass. You jerk forward with a gasp, your thighs tightening around his head reflexively. 

His hands don’t stop traveling. They continue upward, fingers digging into the dip of your waist. Then higher, clumsy and bumping over the cups of your bra. 

One hand squeezes roughly over the fabric, fingers pinching your nipple until you react with a hiss. The other cup flipped back up over your breast, and he tears it down again like he’s reclaiming the lost territory.

You don’t bother fumbling with the clasp. Instead, you yank the whole damn thing off, bra and the torn remains of your tank top being flung somewhere beside you into the dirt. 

Cool air ghosts over your bare skin, but the heat of Daryl’s gaze burns you hot again.

His eyes move between your face and your tits, dark and hungry. And the sound he makes. 

Fuck. 

A low, throaty moan muffled against your clit. 

You grind down harder, riding his face like you’re trying to discipline him. Daryl disciplines you right back, hands engulfing your breasts, squeezing, and pinching your nipples. 

That’s how you play with them—

You gasp and can’t your hips down along his tongue.

“Ohh, oh fuck—” Your voice cracks when his tongue slides upward, lapping at your clit with insistent licks in the off-tempo of your grinding.

What the fuck. This is how you touch yourself.

And that little slip up just gave you away.

Daryl's tongue works you over with brutal precision—like he's studied you, memorized the exact way you touch yourself in the dark… when no one's watching…

You gulp and shiver when you remember.

He did. 

The realization makes your skin prickle with fury even as your thighs tremble around his head. You yank his hair, then the bastard laughs—mouth still pressed wet against your cunt. The vibration sends a jolt up your spine.

His hands keep palming your tits like he owns them, then he pulls your nipples. 

You jerk forward with a gasp. 

Oh.

His lips seal around your clit, then he’s sucking, and your focus wobbles. A broken noise punches from your throat, body jolting as bliss surges higher.

You try to get his head away, palm shoving at his forehead, the other hand clawing at his scalp, but he holds firm.

“You c-can’t make me—come—” Your words dissolve into a ragged moan, your hips stuttering against his face as the heat in your belly coils tighter.

Shit.

Maybe he can.

His fingers twist your nipples sharply, and the pain-pleasure of it makes your cunt clench. You snarl and twist your hips to get away, but Daryl growls, his grip lowering quickly to circle around your thighs again. 

He locks you in place. Tongue returns, faster, rougher, trying to ruin you with it.

You’re close. Too close.

And he knows.

He leans his head up into you, eyes locked on your face.

“Daryl, I’m—“ You jerk backward with a snarl, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad, fingers digging bruises into your skin. 

The bastard laughs again.

And that’s what does it. 

The coil in your belly snaps, and you're coming on his mouth with a gritted, angry groan.

Once that familiar warmth floods in, you forget the fighting and just chase it, grinding your hips down against his face in wild, jerky movements.

He doesn't let up. 

Not even a little. He takes it. You look down at him and he stares right back up at you.

His tongue works you through it, dragging your pleasure out until it borders on painful. Until your thighs shake and your fingers twitch out of his hair to brace on the ground beside it instead. 

Only when you start to slump forward, breathless and trembling, does he finally pull his mouth away, but not far. His breath puffs hot and wet against your oversensitive skin, his chest heaving.

You sit upright overtop him again, panting. Tiredly, you look over your shoulder to see Daryl’s… cock.

Oh, shit.

It’s out of his pants now. You don't know when he did that.

Your pulse scatters when you see the full length of him. Red and thick, throbbing in strong flexes off his stomach. Precum glistens and drips from the head. 

You feel him pushing you. 

You lag behind.

He grabs your forearms and simply moves you. You blame your afterglow when he’s already got you flat on your back, crawling over you like a big cat. His knees slot between your thighs before you can snap them shut.

One elbow braces beside your head, caging you in, while his free hand arrives on your cunt with a rough spank. 

You yelp. Loudly. 

“Girl, shut up,” he grumbles. He presses a hand over your mouth, then spreads your thighs with his knees. “You want this shit.”

He goes right back to spanking your cunt, fingers meeting your clit in snaps, searing through your nerves like fire. 

There’s no rhythm. No warning between.

You wail into his palm and thrash, hands finding his shoulders and shoving, futile. 

It’s so cruel. You just came and now he’s slapping your cunt like he’s mad at you for it. 

You crack your eyes open to see him squinting down at you, pleased with himself. Like he’s triumphed. Like he’s got you all figured out and he knows just how to break you.

All at once, he stops slapping and starts rubbing, rough and wild, fingers dragging through the sore, wet mess he’s made of you.

His hand slides off your mouth and you suck in a breath. 

“What’s wrong with you—” you snarl, but the words die when his fingers plunge inside you. 

Your hips jerk off the ground, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat. 

"Fuck—F-Fuck you—" you whine, twisting violently beneath him, but Daryl hooks your knee in his elbow and he bends you in half, like he’s trying to bury you into the soil.

His fingers curl inside you, rough, relentless, dragging up against your walls so good your thighs tremble.

You feel your stomach coil again.

Unhelpfully, your mind supplies the image of his cock fucking in and out of you instead. You fucking moan, and his taunting smile is what gets you to slap him across the face.

The crack echoing through the trees, but the bastard just groans, shaking his head like a dog with a bone. His fingers don’t slow. Every time you land a hit on him or catch him off guard, it makes him double down. 

Your thighs try to clamp shut, but it’s useless. Daryl’s fingers plunge deeper, curling just right, and your vision flickers. 

Pulse stutters. 

Heat blooms.

No.

But then you get the sudden urge that you need to piss.

No, no, no. 

You’re gonna squirt. Holy shit, you always struggle to get there on your own, but he’s about to pull it out of you like it’s child’s play.

You writhe violently, snarling curses into the dirt, but he’s too strong. Too heavy.

The sound gets so obscene. You always get wetter when you’re about to cum, god, it’s humiliating. 

You panic.

You buck. 

You arch and squirm. Nails gouging his arms and wrists, but he doesn’t relent.

So your hands fly up to cover your face instead, goddammit. You shake and tremble without control of it, then his fingers push up inside you one last time, pressing deep, and your body seizes.

Your second orgasm hits you like a fucking brick.

He makes you squirt, the bastard. The hot rush floods between your thighs and up into his stomach. His palm slips.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. He yanks his fingers free and rubs your clit back and forth, splashing in it like it’s fucking fun. 

You go rigid. 

It’s torture. It’s too much.

You might say something, but who cares?

You’ve never felt pleasure like this.

You drop your hands from your face to see him sucking two fingers in his mouth, cleaning them with deliberate, filthy drags of his tongue, like some starved animal.

You scowl at him through your haze and—

The sharp crack of his palm against your cheek snaps your head to the side, the sting blooming hot and sudden. 

Before you can even recollect your thoughts, Daryl grinds the thick head of his cock against your clit. 

You gasp. "Don't even think about—"

Another slap cuts you off, harder this time. Your vision turns to static, and when it clears, he’s already sinking into your cunt, seating himself to the hilt in one solid push of his hips.

Daryl leans forward and grabs your chin. "You gonna shut up now, or do I need to keep smackin’ you around?” 

"Just fuck me," you snap. 

He thrusts like he’s pissed. Each thrust punches the air from your lungs. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin and marking you up, ruining you, ensuring everyone knows exactly whose fault this is.

Then his hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your hands and knees before you can even think to protest. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head back.

“Doesn’t look like you hate me that much,” he taunts.

But you do hate him.

You do.

You promise.

His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp burn, and you just go willingly. One particularly rough snap of his hips knocks you forward and your elbows buckle. 

Daryl shoves your cheek into the dirt, then he’s spitting in your face again. 

You don’t try to wipe it away. You just wear it.

"That’s real pretty," he breathes.

He spits on you again. Smears his thumb through it on your cheek.

You find that you’re too dazed to even bite back anymore.

You just don't have the energy left. 

Face down, ass up. 

Cunt used and filled.

You take it.

He must feel the shift, because he redoubles.

You blink—once, twice—and suddenly you’re upright on your knees in the dirt, your hands limp at your sides. You don’t remember moving.

Him moving you?

You dunno.

Don’t care.

Daryl’s grip is iron on your chin, tilting your head up, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, and your mouth opens on its own.

Your tongue lolls out, heavy and stupid, like some trained fucking mutt waiting for a treat.

Daryl doesn’t give you one.

He spits in your mouth instead, thick and warm, right onto your tongue.

You swallow.

You blink again—and his cock is in your mouth, dragging against your tongue.

Daryl’s fingers tight in your hair, pulling you forward. 

You don’t fight it. You don’t even gag. Your throat opens for him like it’s been trained to, swallowing him down until your nose presses into coarse hair.

His hips jerk forward once, twice—sharp, punishing little thrusts that make your eyes roll back.

Then he groans, low and ragged, and spills hot down your throat. You just keep swallowing instinctively, the bitterness of him lost under the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. 

When he pulls out, you don’t move. Your lips stay parted, slack and wet, your tongue heavy behind your teeth. 

You don’t taste him.

You don’t taste anything. 

Daryl’s breath is uneven above you, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hands are still tangled in your hair, holding you in place.

You blink up at him, your vision swimming at the edges, and for a second—just a second—he looks concerned for you.

Then your vision just dips to black.

The world comes back in slow, aching pulses.

First, the dull throb between your legs, then the sharp sting where his teeth marked your neck, and finally, the bone-deep exhaustion that weighs your limbs down like lead. 

You groan, eyelids fluttering, and the sound scrapes raw against your throat.

Everything hurts. Everything feels used.

Something scratchy and thick brushes against your bare skin—his poncho, maybe, wrapped haphazardly around your shoulders. The wool smells like Daryl, that bitter edge of leather and pine that clings to him. 

Oh, yeah.

Daryl.

Arms tighten around you.

“Quit squirmin’,” he grumbles. There’s no bite in his voice. No anger. It’s rough, sleep-thick, like he’s been dozing upright with you slumped against his chest.

The realization makes your stomach twist. How long has he been sitting here, holding you while you were out cold?

The thought should piss you off. 

But, God, you have never been so tired in your life.

So you just forget it.

The next thing you recognize is the quiet. No birds, no wind, just the slow, steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing against the crown of your head. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek, a muted but insistent pulse beneath his ribs.

It’s nice. Soothing.

His fingers twitch against your side, pressing lightly into the bruises he left earlier, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. 

Never mind. Not nice.

Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. Useless, aching, tender in places you didn’t know could ache. 

The wool draped over you scratches at your bare skin, but it’s warm, and it smells like him, and right now, that’s the closest thing to comfort you’ve got.

You swallow again, wincing at the soreness in your throat.

"Easy," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. His thumb swipes over your hipbone, rough but careful, like he’s mapping the damage.

You want to bite him. 

You want to lean into it. 

Instead, you just exhale shakily, your breath ghosting over his collarbone.

"Fuck you," you mumble lazily. 

Daryl huffs, and for a second, you think he might actually laugh. He doesn’t. But his chest vibrates under you, just a little, like he’s holding it back.

The canteen presses against your lips before you even register it. You blink up at the canopy overhead, and his grip on the back of your neck tightens just enough to make you swallow. 

It's possessive and annoying.

Normally, you'd wrench away—spit the water back at him, maybe—but right now, the weight of his hand feels grounding.

For once, you don't fight him.

And he doesn't fight you.

You just drink what he pours until the canteen tilts back, dribbling a cold line down your chin.

It tracks down your neck and into your cleavage.

That feels good, too.

"I hate you," you mumble drowsily, curling into the curve of his shoulder.

"Yeah, whatever," he answers, pulling the poncho higher on your shoulders.

And you drift.

If you made it to the end, bless your freaky little heart. thanks for reading, friend. comments are very appreciated! 🖤