cheri ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

The Georgia sun was unforgiving that afternoon, beating down on the quarry like it had something personal against the living, turning the pale rock into a griddle and the air into something thick enough to chew, and you were right in the middle of it with a coil of rope in your hands and a stubborn crease between your brows as you tried to help Glenn reinforce the line they’d strung between two trucks for drying laundry, your swollen belly stretching the faded cotton of Daryl’s old sleeveless shirt so tight it barely fluttered when the breeze rolled off the water.

You’d insisted on coming down from the shade near the RV despite Lori’s soft concern and Dale’s hovering glances over his binoculars, because you were tired of sitting, tired of feeling like glass and of watching everyone else move while your own body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely, heavy, round and perpetually off-balance, and you were perfectly capable of tying a knot, thank you very much.

Across camp, Daryl had realized you weren’t where you were supposed to be.

He’d gone looking for you by the tents first, crossbow slung over his shoulder, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, already keyed up from a morning run that hadn’t yielded much more than a bruised squirrel and a bad feeling about the highway getting too quiet. When he didn’t see you sitting in your usual patch of shade with your canteen and that dog-eared baby book you’d salvaged from a gas station rack, his chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with walkers.

He didn’t call your name at first but he stalked past Carol’s tent first, then past the laundry line. Around the edge of the quarry where the drop was steep, uneven and absolutely not somewhere you should be walking alone.

When he finally spotted you standing in full sun, one hand braced on your lower back while you demonstrated to Glenn how to double the rope back through the hitch so it wouldn’t slip, he felt a spike of heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

He was halfway across the camp before he even realized he was moving.

“Ya gotta be kiddin’ me,” he muttered under his breath, boots crunching over gravel, jaw set tight enough to ache.

You didn’t see him until his shadow cut across you.

“Ya need to get outta the sun,” he said immediately, no greeting or preamble, eyes sweeping over you from head to toe like he was taking inventory. “Have ya drank water? When’s the last time ya did?”

Glenn, traitor that he was, mumbled something about checking on the generator and slipped away.

You straightened slowly, one hand still on your hip and gave Daryl a look that could’ve stripped paint. “Hello to you too, my lovely husband.”

“Dun’ ‘lovely husband’ me,” he shot back, already unscrewing the cap of the canteen hanging from his belt and pressing it into your hand. “Drink.”

“I had water.”

“When.” He grunted.

You squinted at him. “Recently.”

“That ain’t answer enough.”

You took a long sip just to shut him up, water spilling slightly at the corner of your mouth because your lips were too dry and he wiped it away with his thumb without even thinking, his touch rough but careful, like you were something both durable and breakable at the same time.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Daryl,” you said, lowering the canteen and handing it back to him. “I can tie a rope without fainting dramatically.”

His eyes dropped immediately to your stomach, round and impossibly full, the fabric stretched taut over the life you’d both felt kick just that morning.

“We’ll need one eventually,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his crossbow and stepping closer so his body blocked some of the sun from you. “Just not for ya. ’M glad we won’t have t’ pay nobody though.”

You barked out a laugh despite yourself. “Good to know romance is alive and well.”

He shrugged but there was a flicker of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I ain’t wrong.”

You shifted your weight, wincing slightly when the baby rolled low and heavy, pressing against your spine. Daryl saw it immediately.

“See?” he said, pointing vaguely at you like that proved his entire argument. “Ya need t’ sit down.”

“I do not.”

“Yer sweatin’.”

“It’s August, Daryl. Everyone’s sweating.”

“Not like tha’.” He muttered.

You crossed your arms, which was less intimidating than you wanted it to be with your belly very obviously in the way. “I don’t want to be the needy pregnant woman who just sits around while everyone else works.”

He stared at you like you’d just suggested wrestling a walker barehanded. “Ya are pregnant though…in case ya forgot.”

You blinked at him. “No shit, Daryl. I was there when it happened.”

A few people nearby snorted, quickly pretending not to listen.

His jaw flexed but there was no real irritation in it, just worry stretched thin over exhaustion. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ain’t about bein’ needy. It’s about bein’ smart. Doc ain’t exactly on standby, and we’re–” he gestured vaguely around at the tents, the cars, the quarry walls baking in the heat, “–out here.”

You softened just a fraction, because you knew that tone. That was the one he used when he was scared and trying like hell not to show it.

“I’m fine,” you said more gently. “I just wanted to help.”

“Yer helpin’ by growin’ a whole damn person,” he muttered, reaching out to adjust the strap slipping off your shoulder. “That’s more than enough.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned into his touch for half a second longer than necessary.

“I can’t just sit around all day,” you said. “I feel useless.”

He huffed quietly, shaking his head. “Ain’t useless, just…busy.”

“With what? Being round?”

“With not goin’ into labor in the middle of a heatstroke,” he shot back. “C’mon. Go lay down in the shade. I’ll bring ya somethin’ to eat.”

“I can walk myself, Dixon.”

“I know ya can walk, just makin’ sure ya go where I want ya to,” he said, already guiding you gently by the elbow anyway. “Don’t mean ya should be out here bakin’ either.”

You stopped him before he could fully steer you away, catching his vest and tugging him back toward you. “I swear, you hover more than Dale,” you said, smiling faintly.

“Dale don’t gotta reason,” he replied gruffly. “I do.”

You studied him for a second, from the furrow between his brows to the way his eyes kept flicking to your stomach like he was half-expecting it to disappear if he looked away too long and your chest tightened with something warm and fierce.

“I love you, you know,” you said quietly.

He looked caught off guard for half a heartbeat before recovering, shrugging like it was no big thing. “Yeah. I know.”

You laughed softly and rose onto your toes as much as you could manage, cupping his face and kissing him slow and firm despite the heat, the sweat and the faint smell of squirrel still clinging to him. He froze for a second, then melted into it, one hand splaying wide over your lower back, the other settling protectively over your belly like it belonged there.

When you pulled away, he chased your mouth briefly before catching himself.

“Go rest, ‘fore you give me a heart attack.” he muttered against your forehead. “Please.”

You smirked. “You’re really hot when you’re bossy, and it has nothing to do with the sun.”

“Yeah, well.”

You started back toward the tents, hips swaying slightly with the extra weight and he watched you the entire way, arms crossed now, expression hardening the farther you got.

“Hey!” he suddenly barked at T-Dog and Shane, who were half-heartedly reorganizing supplies near the RV. “Maybe y’all could do more than stand around jawin’ while she’s out here in the damn sun.”

Shane glanced over, amused. “She chose to be out there. Your wife, not mine.”

“Damn right she is and it don’t matter,” Daryl snapped. “Ain’t her job.”

You shook your head, unable to hide your smile as you reached the shade, lowering yourself carefully onto a chair and propping your feet up like he’d shown you a dozen times already. From across camp, you could still hear him grumbling.

“Shouldn’t even have to tell grown-ass people,” he muttered. “Sun’s brutal. Somebody else can tie a damn knot.”

You rested your hand over your stomach as the baby shifted, feeling the steady thump of movement beneath your palm and watched your husband pace the edge of camp like a guard dog who’d finally found what he was looking for but still wasn’t convinced the world wouldn’t try to take it.

Even from a distance, when his eyes lifted and found you again just to make sure you were actually sitting down you blew him a kiss only for him to roll his eyes but he didn’t look away.

Rick had pulled you into the little room at the front of the barn. Not a word was spoken, he just took your wrist and lead the way, you following behind him without question. The moment the door closed you were on each other, mouths connecting in a rough kiss as you ripped each other’s pants off.

Now the two of you sat on the dirty, hay covered floor, fucking like animals in heat.

You were straddling Rick, bouncing up and down on his cock and moaning into your hand. Ricks hold on you was sure to leave bruises as he guided your movements, rolling your hips with each come down.

“I don’t even have to do anything, just sit back and watch you fall apart on my cock.” Rick smirked, confident and relaxed. His eyes gave him away, though, showing you just how much your movements were affecting him. Glazed over, pupils blown and eyelids fluttering closed here and there. It was that look that made you moan a little too loud.

One of Ricks hands slid up your body to grip the back of your neck, pulling down to tuck your head into his shoulder, “Shh baby, not too loud. Unless you want an audience, of course.”

You moan into his shirt, moving your hips impossibly faster.

Then there was a noticeable pause. You expected Rick to make a mean comment, tease you about your obvious reaction to being watched. Instead he was quiet, so quiet were almost worried. But then, Rick did something unexpected.

He laughed.

Rick gave genuine laugh, one straight from his belly, and you frowned. Pausing your movements, painful as it was, you tried to lean back to ask him what was so funny. You barely lifted your head before Rick was grabbing your jaw and forcibly turning your head around, “Looks like we’ve already got one.”

You blink wide eyed as you look through the, apparently not, closed door to see Daryl.

Despite how dark it was, you could see him with the moonlight peaking through the barn doors. He was clearly embarrassed about being caught, his thumb caught between his teeth in that nervous habit of his, but he wasn’t leaving. Daryl stood leaning against one of the barn’s beams, eyes glued to you and Rick.

You involuntarily clenched around Rick, causing him to groan before he hissed in your ear, “Turn around, face him.”

Standing on shaky legs, you do as he says. Ricks cock sliding out of you caused a shiver of loss to roll through you, but the slide back in with the new angle made your eyes roll back. The feeling only intensified when your eyes met Daryl’s again.

You watch him straighten up a little, adjusting his lean on the barn beam, and his thumb lowers from his mouth.

A whine crawls out of your throat and you feel Rick lean in close to your ear, “Now, be good and put on a show for him.”

Nodding, you reach back to place your hands on Ricks hips for some stability and begin moving again. You lift yourself up and down, rolling your hips every so often, enjoying the new position. You felt Ricks hand reach up to slap over your mouth, silencing your overly loud cries.

And the whole time, you kept your eyes locked with Daryl’s.

The other man was clearly affected, once again shifting his stance and loosely crossing one leg over the other. Daryl’s gaze was shifting between you and Rick, and you had no doubt that your leader was also watching the hunter.

“You’re gonna cum like this, aren’t you?” Rick whispers in your ear, “Riding my dick while Daryl watches, wishing he was fucking you instead.”

Another noise forces it’s way out of your mouth, nodding again around Ricks grip on your jaw. You watch as Daryl suddenly rubs the heel of his hand against his crotch, and you just barely hear him give a hissed “Fuck.”

The sight makes you clench around Rick as you roll your hips down, feeling him deep inside of your pussy. He groans, a little louder this time, and you feel his head drop onto your shoulder blade.

“Come on baby, show him how good I make you feel,” Rick says, voice strained and his grip tightening, “Cum for me and make him hate that it’s not for him.”

The coil of heat in your abdomen boils over before you even register its there, your body convulsing with the intensity of your orgasm. Your nails dig into Ricks hips, sobbing into his hand, and with another groan you feel Rick cum. He fills you up, fucking his seed deep inside of you as your hips stutter in their movements.

It was all so much that you almost forgot you were being watched. Opening your teary eyes, though, you were met with Daryl’s sharp gaze and another wave of pleasure shot down your spine. The man was clearly hard, the tent in his worn jeans unmistakable. One of his hands slides down to once again palm at his erection, while the other covers his mouth.

Daryl looked nothing short of desperate.

Rick gently lifts you up, sliding his spent cock out of your still spasming pussy, and chuckles, “Now he gets to deal with the consequences of his actions.”

You were curled against him, legs tangled, skin pressed to skin beneath the blanket. He’d cocooned you in the night with the instinct of a man who knew how to trap heat and never let it go. One arm was looped lazily around your waist, his hand resting beneath your thin cotton vest, fingers idly splayed over the softest patch of your stomach. His nose nuzzled the back of your shoulder, the place where the warmth of your skin still held the faintest trace of lavender soap, and for a while, he just stayed there—still, breathing you in, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist.

He should have gotten up. You both had chores to do. Watch rotations. Supply lists. A dozen things that couldn’t be ignored. But none of it mattered yet.

He kissed your shoulder, barely more than a whisper of contact, then nuzzled closer to press another to your neck. His hand drifted, slow and aimless, tracing the gentle curve of your hip before sliding down to rub lazy circles into your thigh beneath the blanket. The skin there was warm and soft and his.

“Baby,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, voice all husk and gravel. “Time to wake up.”

You didn’t answer, not with words anyway. Instead, you let out a pitiful noise—half moan, half sigh—and wriggled backwards into him with shameless intent, burrowing deeper beneath his arm like a sleepy parasite. One hand blindly reached for his, dragging it tighter across your waist.

“Mmmno,” you grumbled, barely awake, your voice thick with sleep, lips barely moving. “You’re too warm. You stay… compulsory.”

Daryl exhaled through his nose, helpless, forehead falling lightly against the back of your neck. Christ. How the hell was he supposed to move? You were limp and molten in his arms, every inch of you molded to him like you’d been made for it, your vest practically sheer in the morning light, your skin smooth like velvet, your hair fanned out over his arm. The thought of untangling from this—from you—felt like tearing open a wound.

“Can’t stay in bed all morning,” he mumbled into your skin, more to himself than you.

You hummed in response, groaning ‘just a lil longer’ into your pillow, the sound contented and low, a denial that buzzed against his chest where your back met him. His hand drifted again, tracing the dip of your waist, the notch of your hipbone, not quite ready to surrender the moment.

“Cmon, now,” he tried again, kissing the side of your neck this time, his lips lingering there. “Gotta get up. You know we do.”

You made a noise that might’ve been a protest or a curse or possibly even his name, but the blanket muffled it as you ducked your head further down, stubborn to the very end. The chill outside the covers had already started to creep in, brushing your shoulder as Daryl reluctantly shifted, and you shivered in retaliation.

Instead of getting up, Daryl leaned in closer, drawn by something he didn’t have the strength to fight. You were still turned away from him, curled loosely beneath the sheet, your breathing soft and uneven in that hazy space between dreams and waking. The early morning light cut through the slats in the cell door, catching the slope of your bare shoulder, the thin strap of your vest barely clinging on. The fabric was almost translucent in the pale wash of dawn—white cotton worn thin with age, clinging damply to the warm curve of your back, the gentle dip of your waist, the faint suggestion of skin and softness that he had no business staring at as long as he was.

But still, he did.

His hand hovered, fingers flexing like they weren’t quite his to control, before he reached out—just to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, that was all—but his knuckles grazed the back of your neck, and his chest clenched at how warm you felt. He bent low, pressing the barest kiss to the spot just behind your ear, careful not to startle you, just needing the contact. Then another, slower one at your jaw. Another at the gentle slope where your throat met your shoulder. You stirred slightly, but didn’t turn. He stilled, breath caught—but when you didn’t push him away, he let his lips drift down again, across the exposed edge of your shoulder blade where the sheet had slipped. Each kiss was softer than the last. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… reverent. He wasn’t trying to start anything. Not really. He just wanted to be close. To worship what was already his, in the quiet morning hush before the world came back alive.

You sighed again, definitely more awake now but pretending not to be, your body stretching long and loose under his touch.

“Daryl…” you warned, voice still thick with sleep, the syllables dragging out across the pillow. “If this is your idea of motivation, it’s not gonna get me up any faster.”

He didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Just smiled into your skin like he hadn’t heard you, like he wasn’t guilty at all, and dragged his mouth lazily down the center of your chest. The kiss he left over your sternum was unhurried, deliberate, soaked in the kind of quiet patience only he could afford this early in the morning. Like he had nowhere else to be but here, pressed against you, tasting skin that still carried the warmth of shared sleep.

“You’re mean,” you muttered, breath hitching just enough to betray how awake you really were now.

He lifted his gaze without lifting his head, peeking up at you through his lashes with that crooked, barely-there smirk that told you he was enjoying this far too much.

“…And you’re getting up,” he said, low and smug, before leaning in and brushing his mouth over yours.

It was meant to be a quick kiss, maybe even a tease—just a goodbye on the lips, soft and fleeting—but the moment his mouth touched yours, something shifted. His lips stayed, molded to yours like they fit better there than anywhere else, and the air between you thickened. Your body responded before your mind caught up—your neck arched, following him when he pulled back, your brows drawing together like something had been taken from you.

He lingered a heartbeat longer, just long enough to feel your breath chase after his, then reluctantly peeled away with a quiet grunt. The mattress dipped as he swung his legs over the edge, one hand blindly reaching for whatever clothes were nearest. At the same time, the other smoothed across your thigh in a slow, familiar pass, before giving it a gentle, affectionate pat.

“Up,” he muttered, not even glancing back, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

You groaned dramatically, flopping back onto your pillow. “I liked you better when you were a human furnace.”

“Still am,” he muttered, yanking a shirt over his head. “Just mobile now.”

You made a rude little noise and dove back under the blankets, burying your face like the sunlight itself had committed an unforgivable sin. The cold had begun to creep in where his body had been moments ago, and you groaned in protest—long, drawn-out, and far more theatrical than necessary. Your bare legs tucked in tighter, one heel sliding across the sheet as you tried to seal every edge of the fabric against your skin.

Daryl hadn’t gotten far. He was still seated at the edge of the bed, bent over to shove his foot into a boot, one arm halfway into a shirt sleeve. At your noise, he paused, twisted slightly to glance back over his shoulder, and raised a brow.

“You sittin’ up,” he asked, voice gravel-thick and unconvinced, “or just floppin’ around like a damn fish?”

You made a muffled sound and rolled further away, the blanket dragging with you. “M’hibernating,” you muttered into the mattress.

He snorted low, shaking his head. “Alright then. Guess we’re doin’ this the hard way.”

Without warning, he reached back and gave the blanket a solid tug.

You shrieked and clutched it with both hands, yanking it back toward your chest with the fury of a woman defending her kingdom. “I am exposed here, sir!”

Daryl didn’t flinch. He was already shifting closer on the mattress, smirking faintly as he fought for another handful of the quilt. “You’re exposed every damn morning. Ain’t seemed to mind when you were draggin’ me down into the sheets last night.”

“That was before,” you huffed, one leg popping free in the scuffle before you managed to trap it back inside. “This is now. The mood has passed.”

He leaned further in, bracing a forearm beside your hip, his voice low as he hovered above you. “You talk like I ain’t seen you naked a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” you grinned, breathless, “which is why you should be immune by now. Go bother someone else.”

Another tug. You gripped the top corners of the blanket and rolled with it, twisting the fabric until it tightened like a shield around your torso.

“This is harassment,” you declared, peeking out from a fortress of cotton.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, reaching again.

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare, Dixon. I will bite.”

He paused, grinning now, one eyebrow lifting as his fingers curled beneath the edge near your knee. “Yeah? Then I’ll bite back.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You wanna test that theory?”

Before you could respond, he shifted again—leaning in, eyes narrowing with that smug little glint that always spelled trouble. His knee planted firmly on the mattress beside your hip, the bed dipping under his weight as he braced himself with one hand, the other gripping the blanket in a slow, theatrical tug.

You yelped, twisting sideways like a cat avoiding bathwater, arms flailing uselessly as the last shred of your sanctuary was ripped away in one final, merciless yank. The blanket hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Daryl!” you cried, hands instinctively flying to your now very exposed lower half, curling inward like modesty had suddenly remembered to show up to the party.

For a moment, he just stared—then huffed a laugh so abrupt it punched right through the silence. His head dropped to your shoulder as he shook with it, warm breath skating across your skin.

“Seriously?” he snorted, glancing up at you with pure mischief in his eyes. “You’re shy now?”

You tried to glare, but it didn’t hold. Your cheeks burned and your arms remained stubbornly crossed. “It’s cold.”

He smirked, dragging a lazy gaze over your thoroughly uncovered body. “Ain’t the cold you’re worried about.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, trying—and failing—not to laugh with him.

“Yeah?” he said, voice still thick with amusement. “Well, you look cute all flustered. Might start hidin’ the blankets more often.”

You shoved at his shoulder with a huff, but it was useless. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He leaned in again, brushing his nose against your cheek, still grinning like the devil. “Still got you up though, didn’t I?”

He chuckled to himself, watching the slow, reluctant way you began to stir—shoulders rolling, hair mussed, vest slipping off one shoulder like it had given up trying to behave.

By the time he had shrugged on his pants and done his belt up, you were reaching for your clothes in the crate, which were a combination of both of yours, squinting like a woman who had only just remembered the concept of pants.

“Have you seen my underwear?” you asked at last, tone accusing, as though Daryl might’ve hidden them on purpose. “The soft ones. You know, the non-doomsday granny pair?”

He froze, posture stiffening ever so slightly. Daryl didn’t answer right away. Instead, his body went still—too still—and then, slowly, like a man preparing for a confession or an ambush, he turned his head toward you without meeting your eyes.

“…Might be in my back pocket,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-worn, as if speaking it any louder would make it worse.

You stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

Then, without a word, you leaned in with the kind of deliberate menace only a sleep-deprived woman could channel, your hand sliding around his hip and into the back of his pants. His breath caught—barely—and there it was. Right there. Your missing underwear, balled and tucked into his pocket like some deranged little keepsake.

You yanked them free and held them up in front of his face like you’d just caught him red-handed with a stolen relic.

“Daryl.”

He winced like the word physically pained him, gaze dropping to the floor as one shoulder jerked upward in the world’s guiltiest shrug. “They’re soft,” he said, tone already defensive. “Make good… hand wipes.”

Your jaw unhinged.

“I knew it,” you hissed. “You used them as a rag?”

“Nah,” he said quickly, hands lifting like he was about to be frisked. “Didn’t use ‘em. Just… kept ‘em. Kinda… thought about you.”

“In your pocket,” you said flatly.

He scratched behind his ear, not looking at you. “...They smell nice.”

There was a long, pointed silence, jaw agape.

One of those silences that stretched so far it looped back around to something almost tender. You sat there, holding the damn things, stunned into speechlessness while your brain tried to decide whether this was the weirdest or somehow most oddly romantic thing anyone had ever done to you.

Eventually, with a sigh that contained the weight of every bad decision you’d ever made about men, you shook your head and slipped the underwear on like the whole conversation hadn’t just happened.

“You’re such a freak,” you muttered under your breath.

Daryl stopped buttoning up his vest at that, head jerking up like you just slapped him, “I’m the freak?” 

“You know who steals used underwear and keeps them in their back pocket? Freaks, babe. Losers. That’s you.”

He snorted. “Takes one a know one. You get horny when i fix shit. Don’t think I don’t notice. ”

You stared at him blankly. You searched your brain for a good comeback, but you couldn't find one. “Touché, Dixon. Touché ”

The sink was barely bigger than a dinner plate, wedged into the corner of the cell like an afterthought. The faucet groaned when it ran, and the drain clogged every other day with god knows what, but it was yours. At least, you pretended it was. You and Daryl had staked your claim on this little corner of civilisation with the same stubborn pride that marked every other piece of your shared life.

You padded toward it with a soft shuffle, your bare legs prickling with goosebumps from the morning chill. The hem of your white vest skimmed the tops of your thighs, and with your underwear barely peeking beneath it. The fabric clung slightly from the night’s sweat and body heat, translucent in places, but you didn’t care. Modesty wasn’t your strong suit, and Daryl had a point; if anything, this was overdressed for you as far as pyjamas go.

You reached the sink first, hands bracing against the cool metal rim as you leaned over it and twisted the knob. Water sputtered out, lukewarm and a little rusty coloured, but passable.

Daryl lingered behind you, eyeing your figure with the weary reverence of a man who had absolutely no business wanting you again this early in the morning, but who very much did.

“Move over,” he muttered eventually, stepping up behind you and squeezing your ass.

You didn’t move. Not an inch. If he thought that would do the trick, he had another thing coming.

“I was here first,” you said flatly, cupping water into your hands and splashing it onto your face. Droplets ran down your neck and into your shirt, and you didn’t even flinch.

Daryl pressed in closer, all warm and clean sweat, his hips brushing your backside as he reached blindly around you for the bar of soap. “Yer not even brushing yet. That’s stallin’.”

“It’s a ritual,” you mumbled through another splash. “A sacred, meditative rite. You barging in with your apocalypse man musk is disrespectful.”

He snorted, setting his toothbrush down on the edge of the sink with a little too much force. “The hell does that mean?”

You straightened slowly, turning toward him with a dripping face and narrowed eyes. “It’s that thing where you smell like blood, motor oil, and sex.”

He stared at you. Then shrugged. “Ain’t heard you complain.”

You reached blindly for the towel, but he already had it in his hand. You grabbed it anyway, resulting in a brief, quiet struggle as you both held onto the same fraying cloth, locked in the world’s dumbest game of tug-of-war.

“I need this more than you do,” you hissed, swiping at your face with a corner of the towel.

“I got shit in my beard,” he grunted, yanking it toward him. “Lemme wipe first.”

“You don’t even look in the mirror.”

“‘xactly. So how’m I supposed to know what’s on my face?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and relinquished the towel with the grace of a martyr, turning your back to him again and resuming your sacred splash ritual. Behind you, Daryl muttered something about soap rationing and stealing all the warm water, but you ignored it. The sink hissed and coughed like a dying animal.

And somehow, none of it felt inconvenient. Just part of the rhythm.

You both reached for the shared toothbrush cup—two brushes, one chipped mug—and smacked his hand away gently when he reached for his first.

“I’ve got seniority.”

“You’re younger than me.”

“Exactly. My gums still work.”

That earned you a soft grunt and a barely-there grin as he snatched his toothbrush from the cup in spite of you. Your toothbrush moved lazily between your lips, your hair falling forward as you bent to spit into the sink. Water splashed against your vest, and you didn’t seem to notice—or care. Daryl noticed. God, did he notice.

Just when he thought you were done and about to get ready that’s when 

you decided, quite unrepentantly, that you weren’t. You stood just to the side, lips pursed, tugging a scavenged plastic comb through your tangled hair. The comb had seen better days—half the teeth were crooked, a few were broken entirely—but it got the job done. Kind of. Slowly. Painfully. With lots of dramatic sighing, cursing, and a little bit of praying.

You leaned in close to the metal mirror, still foggy from your earlier splashfest, peering at your reflection as if it might reveal some great cosmic truth. Your arm lifted high over your head to angle the comb through the back, vest rising with the motion, exposing a sliver of skin at your waist and the elastic band of your underwear—his favorite pair, not that he was about to say that again.

Daryl spit into the sink, wiped his mouth on the towel you’d so generously surrendered, then glanced sideways at you as you flipped your hair over and began working on the other side like a woman possessed.

He cleared his throat. Loudly. Then again. 

You ignored him, running the comb through again with all the solemn intensity of a war general preparing for battle.

So he coughed again. Louder this time.

You glanced up at him through your hair, mouth still foamy, looking at him through the mirror. “You good?”

“You done?” he said quickly, voice rough with sleep and barely-concealed amusement, “You already had your turn. Ain’t like you gotta impress anybody out there.”

"Maybe I'm looking for your replacement," you said, not even lookig at him as you were so fixated on detangling your hair.

He shook his head, not even reacting to your dig because of how ridiculous it was, and he knew it. "You look fine,” he muttered, like it wasn’t a trap, like he wasn’t walking straight into the meat grinder. He reached for your hips, nudging you to the side with the kind of half-hearted firmness that said he already knew he was about to get slapped. “Now move over.”

You turned to face him fully, slowly, arms falling to your sides in the heavy, deliberate silence of a woman preparing to wage emotional warfare. “Fine?” you echoed, incredulous. “I look fine?”

He froze mid-motion, toothbrush limp in his hand, the exact expression that bloomed across his face told you everything you needed to know: he’d stepped on the landmine, and it was already too late to run.

“…Shit,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed, chin lifting as you crossed your arms with the dignity of a queen betrayed. “You know what? Keep my underwear. Treasure them. Sleep with them under your pillow. I hope they keep you warm, because it is officially the last time you are ever seeing any of mine.”

He tossed his toothbrush into the cup with a clatter, already bracing. “Didn’t mean it like that, c’mon now—”

“Said what you said, Dixon,” you shot back, taking a single step backward, smirk twitching at the corners of your mouth as you stared him down. “Say hi to your celibacy era for me.”

His gaze narrowed, hands falling to his hips, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself. “Oh yeah? Well, that’s a real damn shame.”

You had barely a second to register the shift in his stance before he lunged, one arm hooking tight around your waist while the other snuck beneath your raised elbow with unsettling precision, his fingers zeroing in on the soft, traitorous patch of skin just beneath your ribs.

A shriek tore out of you before you could stop it, your entire body convulsing with laughter as you twisted and kicked, trying desperately to escape the onslaught, but Daryl only followed, relentless, grinning like the devil himself as he worked his fingers down your sides and under your arm, every touch landing like a spark against kindling.

“Daryl!” you gasped, voice ragged with breathless laughter as you stumbled back against the bunk. “You asshole! OK, I take it back, I take it back—”

“Too late,” he said, utterly unrepentant, his grip tightening just enough to keep you in place without hurting. “Said I don’t get to see nothin’ no more. Made your bed sweetheart.”

You tried to fight back, aiming a loose elbow at his ribs, but he caught your wrist with ease and spun you in with a fluid, practiced motion, pinning you to his chest with both arms wrapped low around your waist. You were flushed and heaving, hair sticking to your face, the thin white vest clinging to your skin where sweat and laughter had soaked through.

Then, without warning, he bent slightly at the knees, hooked an arm behind your thighs, and lifted you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, slinging you up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You yelped in protest, legs kicking wildly, hands thudding against his back as he adjusted his grip.

“Daryl! Put me down!”

“Sink’s free now,” he said with infuriating calm, and punctuated it by delivering a firm, resounding smack to your ass as he crossed the cell.

“Asshole!” you shouted, trying and failing to sound outraged as you squirmed, your hair falling in your face and your thighs tightening around his shoulder more for balance than in protest.

He dumped you onto the lower bunk with surprising gentleness, manoeuvring easily despite the cramped space and your flailing limbs. You landed in a graceless sprawl across the mattress, still laughing, your vest askew and your underwear flashing like a flag of defeat as you glared up at him.

He just shook his head, already turning back toward the sink, his voice low and maddeningly pleased. 

You groaned, flopping backwards into the cot. “I hate you.”

He chuckled under his breath, toothbrush finally retrieved, and leaned over the sink like nothing had happened at all.

He came back without a word, crouching low between your legs where you sat half-sprawled on the bunk, still tangled in the blanket you’d refused to surrender. His arms looped back around your waist, like gravity hadn’t quite settled yet and he needed the contact to remind him where you were. His forehead brushed lightly against your sternum through the thin fabric of your vest, and for a second, all he did was breathe you in. His hands were warm against your lower back, fingers idly curling like he hadn’t decided whether he was holding you or anchoring himself.

You didn’t lean into him straight away, but you didn’t pull back either. One hand drifted lazily into his hair, brushing through the ends without thinking. The quiet was cozy, familiar. So when his voice broke through it, low and cautious, it felt less like an apology and more like a peace offering.

“You still mad?”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “I’m not mad.”

His brow twitched like he didn’t quite buy that.

You let your fingers trail down the nape of his neck and sighed. “Wouldn’t kill you to say something nice every once in a while, though.”

He shifted against you, just a little. “I do,” he defended, voice slughtly quieter. That earned him a look. Really? that's what your face said.

He squinted, visibly uncomfortable now, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re always starin’ in that damn mirror. Why I gotta remind you you’re beautiful when you should already know? You got eyes, dontcha?”

You blinked. Then squinted like you weren’t sure you heard him right.

“Did you just—” you sat up straighter, grinning, “—call me beautiful?”

His mouth tightened immediately. “No.”

“You so did.”

“Ya misheard.”

“Daryl Dixon,” you said, hand pressed to your chest, mock-gasping. “I don’t know whether to faint or propose.”

He tried to pull away, grumbling something under his breath, but you caught his arm and hauled him back into your space, laughing as you dragged him down beside you on the bunk.

He took in the lazy sprawl of you—bare legs, bare arms, hair wild and falling in every direction, vest clinging damp to your stomach and slightly translucent now where the morning light caught it. The fabric hung low around the neck, slipping just enough to expose the upper swell of your chest.

That’s when he saw it.

A small, blooming shadow of purple just beneath your collarbone—faint but unmistakable. A bruise in the shape of his mouth. One he’d left there last night, pressed into your skin with the heat of want and the low thrum of mine echoing through his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to mark, but now that it had—now that he saw it standing out so clearly against your soft, flushed skin—he couldn’t seem to look away.

That was his.

You were his.

The thought hit him harder than it should’ve. Not possessive like he owned you, but possessive like he got to have you. In this moment, in this place, when the whole world was still falling apart outside, he got this. You, sprawled out in your underwear, half-smiling and hair tangled and teasing him like it was your calling. No one else got to see this version of you. Just him.

Something in his chest ached sweet and deep. He raised his hand slowly to your vest, pulling it down slightly to get a better look at it.

“What?” you asked softly, blinking at him.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, eyes tracing the hickey he’d left behind.

You looked down, following his gaze to where the hickey bloomed faintly in the centre of your chest, wegded betweenyour boobs. When you glanced back up at him, there was a flicker of smugness behind your sleepy eyes.

“You got a bit of drool there, babe,” you teased, your voice gentler now, curious.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip, like he was chewing on a thought he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Didn’t know I left a mark s’all,” he muttered, voice low and a little rough.

You grinned at him like the devil herself. “Why, Dixon. You embarrassed?”

His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Nah,” he said. And he wasn’t. Not even a little. “Just… looks good on ya.”

You raised your eyebrows at that: “I look good with bruises?”

Daryl’s jaw shifted as if he might try to explain it, then gave up. His thumb brushed lightly over your hip, his voice quiet, almost casual.

“Weren’t tryin’ to. I dunno just… kinda like knowin’ it’s there.”

There was no heat in the way he said it—not yet. Just that dry honesty he always carried, slight shyness also, like anything softer might get stuck on the way out. But it was there in the way his eyes lingered on you now. In the way his hand stayed against your waist, grounding himself like you might float off if he didn’t.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightened the way it did.

“Well,” you said, trying for playful but already sinking into breathlessness, “maybe I’ll let you leave another one.”

His mouth quirked—barely. But his hand tightened at your hip.

“…That an invitation?” he asked, tone low and careful.

You lifted a hand to the back of his neck, tugged gently. “Not exactly subtle, was it?”

He didn’t say anything—and he didn’t have to. That look he gave you, unwavering and quiet, said enough. You’d seen it before, thousands of times before.

You leaned into him instinctively, that touch, that heat. Your lips twitched, barely holding back a grin, and your eyes lifted just as his dropped. He was close enough now that your exhales mingled, breath shared in the stillness, and though neither of you moved quite yet, the space between your mouths tightened—so much that when you smiled again, your nose brushed his.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just waited there, calm and heavy with anticipation, like the choice had always been yours.

You grinned fully now, letting the weight of it pull across your cheeks. The sight of him kneeling in front of you like that—hands at your waist, forehead nearly touching yours—struck something warm in your gut. It was stupid how solid he looked like that, like every inch of him was wound up and waiting, held back only by the rough pads of his fingers curling a little tighter against your ribs.

So you leaned in and gave him a kiss. Just a peck. Teasing. A pull-and-retreat that barely skimmed his mouth. He huffed against your lips, exasperated and fond all at once, and when you did it again—one more kiss, just as brief—his hand shifted to the back of your head.

This time, when he kissed you, it wasn't quick.

It was heat and hunger pressed tight, the sound of your breath swallowed into his mouth, his palm cradling your skull as if to keep you still, keep you close, keep you his. Your fingers found the front of his shirt, curling tight in the fabric without even thinking, and your thighs parted around his hips without instruction, just an instinct you hadn’t even registered until he was nudging forward between them.

And still, he didn’t rush. He kissed you like it was the first time again—like the taste of your mouth was something to memorise all over.

But then his tongue slid against yours and your pulse kicked in your throat, and something beneath your skin began to fray, unraveling in soft waves of want.

You’d meant to keep brushing your hair.

You’d meant to start the day.

Instead, your legs spread wider, inviting him in without a word, he shifted forward, body crowding yours as he hovered, one forearm braced beside your hip on the mattress, the other tracing up your ribs, dragging the hem of your vest as he went. His mouth never left yours. His breath was hot and open and endless against your lips, and you felt the exact moment he was about to climb over you completely—

And then you moved.

Your hand slid down to his chest and gave a push—not to stop him, but to turn the tide. You rolled over with him, legs locking around his waist with practiced ease as you did so. Your knees anchored on either side of his thighs, hips snug against his lap, and his hands flew straight to your waist like magnets. That look on his face—the flicker of surprise, the punch of hunger—made the move worth it every time.

He chuckled low against your lips, grinning now as your forehead rested against his.

You kissed him again, longer now, deeper, letting your hips shift against his with slow, aching pressure that made his fingers tighten at your sides. His hands slid beneath your vest, calloused palms dragging up your back as if he had been waiting to do that ever since the last time he did so. You barely noticed when your breath hitched again, or when your body tilted forward, chasing more of him.

“Weren’t you supposed to be on watch this morning?” you murmured against his lips, the words half-laughed, half-mumbled, your arms winding around his neck like you had no real intention of letting him go.

Daryl didn’t answer right away. He just kissed you again with more intensity, hand gripping your waist as if you were water.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered in between kisses, voice rough like gravel and sleep and something a little more dangerous.

You huffed into his mouth, the sound shaky with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Liar,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t have a single ounce of conviction left in it.

He grunted something close to a laugh—just breath, really—tugging at your vest. Yeah, this has gotta go. You raised your arms as he slipped your vest off for you. With your nipples now exposed to the chill of the air, they naturally pebbled, making the man lick his lips without even thinking.  Jesus Christ.

You chuckled at the gesture, quiet and breathless, head tipping back as his lips chased down the column of your neck, your breath hitching the second he found that blooming mark again—barely healed, already deepening beneath his mouth.

Your hips shifted, just a little, enough to make him groan into your skin like it physically hurt not to take it further.

He leaned forward and kiss the center of your chest, right above the stuttering thump of your heart, his mouth hot and open and there as his hands slid higher to cup your breasts completely, the weight of his palms grounding you in the kind of safety that felt terrifying.

Finally, he reached your nipple, tongue flicking against it, slow and deliberate. You gasped—not because it was sudden, but because it was real, because it sent a bolt of heat between your legs and your whole body clenched without thinking, because the air around you didn’t feel still anymore, it felt charged, like the room had shrunk to just your breath and his and the way his teeth scraped lightly over your skin before his mouth closed around it and sucked.

. His mouth moved slowly, worshipfully, lips dragging to the other side of your chest where he left another bruise, this one lower, darker, the kind of mark you’d still feel days from now and remember exactly how it got there.

And then he kissed the center of your sternum again. Pressed his forehead there like he needed a second to breathe—like the weight of you, half-naked and trembling in his lap, was something he had to hold with both hands or risk dropping completely. You felt the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over the dip between your breasts as he inhaled deep through his nose and just stayed there for a moment, unmoving, like you were anchoring him to the earth.

His hands were still cupped around your breasts, thumbs stroking slowly across your skin, circling the peaks until they stood tight and aching, the tender friction shooting down your spine like a live wire. He dipped his head again, mouthed at the soft flesh where a bruise was already forming, and suckled lazily—barely any pressure, just enough heat and drag to make your legs tighten where they bracketed his hips, the soft cotton of your underwear clinging damp against you now, useless at this point, soaked with your own need.

The light was slanting through the barred window and the slit in between the curtains and the wall, carving your bodies in pale gold strip and soft shadow, catching on the edge of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, the toning of your abdomen, the fullness of your breasts, the fine hairs on your arm that rose with every brush of his breath. His mouth was open just slightly, lips pink and kiss-bruised, his chest rising beneath you in slow, uneven waves, and you felt it all—every tremor, every shiver, every inch of heat soaked through the thin cotton between your thighs.

Your body had already begun to move without thinking, hips shifting just enough to feel the pressure of him beneath you, not in some deliberate, practiced rhythm, but something softer and more helpless, like the tide coming in, like the ache of touch that couldn’t be undone. His hands steadied you instinctively, fingers tightening at your hips, but there was no dominance in it—no claim. Just contact. Just the grounding ache between you.

Your skin was molten hot where his mouth had already left new bruises blooming along the curve of your neck and across the top and underside of your breasts. You hadn’t even realised how many until he paused to admire them—thumb brushing beneath one with lustful focus, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them in daylight.

“Think I’m startin’ a damn collection,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice hoarse with something unshaped—part awe, part possession, part disbelief that he got to have you like this. He didn’t mean to be greedy. But fuck, it was hard not to be.

You didn’t answer. You just smiled, dazed and blissed and arching softly into his touch, your hips rolling against him with the kind of slow, idle rhythm that wasn’t meant to tease. You were just following instinct, your need humming low and constant, body aching to stay close, to sink into him in every way. You could feel him beneath you, hard and straining in his jeans, and it made you clench on nothing without thinking, made your fingers grip his shoulder and the railing above even tighter just to stay anchored.

“You’re starin’,” you whispered, breath catching when he kissed just below your collarbone again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hand skimmed up your side and cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the peak with maddening softness.

“Can ya blame me?” he grunted into your skin.

Fair enough. You sighed, head falling back as his mouth followed the curve of your breast, his tongue flicking lazily over a spot that made your back arch and your thighs tense around him.

He loved it. The way you looked like this—wild and soft and his—your skin flushed and glowing in the early light, your hair a mess, your breath trembling every time he touched you like you still couldn’t quite believe it was real. And no one else saw you like this. No one else would. That thought did something to him—something feral and fragile all at once.

You murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too far gone in your haze, still absently grinding against him like your body was chasing something without permission.

You were panting—quiet, breathless, not from exertion but from being undone, from every careful, unhurried touch, the way his mouth moved like he had all morning. And when he slipped one hand down—down your belly, past the twitching skin of your navel, across the waistband of your panties, you didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe. You just let him.

Because of course you did.

Because it was him.

His fingers curled over the elastic. He paused. Just barely. And you nodded—just once, barely enough to be seen, but more than enough for him to feel it.

His hand slipped inside.

The first drag of his knuckles against your slick heat made you shudder, made your hips rock helplessly into his palm like your body didn’t belong to you anymore. He groaned into your chest, low and guttural, his free hand gripping the back of your thigh to steady you, to keep you open for him as his fingers slid through the wetness between your folds, slow and careful, the pads of them circling your clit like he was testing pressure, trying to find exactly what made you twitch.

You bit down on your lower lip, head falling forward into his hair, your hands fisting in the fabric at his shoulders as he teased you in slow, gliding strokes, his mouth never leaving your breasts. He alternated between soft kisses and hot, sucking pulls that made your toes curl and your pulse stutter, and all the while, his hand worked you open with maddening patience—never too fast, never too much. Just steady. Just there.

His index finger slid down, pressed at your entrance, then slipped in so easily it made your whole body flinch forward. You let out a broken, whispered sound against his ear, too overwhelmed to name it, your forehead pressed hard to his temple now as your walls clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper. He didn’t push. Not yet. Just eased the finger into the knuckle and let you feel it—let you feel the fullness, the stretch, the dizzying throb of being touched right, being touched by him.

You whimpered his name then—not loud, but so full of breath and ache that it barely made it out whole. His thumb pressed back to your clit, moving in lazy, perfect circles now as he curled the finger inside you, and you swore you saw stars behind your eyes even though they were still open, still locked onto the side of his face where his jaw was clenched and his cheeks were flushed and his lips were wet with you.

He added a second finger.

You gasped, louder this time, hips jerking against him, the heat mounting now in thick waves from your thighs to your chest to the back of your neck, and the only thing grounding you was his iron grip on your hip and the rough rhythm of his breath against your chest.

Your brain was so foggy that you felt your balance sway dangerously backwards, your body immediately tensing up in response.

“‘S alrigh',” he rasped, his free arm wrapping around your back to keep you upright. “Just relax baby, I gotcha.”

You nodded again, but the motion was messy, unfocused, your head lolling against his shoulder as he fucked you with his fingers—slow and deep and so gentle it made tears sting behind your eyes, because it wasn’t about getting off, it wasn’t about friction—it was just about you. About how you looked in his lap, how you felt around his hand, how your legs trembled and your back arched and your skin flushed pink under his mouth.

And it could’ve gone on forever like that.

You could’ve come just like this, in his arms, his fingers inside you, his mouth against your chest, the world held at bay behind that thin curtain and the soft light streaming across the cell block from the barred window and onto your slick body.

“Ahh,” you breathed into him, voice quiet and hazy, already coming apart in the way your body arched and trembled. “Baby, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t need to finish. He could feel it in the way your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing every slow, curling drag of his fingers like the last pull of a tide before it broke. You reached for the bunk railing overhead, fingers gripping tight, knuckles white as your thighs tensed and your head tipped back with a whimper, eyes squeezing shut like they always do in these moments. It was right there—just on the edge—your orgasm blooming in slow, molten waves, so close it made your very bones shake.

And then—

The curtain snapped open.

Light poured in like a slap.

“Hey, you up—”

The voice didn’t even finish before your body locked up with a full-body jolt, the breath in your lungs stalling into a raw, guttural gasp. Your thighs clamped tight around Daryl’s hips, arms flying instinctively to cover your chest as your whole body recoiled—not from him, but from the sudden spotlight. 

You turned sharply away from the doorway, the instinct to hide stronger than the lingering crest of pleasure still rippling through you. But it was too late. Nick had already seen. Everything. Your body bare, flush and glistening, your chest heaving and exposed. He’d seen your mouth open, your face scrunched with pleasure, your spine arched, Daryl’s hand shoved in your underwear as if it paid rent.

Daryl’s hand vanished from your body in an instant, the sudden absence a cruel echo that left your core aching and empty. His entire frame went rigid against you, then he moved. Fast. Fuming. Protective.

The orgasm didn’t stop, but it didn’t land, either—not fully. Not the way it would’ve been if Daryl had helped you through it like usual. Instead, it frayed at the edges like torn fabric, ripped away before it could crest, your entire system crashing into a jagged, breathless shock that left you clinging to Daryl's shirt, mouth open but silent, eyes slammed shut against the flood of adrenaline.

Daryl immediately reached for the nearest blanket the second Nick’s voice came, pulling it over your back in one fluid motion, tucking you in and pressing your body flat to his chest with an arm like a vice. You didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. You curled in, breath ragged and skin burning, burying your red face against him as the last remnants of your kind-of orgasm sputtered out in a broken stutter of sensation that made your eyes sting.

Nick was frozen, like a deer in headlights, one hand half-raised, eyes wide with horrified realisation. He hadn’t meant to—but he had. He’d seen it all. And from the way he stood there, slack-jawed and stammering, it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was pure horror for what came next.

“I—I didn’t know, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Get the fuck out!” Daryl yelled, his voice booming not just around your cell but echoing throughout the entire cell block. Hell, the entire prison.

Nick backed up with hands raised, bumping into the wall as he scrambled for the curtain, muttering apologies. And Daryl was already moving.

He lowered you gently, but quickly, onto the mattress like you were glass, hurriedly smoothing the blanket across your hips, making sure your body was covered. Then he stood and was out the door in a flash.

You didn’t look after him. You couldn’t. Not yet. You stayed curled on your side, blanket pulled tight to your chest, one arm tucked under your head as your body tried to come back to itself. The tension still thrummed in your legs like a broken wire, the pleasure unfinished, twisted into something raw and hollow by the intrusion. You blinked, mouth open but dry, breath catching in your throat as you forced yourself to inhale slowly, once, then again.

The sound of the commotion had already begun to ripple through the cellblock as Nick stumbled backwards—hands up, voice tripping over apologies—but there was nowhere to go. The catwalk he stood on ended in cold cement and locked gates. And Daryl was already on him.

His boots were heavy and echoing across the metal grates as he charged the younger man like a goddamn freight train. Nick barely had time to yelp before Daryl slammed his body into the wall with a forearm across his throat, the force of it reverberating through the prison’s ribcage like a warning bell.

“The fuck you doin’ walkin’ into her cell without even knockin’, huh?” Daryl snarled, face so close to Nick’s their noses almost touched. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t mean to—I swear, I thought she was alone—”

To the man’s defence, you weren’t the most obvious couple. You didn’t cling to each other in public, didn’t make a show of affection in the hallways or at the dinner tables. What you had with Daryl existed in the quiet, private spaces— at most, his hand would brush your lower back when no one was looking. The immediate group knew, of course. They’d seen the arc of your relationship unfold from awkward glances to something that now resembled an old married couple. But the newer arrivals—like Nick, the jittery Woodbury recruit now backed up against the wall—didn’t know that until now.

“Should kill ya right here for how you just stood there gawkin’ at her.”

Daryl’s voice cracked through the air like a whip—rough, furious, and loud enough to bounce off the cement walls. It was more volume than most had ever heard from him, and it sent a ripple through the cellblock. Cells opened. Soft footsteps padded out onto the catwalk, tentative and tense. Glenn was the first to appear, eyes wide and alert. Carol followed close behind, tying her jacket as she squinted against the morning light. Rick came next—jaw tight, always ready to defuse a spark before it ignited into wildfire. Hershel moved slower, his crutches tapping softly with each purposeful step.

They didn’t need an explanation. One look was enough.

Nick stood frozen, hands half-raised in pitiful surrender, face pale and clammy. Daryl’s chest was heaving with fury, shoulders tense like a bowstring, fingers clenched in the man's shirt. The curtain that served as your only barrier to privacy now hung limply off one hook—torn aside, half-draped, revealing too much.

And then there was you, peeking out from the doorway to see if Daryl had killed Nick yet, blanket hastily pulled around you, flushed cheeks, and hair tousled from sleep and sex and sudden humiliation. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. Just the sight of you—half-shielded, lips parted in shock, fingers curled tight around the blanket—was enough explanation for the group. Nick had walked in on the two of you.

Glenn had already started moving, trying to intercept, hands raised in that well-practiced pacifying gesture. “Hey—hey, Daryl. C’mon. We get it, alright? Let’s all just breathe.”

Carol lingered, watching carefully. Rick edged down the stairs with quiet authority, his voice low but firm. “Daryl. It’s done. Let it go.”

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He couldn’t. Not over the roar in his ears.

And then—

“Daryl.”

Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough. It cut through the heat in his veins like a sudden drop in pressure, slicing through the crimson haze behind his eyes and tethering him back to where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. His hand remained fisted in the fabric of Nick’s shirt, shoulders still heaving as adrenaline roared against his ribs, but something in your tone made him turn. No panic. No fear. Just that grounded steadiness he always came back to.

You were standing in the narrow archway of your cell, blanket pulled tight under your arms, your bare shoulders kissed by the dull morning light filtering in through the high-set windows. You didn’t look angry. You didn’t even look embarrassed. You just looked at him — like you always did — with something calm, something knowing, something that stopped him in his tracks harder than any voice ever could.

His jaw flexed once, then again, and without another word he shoved Nick back against the wall one final time — not with the intent to injure, but enough to make him feel how close he’d come. Nick's eyes were wide and wild, lips stammering silent nothings, and though Daryl didn’t speak again, the way he looked at him was enough to bury a warning deep in his bones. Then he turned his back on him completely, like the matter had been settled.

Daryl was on you in three long strides, his movements fast but careful, eyes sweeping you head to toe like he needed to confirm you were still whole. One hand clutched the edge of the blanket where it had begun to slip, steadying it with a firm tug, while the other hovered just above your hip, not quite touching yet—like he was trying to ask without words if he could. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to. Your body leaned forward instinctively, and that was all the permission he needed.

He wrapped around you without hesitation, arms bracketing your frame with a kind of protectiveness that felt almost feral. The blanket was still clutched in his fist, but the rest of him was solid warmth and muscle and motion as he tucked you into his chest, blocking you from view as a dozen sleepy, confused faces began to gather at the edge of the catwalk.

It wasn’t a big crowd. A handful of people—ten, maybe twelve—most of them in half-buttoned shirts and mismatched socks, blinking against the light and murmuring to each other, eyes flicking between Nick and Daryl, taking in the image of Daryl using his body to shield you from onlookers with dawning realisation. But it was certainly enough people to make Daryl’s jaw tighten. Enough to make his grip on the blanket hitch a little higher as he folded his arms tighter around your shoulders, like he could physically shield you from the shame of exposure by sheer force of will.

He looked over his shoulder sharply, eyes finding Rick’s without needing to speak. And Rick, sharp as ever, read him immediately.

“Alright,” Rick called, firm and clipped, stepping forward with both hands raised. “Notin’ to see here, people. Go on.”

There was a shuffle of movement—Glenn lingering, motioning for people to go back to their cells before returning to his and Maggie's, Carol giving you a look that hovered somewhere between sympathy and secondhand mortification. Hershel dipped his head politely and turned away, muttering to Nick about lessons on knocking before entering a bedroom shared by a man and a woman.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice raw now, cracked and stripped down. His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes scanning your features like he was checking for damage.

You exhaled a laugh that sounded more like an adrenaline dump. “Mortified, actually. Thanks for asking.”

The response didn’t ease him. Not completely. He gently ushered you further into your cell, away from leering eyes. The curtain whispered closed behind him, the soft slide of fabric shutting out the gawking neighbours and early morning whispers. For a moment, it was quiet—just the two of you in the dimly lit cell, breathing like the air had been knocked out of the room. You stood there in the middle of the cell, still wrapped in the blanket, one shoulder slipping bare as your hand clutched the edge tighter. Daryl hovered a few steps in front of you, all tense jaw and twitching hands, like his body hadn’t decided whether to fight or flee. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look you in the eye. He just stepped closer and reached out, tugging the blanket up where it had slipped, smoothing the fold down along your arm like it would make any difference at all.

His other hand had already begun tugging at the top edge of the blanket, fussing with the way it dipped too low near your chest, adjusting it like a man trying to erase what happened with nothing but his bare palms. You didn’t stop him. You just let him fiddle, watching the pinch in his brow deepen as his mind spun somewhere behind his silence.

He didn’t stop there. His fingers adjusted the corner near your hip, then fixed the hem where it hung uneven, then went back to your shoulder again—as if rearranging a blanket could undo the fact that someone else had seen you like this. You let him, watching with wide eyes and an incredulous twist tugging at the corner of your mouth, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Soooo,” you drawled, voice still airy with leftover adrenaline as you tugged the blanket higher across your chest, “that was horrifying.”

Daryl didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, teeth clenched so tight you could hear it grind beneath the silence. His hands were still hovering like they couldn’t decide whether to let go of the fabric or just bury themselves in it forever. He looked everywhere—your face, the blanket, the wall behind you—like there wasn’t a single spot in the cell that didn’t piss him off.

You cocked your head, hoping humor would crack the tension. “You mad?”

He scoffed, breath sharp through his nose. “The hell you think?”

“Jeez, just checking,” you muttered. “Didn’t exactly leave much room for nuance.”

He dragged a hand down his face, then gestured vaguely toward the door like it still burned. “You were naked. And that little shit just walked in.”

“Yeah, I remember,” you said with a dry little nod. “I was kind of there. Mid-thing, too, if you recall.”

His head jerked toward you like you’d slapped him.

“What?” you said, raising your eyebrows innocently. “You think I go around flashing these on the daily?”

His nostrils flared when you gestured to your breasts, and that vein in his temple did a little jig.

You softened, just a little. “Honestly? I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. We’re living in a prison, babe. Privacy’s basically a myth at this point. Like… dragons. Or chocolate.”

“Don’t make it okay,” he muttered, voice quiet but tighter than barbed wire. It sounded like it physically pained him to say the words.

“No, it doesn’t. But it doesn’t make it some grand tragedy either. It just… happened. I mean it was bound to, we've been playing russian roulette with that curtain ever since we put it up.”

You reached out and brushed his wrist with your fingertips, and he flinched—not like you’d burned him, but like the ease of your touch made him feel worse. Like your indifference hurt more than the act itself.

He shook his head slowly. “How are you so... calm? Why ain't you pissed?”

“Why should I be?” you asked, tilting your chin. “Because someone caught a glimpse of the goods?”

He shut his eyes, like he was praying for strength.

You shrugged, every bit of strength in you was focusing on not chuckling at how little resolve he had when it came to you being naked. “They’re just tits, baby.”

His eyes snapped open, and when he spoke, his voice came out raw, rough around the edges and slightly louder than he intended. “They’re your tits!”

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. His face flushed pink the second it left his mouth, and his eyes dropped to the floor like he’d just confessed something far too big for daylight.

You stared at him, then let out a short laugh. “Did you just yell about my tits?”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face like he wanted to wipe the last ten minutes off the earth. “That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you kinda did,” you teased gently, and your voice had softened now. “And honestly? I'm flattered.”

“I’m just sayin’…” he started, still not looking at you, “…he saw you like—like how I see you. It's messin' with me”

You stepped forward into the space between you, not that there was much; one hand pressed flat to his chest, you felt the way his heart thudded under your palm, as if it were trying to outrun itself.

“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now. Softer, as if you were worried he'd pull away at your question.

He shook his head again, rough, like he was trying to shake something off—but then he stopped, hands still at your waist, eyes barely holding to yours. When he spoke, it was low. Quiet. Almost like he didn’t want you to hear it.

“Ain’t about what we were doin'… Ain’t about him, even.”

You stayed still. Let him take his time.

“It’s just—” He huffed through his nose, jaw tight. “Ain’t nobody s’posed to see you like that. Just…”

His lips twitched, like he hated the words even as he said them.

“It’s you,” he muttered. “Don't matter if he only got a look. He don't get to see you like that. But now he has and-”

He shook his head again, eyes burning into yours, jaw working uselessly as if there were more he wanted to say but the words kept failing him.

“It’s like he stole somethin’. Even if he didn't meant ta... I fuckin’ hate it.”

The silence stretched. He wouldn’t look at you now—just stared off down at the floor, like maybe that would make it easier.

“Can’t help it, I just… want you all to myself,” he added, soft and miserable, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud. “I get it's selfish, but I do.”

Your breath caught as the space between you changed—subtle at first, like the temperature shifting just before rain.

"Hey," you said quietly, reaching up and cupping his face so he would finally look at you. "Listen to me, if anyone deserves to be selfish... It's you."

Something in the air softened, thickened with the weight of what hadn’t been said but was suddenly everywhere. Daryl wasn’t angry anymore. Not in the way he’d been before. He just looked overwhelmed, like his body was still catching up to the idea that someone else had witnessed something he thought of as his alone. Something sacred. Yours.

"Yeah, well.." he started, eyes darting about your face, looking for some sign of bogus in your face, but it was to no avail. "I dunno what the hell to do with it."

Your thumbs stroked his jaw, brushing the faintest stubble on his cheeks. His skin was warm under your touch, a little clammy, like he’d been sweating adrenaline ever since the curtain had swept aside.

“Well,” you murmured, keeping your voice light despite the intensity coiling in your chest, “I’ve got some ideas what you can do with all that possessive turmoil.”

One of his brows twitched like he couldn’t quite decide whether you were teasing or trying to disarm him again with jokes. You didn’t clarify. You just leaned back a little, head tilting cockily like this was any other casual morning conversation.

“Option one,” you offered, holding up a hand with mock solemnity, “you keep acting all weird and fidgety until we both die from repressed emotional constipation.”

A faint huff left him, barely audible, but there was a glint in his eye now—something bruised but breathing.

“Option two,” you went on, tapping your finger against his chest with exaggerated flair, “you pull your head outta your ass, accept that your stuck with me, and get over it. No returns. No receipts. Lifetime warranty.”

His lips twitched, just a little, but his posture still screamed conflict. Like he wanted to agree but didn’t trust that he deserved to. His hands stayed where they were—hovering, unsure—until you gave him one more nudge.

“And if all else fails,” you added, tone dropping with playful gravity as your hand slid slowly down his chest, “we just fuck until we forget what all this was about.”

That finally got a proper reaction. His head jerked back a bit, eyes wide with something like horror and hunger rolled into one. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away almost shyly, like the idea startled him.

“You serious right now?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. Ofcourse you were serious. stupid question.

You grinned, shameless. “I mean, we’ve tried talking. Not sure it’s our strong suit.”

His palm dragged slowly down his face, scrubbing over the tension there, and when he looked at you again, his expression had cracked—just a hairline, but enough to see what was beneath it. Embarrassment. Longing. Something ancient and boyish, like a man who’d never been allowed to want anything and was suddenly terrified he might get it.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Definetly,” you said cheerfully, tucking your arms around his waist under the blanket. “But it’ll be a fun funeral.”

He shook his head, but there was no real frustration in it anymore—just something soft and shaking loose. His eyes dropped again, his fingers brushing lightly over your waist as if to make sure you were still there, still his. But the touch didn’t stay tentative for long. Slowly, carefully, he let his hand settle. The blanket shifted with the motion, rustling like leaves, and then he was anchoring himself there—thumb stroking just beneath the hem where skin met cotton.

“Don’t wanna share ya,” he said finally, voice so low you almost missed it beneath the thrum of blood in your ears.

You leaned in, brushing your forehead against his, a quiet exhale warm between your mouths. “You don’t have to. I'm yours. That poor bastard barely survived the first glance. I doubt he’s gonna risk another.”

I'm yours. Yourds rang though his head like some symphony. A shaky breath left him then—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and for the first time since the two of you had been rudely interrupted, some of the iron in his shoulders melted. He rested his brow against yours, hands still firm on your waist like he could keep you his if he just held tight enough.

“Still wanna kill him,” he grumbled, but it sounded more passive than a threat now.

“I know,” you whispered. “But maybe, and just humour me here, how about you… don’t do that.”

His second hand found its way under the blanket, mirroring the first. They weren’t possessive now—just grounding, warm, holding onto something real and alive. You. The moment. Whatever this fragile, messy thing between you had become.

“I’m putting up a sign next time,” he muttered.

You smiled, lips brushing his as you laughed. “Make it big and bold. Maybe add some barbed wire. Paint it bright red n' write ‘If the bunk’s rockin’, y’all best keep walkin'."

He chuckled finally, and this time, when he looked at you, there was no doubt left. No shame. No fear. Just a quiet sort of awe.

His fingers slid up, slow and reverent, tracing the edge of your jaw before curling behind your neck. His touch was rough and gentle all at once, like he didn’t know how to separate the two anymore.

“You’re mine,” he said, not as a demand, but as a confession. Almost like he needed your permission to believe it. As if he were finally coming to terms with it.

You kissed him then—not hard, not fast, but with every ounce of conviction he couldn’t find the words for. “Damn straight,” you breathed into the space between your mouths.

And this time, he didn’t argue. He just held you, as if he finally understood he was meant to.

The kiss was soft at first—slow, anchoring, the kind that hummed low in your chest and made you forget the concrete beneath your feet. His lips brushed yours like they were still apologizing, still making up for every second of distance that had come before. But as always with Daryl, tenderness had a half-life. One moment you were breathing him in through the hush between your mouths, and the next, you were drowning in him.

His mouth took yours deeper, hungrier. Your fingers curled around the fabric at his chest, just to keep yourself upright. The air shifted. Got hotter. Thicker.

It wasn’t fast—god, no. It was glacial in how it climbed, in how his mouth slanted over yours again and again, each kiss drawing more from you than the last, each inhale like it had to be shared. The blanket still clung around your body, wrapped tightly from the earlier debacle, but you could feel it slipping, the tremor in your stomach, the twitch of your thighs under it, every time he exhaled against your lips. Every time his tongue traced the inside of your mouth, like he already knew what you were about to say.

Which, unfortunately, you were about to have to prove.

You pulled back slightly, just a breath apart, his forehead resting against yours. You tried to find your voice, but it came out softer than you’d meant—slightly strained also, like you were trying not to cringe at how needy you felt asking this.

“Hey… u…”

Daryl didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just watched you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, like he was enjoying the view of you struggling to speak more than anything else in the world. That smug, knowing bastard.

You tried again, clearing your throat and pressing your palm against his chest. “So… do you think we might, maybe… I mean, only if you want to… It’s just that earlier, y’know, we kinda got cut off—”

His brow arched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“—and I just… I didn’t exactly, um… get to finish. And you’ve got like—ten minutes or something before watch so I figured we could maybe…”

He still didn’t speak. Didn’t back away. Just stared you down like you were the last meal left on earth, his lips twitching with amusement. Meanwhile, his hand tugged slowly at the top hem of your blanket—just a gentle pull, barely enough to shift it, but enough to send a bolt of heat down your spine. You faltered. Completely.

“I mean,” you blurted, flustered, “we don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. I just thought maybe if you weren’t doing anything right now or—”

His voice came low, slow, dangerously husky. “I don't now actually. Why dontcha just ask me?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

You felt you were being painstakingly clear in what you were suggesting, but apparently, he was too slow. That or he was being an ass and wanted you to say it. Definitely the latter.

His hand paused at the end of your blanket, dragging it up a fraction, knuckles grazing your thigh. His smirk deepened. “Ain’t followin’, sweetheart. Whatcha want?”

You narrowed your eyes. He was enjoying this. That bastard. The teasing, the way you could barely string together a sentence around him—he was soaking it up.

Ok. have it his way

You tilted your chin, let your mouth fall into an exaggerated pout. “Y’know what? Never mind,” you said airily. “Honestly, I wouldn’t wanna go again either if I were you.”

His smirk vanished like you’d slapped him. The air crackled.

You went on, your tone light as air, as if you were just chatting about the weather. “I mean, s’not like I used to brag about you to Maggie and Carol or anything. Back when you had stamina. That… spark.”

You sighed dreamily, folding your hands over your stomach like a wistful widow. “But I get it. You hit your prime. Happens to the best of ‘em.”

Then, with a devastating little shrug:

“Maybe next time I oughta just finish myself off and save you the trouble,” you said lightly, like it wasn’t meant to wound. Your tone stayed casual—teasing, even—but your eyes didn’t blink. “I mean, no point wastin’ your energy when I’ll just be fakin’ it for the morale boost anyway.”

That did it.

The blanket tore away from your body in one sharp, punishing tug, and for a single fleeting second the air bit cold across your skin—but it barely had time to register. His hands were already on you, rough palms slipping beneath your thighs with a purpose so instinctive it made your stomach clench, like every cell in his body had been waiting for permission to do this. And now that he had it—now that you’d baited him, pushed him, called his bluff—there was no stopping it. No soft return. No patience.

He hauled you up in one swift, seamless motion, as if your weight meant nothing to him, like you belonged there—hooked around his hips, clinging to the warmth of him as your arms locked tight behind his neck. Your legs wrapped around him before your mind caught up, your breath spilling into the crook of his neck as his shirt bunched in your fists and your whole body tensed, trying to keep pace with the shift in gravity.

His stride toward the cot was fast, controlled, driven by something deeper than frustration—something wild and hot and thick with want. His jaw flexed tight against your cheek as he walked, your thighs tightening around him as the world tilted with every step.

“You keep talkin’, baby,” he muttered low in your ear, his voice frayed and hot like it had been dragged through sand, every syllable carved straight from the heat building beneath his skin. “But you ain’t gonna be able to for long.”

And fuck—you believed him. Every word of it. Every heavy step. Every curling, possessive touch.

He tossed you onto the bunk like he didn’t trust himself to hold you another second, like if he didn’t let go he might fuck you standing up against the cell wall. The mattress groaned under you with a dry creak, the rough cotton of the sheet dragging beneath your back, your spine catching against it as you tried to sit up. But you didn’t make it far.

He was on you immediately, arms bracketing your body, his knees digging into the thin mattress on either side of your hips, his shoulders hunched as he loomed over you, not to intimidate, but to claim. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, his mouth parted, gaze raking down your bare form like it hurt him not to touch. His eyes flicked lower, tracking the line of your stomach, the curve of your breasts, the flush already blooming under your skin—and then back up to your face, where your lips were parted just slightly and your lashes fluttered from the weight of it all. You were his, and he was going to show you what exactly that meant.

But even as his weight settled over you, one of his hands gripping the mattress beside your head and the other braced near your ribs, he kept glancing past you, eyes darting to the cell door with every shift in the air. Like he couldn’t help it. Like the memory of earlier still haunted the doorway, a ghost waiting to barge in and ruin whatever this was before it could even begin.

You felt his hesitation in the way his muscles held just a fraction too tight, in the breath he held when the floor creaked somewhere beyond. He’d placed himself over you with purpose—angled just so, blocking you from view, a wall of heat and instinct and possessiveness. If anyone walked in now, all they’d see was him. Just Daryl, hunched over, his back broad and taut, hiding everything he couldn’t bear someone else to touch.

You didn’t blame him for being on edge. Not really. But goddamn, you needed his eyes on you. You needed to be seen—by him. Not watched. Not protected. Seen.

So you reached up, threading your fingers into the scruff along his jaw and tugged, firm and slow, until his gaze dropped down to yours. There was resistance, barely there, but it gave way the second your mouth brushed his.

That was all it took.

His mouth was already on yours again before your breath had even settled from the last kiss, rougher this time—hot and hungry and heady, like something had cracked open between you both and there was no use pretending anymore. Your lips met with too much force, too much ache, teeth brushing and breath catching, hands grasping anywhere they could. His stubble scraped your chin, your cheek, the corners of your mouth, but it only made you pull him closer, tilt your face to deepen the kiss until it stopped resembling anything soft or sweet.

And then his hand was on your hip, steadying you, anchoring you in place as he shoved your underwear down with a single, unforgiving motion. No teasing, no warning—just a rough tug that dragged the fabric over the curve of your ass and down your thighs like it had personally offended him. Which said a lot, considering they were his favourite pair.

You were already so worked up, still raw from what had been stolen moments before, your skin oversensitive and your mind gone blurry, and he knew that, hence the skipping over foreplay. His hands gripped your thighs as he settled between them, groaning as he felt the heat of you, head ducking to mouth at your breast, leaving a wet, open kiss above your racing heart.

Your thighs parted without thinking. His body settled between them, the weight of him solid and anchoring and perfect. You could feel the denim of his jeans catching your bare thighs, scratchy in contrast to the warmth of his hips, and you gasped softly into his mouth, the friction sending a spark through your spine. He grunted in response, hips grinding down once—just once—enough to make your breath stutter and your hands fly to his belt.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, lips brushing your cheek now as his fingers cupped the underside of your thigh, pushing it higher against his side. “You’re already—fuck—“

You nodded, breath catching as your hands fumbled at his waistband, desperate and half-shaking. “I mean what did you expect, with earlier,” you whispered, half-laughing, half-panting. “Kinda stuck with me.”

He didn’t answer—just groaned low in his throat, the sound all grit and restraint, his mouth dragging down your neck in hot, open-mouthed kisses that bordered on desperate. His teeth scraped along your skin like he needed to remind himself you were real, here, underneath him, squirming and burning up with need.

Your fingers had barely worked his belt loose before he took over, popping the button and yanking the zipper down in one rough motion. He didn’t bother pushing them off—just shoved the denim low enough on his hips to free himself, cock already straining in his boxers.

But you didn’t wait for him to do the rest.

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers curling under the fabric and dragging it down just far enough to get what you wanted. He hissed as your palm closed around him—hard, hot, already leaking—and you guided him straight to where you ached, pressing his tip to your slick folds with a trembling breath that made your whole body shudder.

His arms went taut around you, head dropping as he sucked in air through his teeth, and then he looked at you—really looked at you, like you’d just set something off inside him he couldn’t come back from.

He drove into you in one desperate, guttural push, the force of it knocking the breath straight out of your lungs, his hips slamming flush against yours like he couldn’t stand another second not being inside you. The stretch hit deep, sudden and brutal and perfect, your mouth falling open on a ragged moan as your back arched beneath him, every muscle drawn tight with the shock of it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, searching for anything to hold onto, but he wasn’t going anywhere—he stayed buried to the hilt, chest heaving against yours, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck like he needed your skin to remember how to breathe. He didn’t move, not yet, just hovered there inside you, cock twitching with restraint, like he was trying to get a grip but your body was already dragging him under.

His hand found your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a soft, dazed stroke that betrayed the feral tension in the rest of him. His eyes were screwed shut, jaw clenched like the feel of you was too much—too good, too tight, too fucking real—and you could feel the way he was trembling with it, strung so tight he might snap.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek, voice low and thick like it had been scraped raw from somewhere deep inside.

You blinked up at him, dazed, your mouth already parted from how close he was, how full you felt, how still he was holding himself inside you like he needed something more before he let go. “Tell you what?” you breathed, even though some part of you already knew.

He didn’t answer right away—just kept looking at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like your skin under his palms and the sound of your breath in his ear weren’t enough, not without the words. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging slightly into the meat of it, and his hips twitched like his body was starting to move on instinct alone, like the restraint was costing him. When he finally spoke again, it came out quieter, rougher, like gravel dragged across his throat. “Tell me you’re mine. Right now. Say it.”

And maybe you should’ve teased him for it—should’ve made some quip about his sudden need for confirmation—but all you could do was stare back at him, completely undone by the way he was looking at you, like having you under him, around him, wasn’t enough unless he could claim every inch of you in every possible way. You could feel how hard he was still, how hot and heavy he throbbed inside you, like your body was the only home he’d ever known, and it was driving you absolutely fucking insane that he wasn’t moving.

So you said it—not because he needed it, but because it was the truest thing you could offer in that moment, your voice catching in your throat as you whispered, “I’m yours. Always.”

It was fast—god, it had to be—but there was nothing hurried about the way he moved. He drove into you with a rhythm so precise it felt like vengeance, not lust, each thrust carving out the echo of your earlier words like he was determined to prove you wrong with every inch. His forearm stayed locked beneath your ass, keeping your hips elevated, tilted just right, so the cot barely shifted beneath you—but your body sure as hell did. Your legs trembled where they draped over his shoulders, slipping slightly with every deep grind of his hips, and the noise that clawed up your throat didn’t sound anything like language.

You were trying to hold it together, but your nerves were shot, mouth slack, fingers twisted in the front of his shirt like you needed something to keep from floating off. The angle—fuck, the angle—was too much. Every inch of you was stretched tight, pulsing around him, body shaking with every drag of him inside you.

“Shit—” The word barely made it past your lips, nothing but a ragged breath ghosting against his ear. You clung tighter, trembling, brain static and white-hot where it should’ve held thoughts. “Baby—fuck—y-you wanna maybe—Jesus—ease up a little—?”

It came out broken, breathy, more plea than sentence, like even forming the words took more focus than you had left. He was buried so deep you could feel him in your spine, his rhythm relentless, like he was trying to rewire every nerve in your body from the inside out.

It wasn’t a complaint, not really—more a desperate kind of awe, like you were just now realizing what you’d unleashed.

His chest was slick against yours, mouth brushing your jaw, and when he answered, it came low and unbothered, like a man entirely in control even as he split you in two.

“You shouldn’t’ve run your mouth,” he rasped, not slowing, not faltering, just rutting deeper, angling harder, like every word you’d tossed at him earlier was still echoing in his head and he was gonna fuck them all back out of yours.

You didn’t get the chance to answer. You didn’t mean to moan—it just ripped through you, sudden and aching, the kind of sound that broke without warning, clawing its way from your chest before your brain could catch up. Your head fell back like it wasn’t yours anymore, the cry already echoing, too loud in the small space, too raw to take back.

Daryl reacted instantly. His palm slammed over your mouth, broad and hot, swallowing the rest of the sound before it could betray you both. But he didn’t stop. Not even a little. His hips stayed locked into you, deep and steady, grinding into the softest part of you like he didn’t hear a thing.

“Sshhh,” he rasped, low in your ear, the breath of it rough and wrecked. “Y’gotta be quiet, alright? Real quiet for me, baby.”

You whimpered beneath his hand, your thighs twitching around his waist, every inch of you wound up like a wire ready to snap. You didn’t want him to stop. Couldn’t let him. You’d die if he did. You were shaking already, half out of breath, half delirious, hips rising to meet every thick, perfect thrust like you were starving for it.

His other hand slid up your waist, slow and open-palmed, until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, where you were still flushed and damp from the mouth he’d had there minutes ago. The fresh bruises on your chest jostled with every thrust, rising and falling with the bounce of your breasts, and the sight had him practically drooling—lips parted, eyes fixed, like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you harder or just stare. He looked down at you then, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, taking you in like he couldn’t get enough—like the image of you laid out under him, back arched, legs trembling, was something he’d hoard forever in the deepest part of his memory.

He groaned low, almost a growl, his hand flexing over your mouth as he pushed deeper, chasing the way your back arched beneath him, the way your slick heat clenched around him like a fucking vice. His other arm was still holding you in place—not just to keep the cot from creaking, but because if he let you go, he wasn’t sure either of you would survive the fallout.

“You’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good,” he muttered against your cheek, voice fraying at the edges, hips rolling deep and hard like he meant to ruin you. 

“Mine,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked. “All fuckin’ mine.”

Your eyes were rolling, your vision shimmering around the edges as you tried your hardest to not make a sound but it was useless, and all you could do was moan against his hand as his cock hit so deep you could feel it in your stomach. Every slam of his hips pushed you higher, tighter, more strung out than you’d been all morning, your hands clawing at his back like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. Your muscles were burning, your toes curling, your body arching off the cot with each snap of his hips until the cot frame itself trembled against the concrete, squeaking just once before he gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip, curling his arm tighter under you, pulling you against him like his goddamn life depended on it.

While his hand stayed firm over your mouth and his arm hooked beneath your ass kept the cot from giving away your rhythm, there wasn’t much either of you could do to muffle the wet, unrelenting slap of skin on skin. The sound echoed low and lewd in the tight space of the cell, rhythmic and obscene, like a metronome counting down how long you had left before someone walked in and found you like this, each sound a filthy, unmistakable announcement of exactly what he was doing to you, of how deep he was buried, of how fast he was moving. Daryl didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. The thought of easing up—of giving you less than everything—didn’t even enter his mind. Not when you were like this under him, writhing, breath hitching against his palm, your legs still shaking where they were perched on his shoulders.

And still, even with his whole body trembling above yours, even with sweat sliding down the side of his neck and his breath dragging raw from his lungs, he lifted his head for just half a second, glanced toward the cell door as if the shadow of earlier still loomed there, waiting.

Though his body never slowed, never faltered, you immediately sensed the shift in his focus—and feared he might stop his blissful motions. Your breath hitched, a desperate sound trying to escape around the edge of his hand, but he was already leaning closer, his chest flush to yours, his pace unrelenting. You could barely speak, but you managed one broken plea—“Don’t stop.”

His eyes snapped right back to yours, but he didn’t slow down, not even for a breath. His rhythm stayed hard and fast, hips driving into you like a man possessed, like the thought of stopping was more dangerous than getting caught.

His mouth was on yours before the words had fully left, not soft, not slow, just hot and open and messy as he swallowed the sound like it fed him. He didn’t pull back, just shifted enough to speak against your lips, his voice so low it vibrated through your ribs where his weight pressed you down.

“Ain’t stoppin’,” he muttered, the words blurred by the kiss, breath pouring straight into your mouth. “Not a chance.”

Your leg slid halfway down his shoulder with the force of his thrusts, too numb and trembling to hold its place. Daryl didn’t miss a beat. He reached down between your bodies without slowing, his hand slipping beneath your thigh, curling around the soft underside as he hoisted you back into place, thigh snug again against his chest, foot dangling behind his back. His other hand braced your hip, holding you down like he knew exactly how much more you could take—and exactly when you’d start to fall apart.

Which, judging by the way your back was already arching, wasn’t long.

You barely got a breath in before he adjusted his angle, tilting his hips and driving deeper—deeper—and your mouth flew open, the noise already clawing its way out before you could even warn him. But Daryl was faster. His palm slapped over your mouth like muscle memory, muffling the cracked, broken moan that would’ve echoed down the cell block if not for his hand.

“Knew it,” he growled, voice thick with pride and sweat and something wrecked, leaning down just enough to speak against your jaw, his breath flooding hot over your cheek. “Knew you weren’t gonna keep quiet.”

You could hardly breathe. You could hardly think. All you could do was feel—feel the sweat sliding down your spine, feel the ache building like a scream in your throat, feel the pressure coil sharp and brutal low in your belly.

Your voice cracked as you tried to speak, a slurred mess of words slipping out in gasps, every thought melting around the thick, rhythmic press of his hips. His cock dragged against that spot deep inside that made your toes curl, your body already spiraling, too gone to be anything but his. Your brain was mush, words sputtering out in muffled whimpers against his palm; “Yours… M' yours… love your dick so much, fuck Daryl—”

That did something to him.

He groaned at that like you’d punched the air out of his lungs, his teeth scraping your cheek as he hissed, “That’s right, baby. Say it all you want. You’re mine.”

You noddded your head franticaly and his chest rumbled with a breathless little laugh, not loud but full of heat, and his mouth dipped to your jaw, then lower, skimming kisses over your cheek, your neck, the edge of your collarbone like he didn’t know where to start with all the places he wanted to worship.

“Yeah?” he murmured, low and lilting, the kind of teasing that didn’t need volume to hit its mark. “That right, baby? Funny… don’t sound like what you were sayin’ earlier. What was it you said? That I lost my edge?”

You moaned in response, not because you meant to, but because you couldn’t help it- the stretch of him was unbearable. The sound shattered somewhere beneath his palm, swallowed by sweat-slick skin and the euphoria of him driving into you again and again, harder now, like he was chasing that sound. Your eyes fluttered open, only to roll back almost immediately, the coil in your stomach drawing tighter, your limbs seizing up like your body couldn’t decide if it needed to run or come undone.

He felt it. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice vibrating straight into your throat where his mouth hovered at your jaw, tongue flicking the sweat pooling in your skin’s hollows. “There she is.”

Your legs twitched against his chest, trembling messes with no strength left to hold. Your hands clutched uselessly at his wrists, your whole body bucking helplessly beneath him. And still he didn’t slow. His pace was ruthless now, relentless, hips slamming into yours with brutal efficiency, chasing every broken sound from your throat like he was hunting them down one by one.

His hand didn’t leave your mouth. Not yet. You were too far gone, your thighs shaking, your stomach tensed, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the pressure grew unbearable. He knew. He could feel it. And he wasn’t stopping until he ripped it out of you.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” he panted, rough and reverent, the rasp of it shaking against your jaw as he pushed deeper. “Yeah? I feel it, pretty girl. You’re right there—c’mon. Give it to me.”

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even think. Your words broke into nothing behind his hand, your nod frantic and shallow as your body seized up beneath him, everything inside you narrowing to the brutal rhythm of his hips and the unbearable pressure building between your legs. Your spine bowed hard, thighs drawn tight and locked over his shoulders, heels pressed into the small of his back, clinging like it might keep you anchored as everything inside you began to come apart.

And then it hit.

Your orgasm crashed into you like a freight train, sharp and deep and catastrophic—an electric snap through your core that hollowed you out with the force of it. You clenched around him, pulsing hard, your whole body locking up, chest stuttering as you tried to scream and couldn’t. Your head jerked back against the mattress, mouth opening under his palm with a muffled sob as your legs spasmed and your hips jolted beneath his grip.

It was too much—too full, too intense, too fast—and still, he didn’t let you breathe. He kept moving through it, dragging it out, every stroke driving impossibly deeper, grinding hard into the aftershocks until your body shook with overstimulation and your nails clawed helplessly at his back, his shoulders, his hair. Your toes curled tight, your chest shuddered, your tears spilled down hot and silent from your temple, and still he held you there, thumb stroking your cheek, murmuring low against your skin like a lullaby in the chaos.

“There you go,” he whispered, barely audible through the haze, watching you unravel like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, baby. Just like that.”

He was close. You felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, not from fatigue, but from the sheer effort of holding on, of staying inside you just a little longer, like his body couldn’t decide whether it needed to finish or fall apart trying. His hips rocked forward in messy, uneven thrusts now, sloppier than before, like he’d been wound too tight and the coil was starting to snap. His breath hitched with every push, pouring hot and desperate against your shoulder as he buried his face there, one hand fisting the blanket beside your ribs, the other gripping your thigh so hard you knew you’d bruise.

“Say it,” he choked out suddenly, the sound barely a whisper, more breath than voice. “Fuck—say it again, baby, I—” His words faltered, teeth gritting like the effort to speak was pulling him apart. “Please. Jus’—please, I need—need to hear it—can’t—shit—.”

You blinked hard, body twitching beneath him, barely coherent through the noise in your skull—but God, the sound of him like this, all broken up and pleading, shot through you like a live wire. He was still pumping inside you, grinding deep with every stroke like he was trying to chase the echo of your orgasm, but now it was different—now it was for him. For the release, he couldn’t reach without you.

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb dragging along the flushed heat of his cheekbone, trying to find your breath in the chaos of his. His voice cracked open against your jaw like it was the only thing holding him together, and your lips curved, wrecked and breathless and just a little smug.

“I’m yours, baby,” you rasped, the words frayed at the edges, half-laughing through the ruin of your throat.

Your lips were barely moving now, wrecked and shaking against the damp skin of his jaw, every syllable catching on a breath you could barely hold.

“Fffuck—just do it,” you gasped, the sound trembling up from somewhere deep, raw. “Make me yours, big guy. You know where I want it”

The words hit him like a lightning strike straight to the base of his spine. You felt it—the full-body shudder, the way his hips stuttered mid-thrust, a guttural moan spilling from somewhere between his teeth like he hadn’t meant to let it out. His forehead dropped hard to yours, sweat-slick and flushed, mouth trembling open like he needed to breathe you in just to stay conscious.

“G-gonna—fuck—fill you up, baby,” he gasped, the words barely hanging together, all breath and desperation, “gonna—shit—gonna stuff you full, m-make it—make it stick—prove you’re—”

His breath caught, teeth clenching like the pleasure hurt. His whole body twitched.“M-mine—fuck—mine—m’fuckin’—mm-mine—”

His whole body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning, every sinew pulled taut as his spine arched and his forehead slammed down against yours, pressing so hard it almost hurt, like he needed the contact just to hold on. The sound that tore from his throat was ragged and broken, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, low and guttural and utterly undone. His hips snapped forward once—deep and punishing—then again, grinding in tight as his whole body seized, and then he was spilling into you with a full-body shudder so violent it felt like he was coming from somewhere deeper than just his cock. You felt him throb inside you with dizzying force, pulse after pulse of hot, thick release flooding your cunt in heavy, desperate spurts that left you raw and gasping. It was relentless, obscene, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to—his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as his cock twitched and kicked deep inside, filling you so full just like he said that the mess started to drip out around the base, your slick mixing with his and running down between your thighs in slow, warm trails. His breath hitched sharp against your cheek, his voice breaking on a cracked, guttural moan as he stammered something incoherent—nothing but shattered syllables and praise and filth spilling from his mouth just as fast as he emptied himself into you.

His breath came shallow and high and still—still—he didn’t stop. The rhythm slowed, sure, but it never ceased, his hips rolling in tight, sticky circles that rocked his softening cock deeper into your slick, swollen heat. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop, not when you were still fluttering around him like that, when your thighs were starting to shake again and your mouth was parting like you were about to fall apart a second time.

“Shit,” he panted, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You—fuck, baby, you gonna give me another one?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with your lungs knotted and your thoughts frayed, not with the way your body was already coiling again like a live wire in his arms.

And he knew it. Knew your tells—how you twitched under him, how your breath caught, how your hips tilted even when you were already wrung out. His hand moved on instinct, sliding between your bodies with effort, fingers slippery with both your slick and his come as he found your clit again, thumb circling with maddening care while his hips gave one more shallow thrust, then another.

He was spent. Too sensitive, too soft, every grind of your cunt around him making his whole body jerk with the ache of it—but he kept moving anyway, fucking you through the overstimulation with soft, deliberate thrusts like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

“C’mon,” he whispered, breath hot and broken against your ear, his voice wrecked but worshipful. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Gimme one more. You can do it, pretty girl. That’s it.”

You whimpered. That voice—that voice, warm and cracked and coaxing—went straight through you. It made your eyes sting and your thighs quake, made your chest cave in on itself like you could melt just from hearing him say your name like that. Your clit throbbed beneath his thumb, hypersensitive and slick with both of you, and every lazy thrust dragged your walls tighter, overstretched around the length of him, making your whole body twitch like he was rewiring your nerves one spark at a time.

Your head tipped back, breath ragged and thin, and you felt it begin to crest again—your second orgasm pulling free from the mess of trembling muscle and too-hot pleasure, blooming sharp and dizzy behind your ribs like it had been building from the moment he started whispering to you.

It wasn’t something you chose—it was something your body did in rebellion, wrung loose from the mess of pulsing nerves and soaked flesh and the dizzy haze clouding your brain like static.

It started with a gasp that never quite made it out, your mouth dropping open but no sound escaping—only a shudder that ripped through your ribs like a second heartbeat detonating in your chest. The pressure hadn’t been building steadily—it had been lurking, low and forgotten, smothered beneath the burn of overstimulation until the moment you saw him unravel, chasing his own release with blind, stuttering thrusts. That image alone—Daryl fucking Dixon wrecked and helpless above you—shoved it loose without warning, exploding like a bomb behind your navel and seeping through your body with a force that made your teeth clench and your legs seize.

Your cunt clamped around him so hard it was borderline painfull; it made him moan, a ragged little noise that barely registered over the roar in your ears. Your thighs twitched violently against his chest. Your hips bucked once, then again—your body fighting it even as it surrendered, unable to choose between pulling him in or shoving him away.

The pressure that had been coiling deep inside you exploded like a fuse blown clean, your head dropping back against the thin pillow as your spine bowed, your mouth opening on a gasp so sharp you couldn’t even make a sound. You convulsed around him, your walls clamping down in helpless spasms that dragged another shattered moan from his throat, the overstimulation painting white-hot streaks of pain through pleasure so thick you almost couldn’t tell the difference. His cock was still twitching inside you, still thick and spent, and you were so fucking full, the heat of him seeping out even as he stayed buried.

And all the while his thumb kept circling, slower now, but firm—like he wanted to feel it all, wanted to help you ride it all the way through. You sobbed into his shoulder, the overstimulation turning everything sharp, every pulse of pleasure edged in pain. It felt like too much—too much pressure, too much heat, too much him—and yet you never wanted it to stop. You were crying again and didn’t even know it, your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails dragging down his scalp like you couldn’t bear to be tethered and yet couldn’t stand the idea of being let go.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, still hooked high around his shoulders, still wide open and straining, the angle so deep you could feel him in your gut. The contrast of his jeans against your skin, the cold metal of his belt buckle brushing your hip—only made it more visceral, more real. Your whole body was slick, wrecked, shaking beneath him, and you didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too deeply in case it shattered the fragile, feral stillness of the moment.

Daryl didn’t move either.

He was still slumped over you, panting through the open heat of his mouth against your cheek, dazed and flushed and entirely undone, his heartbeat hammering against your chest in a rhythm that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with surrender. His hand lifted, trembling, to cup your face—thumb brushing your cheekbone like he still didn’t believe you were real—and he blinked slowly, like coming back to his body was the hardest thing he’d done all night.

He barely had the strength to hold himself up, but the second he felt your body shake beneath him, really shake—something sharp and jagged, the kind of tremor that didn’t come from pleasure alone, he snapped out of it.

Your thighs were still locked high against his chest and slung over his shoulders, trembling hard, your whole body slick and spent and shaking like the air had been knocked clean out of you. You weren’t breathing right—your chest was rising too fast, too shallow, like your lungs didn’t know how to catch up, and Daryl’s heart just about dropped out of his chest.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed, voice still rough with the echo of everything he’d just poured into you, but laced now with something quieter. Steadier. Concern. “S’okay, baby. Look at me.”

He eased your legs down first, one at a time, careful with the back of your knees like he knew they ached. You whimpered from the stretch, and he whispered a soft apology, kissing your calves as he eased them down, hands smoothing down your thighs in apology. His touch stayed slow, grounding, reverent.

You couldn’t answer. You were trying—your mouth opened, jaw slack, chest stuttering—but the breath wouldn’t come right. That terrified look hit his eyes for a second, just a flicker, and he leaned in quick, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing sweat-soaked hair from your temple.

“Breathe with me, alright?” he murmured, forehead touching yours. “Just like this. In—real slow.” He inhaled, slow and deep, exaggerating the movement so you could follow. “Now out. You got it.”

You tried. Failed the first time. But he didn’t move, didn’t rush you. Just stroked his fingers through your hair, guiding you again. And again. Until finally your lungs caught—stuttering, then settling—your breath easing out in a shudder that broke something inside him.

“There you go,” he whispered, brushing his lips to your cheek, to your jaw, then finally to your mouth. “Atta girl.”

You melted beneath him, limbs too heavy to move, heart still rattling somewhere against your ribs like a trapped bird. His body was still flush against yours, dick soft now but still buried, your bodies locked together by heat and slick and everything they’d just endured.

He stayed right there. One hand on your hip, gently rubbing warmth back into your skin. The other cradled your face like you were something breakable—and maybe you were, just a little. He kissed you then, slow and soft and unhurried, nothing like the frantic heat from minutes before. His lips moved over yours like a promise.

You whimpered against him—this time from the weight of emotion, not overstimulation—and he caught it in his mouth, swallowing the sound like it was sacred.

He didn’t move far—just enough to slide his hand down between your bodies and gently ease himself from you, hissing softly at the sensitivity, his other hand still stroking slow circles into your hip. You winced, breath hitching as the emptiness hit, sudden and raw, the wet heat of it slicking down your thighs like a reminder of how deep he’d been, how much he’d given you.

“Easy,” he murmured, all gravel and reverence, like the moment had burned the growl out of him.

His hand kept stroking slow along your sides, fingertips trailing through the sweat that cooled faster than you could stop shivering. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your temple, your cheekbone, your jaw—never in the same place twice, like he was trying to ground himself with the taste of your skin.

He looked down to look over your body again, and that's when he saw the flush of red, high along the inside of your thighs. Angry friction-burn streaks that bloomed deeper in patches, painted into your skin by the hard grip of his belt, the denim that hadn’t fully come down, the relentless drag of his hips when neither of you had been able to stop. They stood out stark against your skin, wet and raw, already darkening with the threat of bruising.

He stilled completely.

One hand, the one still curled at your hip, loosened its grip, the tension leaving his fingers like the guilt had drained it from him. He glanced up at your face again, searching for the shift—the furrow of your brow, the wince, the sharp inhale that usually came when the comedown set in. But it wasn’t there. You were still gone. Still floating.

You didn’t know what he’d done to you.

And that was what made his gut twist like he’d been sucker-punched.

It would’ve been easier if you had noticed—if you’d hissed through your teeth or shoved at his chest, if you’d blinked hard and looked at the red blooming down your thighs and said What the fuck, Daryl. But you hadn’t. Because you trusted him. Because even wrecked and trembling and strung-out, your body let him do whatever he wanted without question, without fear. Because you’d gone so pliant for him, so soft, that you hadn’t even noticed he’d left marks behind.

Still breathless, still fogged from the comedown, you reached for him anyway—your hand brushing gently across the back of his neck, threading into his hair as if that might anchor him.

But he was already sliding down.

Carefully, reverently, he shifted his weight away from your chest, his palms moving slowly down your outer thighs, thumbs stroking softly over the trembling skin, until he could cradle one of them completely in his calloused grip.

Then he dipped forward.

His mouth found the inner seam of your thigh with no hesitation, and he kissed it—slow and warm and deeply apologetic, like he thought the softness of his lips could undo the imprint of his roughness. He didn’t stop there, either. His head tilted slightly as he kissed lower, then higher, then pressed his mouth directly over one of the deeper bruises forming near your hip. His lips lingered there, barely moving, just resting against your skin as he exhaled, slow and uneven, like he could feel the ache blooming in your flesh and wanted to take it into himself.

You felt his breath stutter against your thigh—hot, humid, remorseful—and your stomach pulled tight, not from pain, but from the sheer gravity of his tenderness. The contrast made your throat close. The same man who’d just been wrecking you into the mattress now held your legs like something breakable, his body curled low and close as if to shield you from the mess he’d made. You watched his brow crease against your skin, watched his jaw flex like he was chewing on guilt he didn’t know how to name.

“Daryl,” you whispered, or maybe whimpered, fingers curling tighter in his damp hair. Your hips twitched, still faintly overstimulated, and his hands smoothed over them without thought—grounding you, soothing you, even as he kissed the other thigh with just as much care, just as much quiet reverence.

“…Shit, baby I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly, eyes raking ouver your coloured skin.

You blinked, breath stuttering in your chest as your brows pulled together. “What?”

His arms tightened around you just a little, and his next breath came slower, but rougher, like it scratched on the way out. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing soft beneath your ear.

“Was too rough,” he muttered. “Got riled up. I—I didn’t mean to push you that hard. You were shakin’ like a damn leaf, couldn’t even breathe right at first, and—” He swallowed, nose brushing yours as his eyes dropped closed.

You smiled before you even meant to, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, because you could feel the guilt blooming under his skin like heat—could feel the ache in him, that quiet fear he’d broken something delicate.

You blinked slowly, eyes still hazy as your fingers found his jaw and gave it a lazy little tap. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, voice low and hoarse but smiling all the same. “Don’t go soft on me now, Dixon. You rocked my damn world.”

He didn’t open his eyes. Just let out a rough breath like he wasn’t sure whether to believe you.

You nudged your nose against his, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “I mean it,” you whispered, each word deliberate. “That wasn’t too rough. That was—shit, that was perfect. You didn’t push me too hard.” Your thumb stroked along his jaw, grounding him as your voice dropped to a low, tender murmur. “I wanted it. All of it. I always do.”

You felt him watching you, brow furrowed like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to believe you—so you leaned in just a breath closer, your lips nearly touching his, and finished, “And that’ll never change. Ev-verrr.”

That got him. The faintest huff of a laugh escaped him, cheeks flushed under the scruff as he buried his face deeper into your neck, arms curling tighter around you like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting you go.

And then, quieter: “You sure?”

“You always do this,” you added, your voice softening as your nails scratched lightly at his scalp. “Start mopin’ like I didn’t just get the best dick of my life."

“Newsflash, lover,” you murmured, voice still wrecked and lazy as your fingers idly traced the sweat-damp line of his jaw, “if you didn’t fuck me that good, then I’d be upset.”

He let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, like your words knocked the wind right out of him. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, nose brushing yours again as he tried to hide the pink dusting his cheeks—but you felt it. Felt the way his whole body softened at your words, the tension melting out of his spine as you pulled him back into your arms like he was home.

You tilted his face up with a hand to his cheek, kissed him slow, real slow, until he stopped breathing like he’d broken something. He blinked, brow twitching, mouth twitching too.

“You—” he started, but you didn’t let him finish. Just leaned in and kissed him slow, mouths sliding together with the kind of lazy confidence that only came after being thoroughly fucked and adored.

His protest died under your lips, swallowed whole as your mouth moved against his—soft and unhurried, your tongue brushing his in slow, drugged sweeps that left him shivering. His stubble scraped gently against your chin, grounding you in the raw, lingering friction of everything that had just passed between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him still, his breath catching every time you shifted, your bare chest pressed to the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples sensitive and swollen from his earlier attention.

And God, the warmth. The weight of him. The heat still trapped between your thighs, the slick mess where your bodies joined, the faint ache starting to curl in your belly—it all just made you kiss him harder.

When you pulled back, your grin was crooked, eyes half-lidded but bright.

“You really showed me, huh?” you whispered against his mouth, and then let your nose bump his. “Next time I doubt you, you’ve got my full permission to prove me wrong again. As long as it is exactly like that.”

A short huff of laughter escaped him—relieved, grateful—and he dipped his head, hiding his smirk in the curve of your neck.

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t shift. Didn’t check the door again. He just melted downward, letting his full weight settle over you like a human blanket as the last of the tension drained from his limbs, muscle by muscle, breath by breath. His arms slid low around your waist, wrapping tight beneath the arch of your back, holding you so close your ribs ached from it—but you wouldn’t have traded that pressure for anything in the world.

Your skin tacky with sweat, your legs splayed boneless and wide, too worn out toyou. do anything but let him cocoon. You felt every inch of the difference between you—his worn denim jeans scraping lightly against your thighs, the cool fabric of his shirt sticking to the slick between your bodies, while you lay there in nothing but your own skin, flushed and raw and claimed. He was fully dressed, save for the undone fly and the mess smeared low between you both, and yet somehow he looked more undone than you’d ever seen him.

He buried his face in your neck, arms locked around your back so fiercely you almost couldn’t move. Your own arms curled up around his shoulders, fingertips smoothing beneath his collar, tracing the lines of muscle beneath fabric and sweat and heat.

“You ain’t gonna suffocate me, are you?” you mumbled against the top of his head, though you made no effort to shift. Your fingers drifted toward the scruff at his jaw, nails gently grazing over the stubble like you were testing its sharpness.

“Nah,” he said, voice gravel-thick and slow, muffled in your throat. “You’ll pass out long before that.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Just laid there, blanketing you completely, your skin fused together by sweat and everything that had just passed between you. His breathing was low now, heavy and even, and every time his chest rose, it nudged your ribs in a way that made your body relax even more deeply beneath him. His arms stayed wrapped around your middle, keeping you close, possessive without pressure, his weight grounding you like a promise you didn’t need to hear out loud.

Eventually, his mouth started to wander. Not with any urgency—just the soft, reverent sort of drifting that came when he didn’t quite know what to do with all the emotion still buzzing inside him. He kissed your neck first, then your collarbone, then lower, brushing his lips along the curve of your shoulder like he couldn't get enough of the taste of you, one freckle at a time. His lips weren’t searching for anything; they were just loving you the only way he knew how—with his mouth, with his silence, with his hands splayed warm across your back.

You sighed, content, your fingers already lifting to his hair by instinct, weaving slowly into the strands at his nape. You didn’t even have to think about it. Just like breathing.

A few strokes passed before you started doing what you always did—absently curling a small section around your finger, letting it spring free before twisting it again. Except this time, your fingers didn’t stop at idle. They got ideas.

A lock near his temple caught your attention, and you gathered it gently, twisting it into another. Then again. A few moments passed, and he shifted slightly, pressing a lazy kiss just over your breast before mumbling into your skin, “You doin’ weird shit to my hair again?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, way too pleased with yourself. “Braiding it.”

“Thought so,” he grunted.

“Your hair was begging to be played with,” you defended with a smile. “You’ve got Viking hair now, baby. You should be proud.”

“Shit,” he muttered into your chest, but it wasn’t angry—just that low, gravelly grumble that meant he was tired and content and pretending to be grumpy because the alternative was admitting how much he liked being doted on. His voice vibrated against your sternum as he shifted, one arm pulling tighter across your back while the other anchored itself beneath your ribs, locking you against him like he didn’t plan to let you out of his hold till noon.

You smiled into his hair, fingers carding through the dark, damp strands now curling messily at the nape of his neck. The braid you’d twisted near his temple still held, wonky and loose but unmistakably yours. You couldn’t help it—you started tracing the shape again, teasing another tiny coil into place.

He groaned quietly, shifting against you, face still buried between your breasts. “Swear to God, you braid one more piece, I’m gonna end up lookin’ like a damn horse.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you murmured, kissing the crown of his head.

He sighed, loud and theatrical, like a man forced to carry an unbearable burden—his girlfriend’s affection. But he didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. If anything, he nuzzled closer, arms winding tighter around you like he was folding himself into your skin.

“You braid it again,” he mumbled, tone flat and unimpressed, “’m cuttin’ the whole damn thing off.”

You snorted. “Sure you are.”

He didn’t even argue, just buried his face deeper into your neck to hide his blushing face, sucking and kissing like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that he was supposed to be annoyed.

“You leave your hair long and expect me not to braid it?” you teased, voice honey-sweet. “That’s unrealistic.”

He groaned. Not from discomfort—just the resigned groan of a man whose fate was sealed and knew it. “Never gonna hear the end of it, walkin’ around with your damn arts and crafts hangin’ off my head.”

You giggled, nuzzling your nose against his temple. “You’d still wear it, though.”

His silence was telling. He just grunted, a sound that somehow meant shut up and fine, maybe at the same time, arms squeezing tighter like he was too tired to fight you—or maybe just didn’t want to.

“Don’t make a thing of it.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely gonna make a thing of it.”

His breath huffed against your skin, his fingers flexing at your spine. You could feel the smile he tried to hide, crooked and soft and buried beneath the pretence. For all his gruff talk, he was clinging to you like he might fall apart if he let go. The contrast made you ache—his fully clothed body wrapped protectively around your bare one, jeans still open, belt hanging loose, and not an ounce of distance between you. You could feel his heartbeat in the cage of his ribs, every breath pressed close, every shift of his hips pulling you deeper into his hold.

You let your fingertips play through his hair again, slow and tender, twisting another lazy braid just behind his ear.

“Love your hair long,” you said softly, lips brushing the side of his head. “It’s hot. Rugged. Kinda feral.”

 He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the tell—his shoulders stiffened for a beat, breath catching just slightly before he huffed a quiet, grumbly “Mm,” like maybe if he kept his face buried in your neck long enough you wouldn’t notice the heat crawling up the back of his ears. His arms tightened around you subtly, and when he finally spoke again it was muffled into your skin, short and blunt and just a little too defensive to be convincing—“Stop it”—which only made you smile wider, fingers slipping back into his hair, twisting a slow braid near the base of his skull while he sighed through his nose and tried not to melt at the way you held him, every stroke of your touch sinking deeper than he’d ever admit, each word making his chest pull tight in that soft, stupid way it always did when you said shit like that and actually meant it.

“Gonna get you all kinds of attention,” you murmured, lazy with affection, your lips brushing the top of his head as your fingers continued threading through his tangled hair.

He snorted—low, unimpressed, muffled somewhere against your sternum—and for a second you felt him go a little still, his breath stalling just long enough to make you smirk. Then came the scoff, rough and dismissive, like the very idea physically repulsed him.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” you went on, grinning now, dragging it out just because you knew exactly how much it made him cringe. “You keep walkin’ around like this—lookin’ all broody and hot and apocalypse-dirty—gonna have a line of women throwin’ themselves at you. All fluttery lashes and damp panties and oh no, mister Dixon, I twisted my ankle—can I lean on your weirdly toned forearms?”

That got him. You felt it—his fingers, already splayed warm across your back, dug deeper into your spine like he could anchor himself in you and disappear altogether. He shifted slightly, nose brushing your collarbone, and mumbled the words like they hurt to even say out loud.

 His hands flexed around you, just a small twitch, but enough to feel it down your spine, and you didn’t miss the small, frustrated puff of air that broke against your skin.

“Ain’t interested,” he grumbled, a little lower now. “Only woman I see.”

You hummed, pleased, but you weren’t done—not even close. “Mm, sure, sure,” you mused, stroking slowly through his hair again, your lips brushing his temple as he buried further into your neck. “But y’know, I’m just one woman. One chaotic, loudmouthed, occasionally homicidal woman. Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to play the field a bit—see what’s out there. I mean, maybe there's someone out there that don’t steal all your jerky or gaslight you into thinkin’ that shirt's always been hers.”

His groan came first, muffled into your throat, followed closely by a kiss—, pressed with purpose to your skin like he could shut you up with sheer proximity. You felt the heat of his breath when he spoke next, right against your skin, low and frayed and curling with something a little too serious to be just a joke. “Tempting,” he murmured. “Like I said, ain't interested." You smiled, smug and deliriously warm, tilting your head just enough to catch his mouth when it dragged higher toward your jaw, your hands sliding down to cradle the nape of his neck like maybe, if you held him just right, you could keep the whole damn world at bay.

“You’re gonna have to beat ’em off with a stick,” you murmured, still petting through his hair like he was some wild thing you’d tamed. “All them ladies seein’ you in your rugged, road-worn glory, stridin’ through the cellblock with that broody lumberjack energy and your little braid glintin’ like a mating signal—phew. Honestly, I might get jealous.”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. Just let out a long breath against your skin, like he was trying to decide whether to entertain you or just smother himself in your chest until the teasing stopped. His thumb stroked absentmindedly at your waist, slow and steady, like he couldn’t not touch you.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, still grinning. “I mean the least you could do is flirt a bit, babe. I mean, why waste all this hotness on me?”

That’s when he shifted, just a little—just enough to glance up at you through the mess of hair you’d been playing with, his eyes half-lidded and soft but still sharp enough to cut through your bullshit.

You were smirking, ready to lob another tease, but he beat you to it.

“Yeah, well… you’re it for me,” he muttered, like it was obvious, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could stop a heart mid-beat. His voice was low and scratchy, lips brushing your collarbone as he said it, almost like he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

Just a fact. Just… truth.

You blinked, breath catching stupidly in your throat as your fingers stilled in his hair.

He nestled back into your chest like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just said the one thing that could flatten your entire nervous system in a second.

“That so?” you managed eventually, your voice a little higher than before, a little breathier, as if your lungs were still trying to remember how to work.

You smiled so wide it hurt, your cheeks aching with the kind of giddy warmth that only ever came from this—him, wrapped around you like a human blanket, too tired to tease, too soft to let go. You hooked your legs back around his hips like a smug little octopus and felt the weight of him shift, arms sliding beneath your back, pulling you tighter until your chest was pressed flush to his. He didn’t even pretend to mind. Just melted into the shape of you like it was his natural form, head buried in the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath fogging against your skin as sleep tugged at the edges of him.

“Mhm,” he mumbled simply, his voice thick with sleep and something quieter, heavier—the weight of everything he didn’t say out loud but always meant.

You let your forehead drop gently to his collarbone, your grin still glued to your face like it had nowhere better to be. “You sure?” you whispered. “’Cause I’m kinda messy.”

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t even flinch—just grunted, low and blunt against your throat. “Uh-huh. You’re my mess.”

“I talk a lot.”

“That’s how I know you’re still breathin’.”

You snorted at that, clearly proving his point. “I leave bobby pins and hair ties everywhere.”

He let out a warm breath, all smug and lazy where his face was still tucked against your temple. “That’s your callin’ card,” he mumbled, voice slurred with sleep, “helps me track you down… so i can do this-” Then, without shifting more than a fraction, he dipped his head and closed his teeth gently around the shell of your ear, nibbling right where he knew it’d make you twitch. You jolted beneath him with a startled squeak, laughter bursting from your chest before you could stop it, and he just hummed, pleased as anything, arms cinching tighter to keep you from wriggling away. He didn’t even lift his head again—just stayed buried there, smug and exhausted, clearly proud of himself for ruining the moment and making it better all at once.

You barely had time to breathe before continuing, your words slurring softly against his mouth. “I steal the blanket.”

“You’re always cold,” he muttered, not the least bit annoyed. “Deal with it.” Another kiss, this one against your cheekbone, rougher with the scratch of his stubble.

“I snort when I laugh too hard.”

His response came fast, simple. “Yeah. ’S cute.”

“I always want sex.”

That earned a pause. Then, muffled against your neck, a lazy, unimpressed, “…And?”

“I use your toothbrush sometimes.”

“Knew that.” He exhaled slowly. “Been usin’ yours back.”

You gasped in mock betrayal, and he chuckled sleepily.

“I have RBF. Everyone thinks I hate them.”

“Good. Means they don’t talk to ya. Saves me the trouble.”

“My boobs are weird.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. Weirdly fuckin’ perfect.”

You huffed out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering. “My boobs make you almost kill people.”

“Damn right they do,” he said, still buried in your neck, not even trying to sound sorry.

“You nearly murdered a man ’cause I was walkin’ around with no bra.”

“Wasn’t murder if I stopped.”

There was a beat.

“...Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoed, gruff.

“All my bras were in the wash,” you added, defensively. “It wasn’t like I wanted to start something.”

“Wear whatever you like,” he murmured, voice gone all gravel again. “Or don’t. I can fight.”

You giggled so hard you felt your ribs ache.

“I change my mind every two seconds.”

He shifted slightly, not enough to open his eyes, just enough to press a kiss to your jaw. “You ain’t changin’ your mind ’bout me, though. That’s all I care about.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your smile trembling now in the most dangerous way.

You grinned. “My thighs are too big.”

His hand slid down without thinking, landing right on said thighs, as if to prove a point. “They’re perfect,” he muttered. "Don’t talk dumb.”

“I keep knives in stupid places.”

“That’s why I love sleepin’ next to you,” he said, deadpan. “If someone breaks in, you’d kill ’em with a butter knife in your bra.”

You snorted again, full-bodied and loose and gleeful, and felt him smile against your skin in that tired, crooked, entirely-in-love kind of way.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine.”

That shut you up. Only for a second—but long enough for him to press a kiss to your smile like he wanted to live inside it. His breath warmed your skin. His thumbs stroked your back.

You hummed, dizzy with the kind of joy that sat low in your belly and high in your throat. "Oh well. Guess it's you n' me. Doesn't sound so bad.”

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t open his eyes—just exhaled slow and deep against your neck like every inch of him was made to rest right there. “Could be worse,” he mumbled, lips brushing your skin. “Could be just me.”

And then, after a beat—so quiet you almost missed it:

“Wouldn’t be much of a life, though.”

You felt your heart thump hard beneath his cheek, the weight of those quiet words slipping beneath your ribs like a secret. It caught something tender inside you—something raw and aching and soft all at once. Your arms curled tighter around his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair as if to tether him even closer, even though there was nowhere left to go.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed the crown of his head, slow and lingering, like a vow made flesh. Your smile was barely there, but it curled into your skin anyway—low in your belly, warm in your chest—settling into place like it belonged.

You stayed there in silence for a while. Just the hum of early morning noise outside the block, the creak of pipes and distant murmurs of life moving on beyond the curtains.

The knock came just as Daryl had started to slip toward sleep, that heavy, boneless kind of doze that only happened when every muscle had been wrung dry and every ounce of tension had bled out into the sweat-slick skin beneath him. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath rising and falling steady against your collarbone, and your arms were still wrapped around his shoulders like they were made to be there.

The door creaked open anyway.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice drifted in, casual, half-distracted. “Hey, we’re switchin’ towers. You’re needed at west now. East’s covered.”

Daryl didn’t lift his head. Just grunted low in his throat, the sound muffled into the warm curve of your neck.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Y’ mind givin’ us a minute?”

Rick took a few steps in, still not looking too closely. “Hershel’s talkin’ with Nick, by the way. Might want to keep an eye—”

Then he stopped.

You felt it—that moment when Rick’s eyes landed on the way Daryl’s body was blanketing something—or someone, rather. His mouth paused mid-sentence. His posture changed just slightly, not quite shock, not quite embarrassment—more like a man slowly realizing he had walked straight into something he didn’t have the clearance for.

The realisation landed all at once—Daryl’s dishevelled hair, the way his shirt was bunched at the back, his jeans hanging low on his hips. And more damning than anything: your very bare legs hooked around him like vines, your arms wrapped up around his neck like you’d grown there. His whole body was draped over yours like a damn tarp, arms banded around you like the bars of a cage, your legs pinned comfortably beneath his.

You offered no mercy.

“Heyyyy Rick,” you chirped from beneath the tangle of muscle and denim, voice warm and just a little too smug.

Rick blinked. “Shit—didn’t even see you there.”

You grinned into Daryl’s hair, arms tightening around him like you were proving a point. “Yeah, I’m a good hider.”

Daryl groaned again and finally stirred enough to lift his head a fraction, glaring toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a man two seconds from pretending this was a fever dream. One of his hands shifted over your thigh, casually pulling your leg higher to make damn sure there was nothing for Rick to accidentally notice.

“Rick. Get out, man,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded, voice hoarse and sleep-soft but edged with that quiet Daryl don’t-fuck-with-this tone that got the message across.

Rick coughed and turned on his heel. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t see anything. Just west tower. That’s all.”

“Good,” you called after him, loud enough to carry. “You may wanna shut the curtain before you see something that scars you for life.”

It shut instantly.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Just lay there with his full weight pressed into you, his arms tightening slightly, like maybe if he held you hard enough, time would bend to his will and Rick would forget all about that west tower.

But eventually, with a reluctant grunt and another warm brush of his nose against your throat, he shifted—just enough to kiss your collarbone, then your jaw. His hand slipped down your side in a slow, grounding stroke before he finally eased his weight off you, propping himself up on his forearms.

You frowned. “Wait—what’re you doing?”

He stood, tucking himself back into his jeans like it was nothing, adjusting his shirt as he muttered under his breath about being late. His belt clinked softly as he fastened it one-handed, the other dragging through the tousled mess of hair you’d braided earlier, fingers pausing for a second at the little plait like he was debating whether to take it out—then didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You blinked up at him, stunned. “You’re leaving?”

His boots scraped against the concrete as he bent to grab the knife from beside the cot, slipping it back into the sheath on his hip with the kind of fluid, practiced ease that came from years of muscle memory, though his limbs still moved like he was underwater—slow, loose, reluctant.

His eyes drifted back to you, drawn like gravity to the mess he’d made of you, still sprawled exactly where he’d left you, your skin flushed and dewy with the afterglow, one knee tipped outward in lazy surrender. The inside of your thighs, bare and parted, were marked with the dusky bloom of friction burns, smeared with the sheen of both of you, glistening in the low light like some kind of proof. His breath caught before he could help it. That small, unguarded ache flared behind his ribs—guilt, awe, possession—all tangled up in the sight of you laid out and pliant like that, completely fucked-out, hair wild and lips kiss-swollen.

He swallowed hard and dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. The urge to crawl back on top of you and lose himself all over again hit sharp and sudden.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose and looked over his shoulder, deadpan.

“Yeah. Got watch, remember?” he muttered, but his voice was hoarse, his face still turned slightly like he didn’t quite trust himself to look at you again just yet.

“You literally just railed the soul outta me and now you’re off to do security like it’s a nine-to-five?”

He shrugged, “Can’t exactly call in horny.”

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair a mess, thighs still sticky, blanket barely covering anything, and scowled at his back as he did up his belt like he hadn’t just ruined you six ways from Sunday. “Wow. Not even a pat on the ass. You’re really leaning into the whole hit-it-and-quit-it thing, huh?”

Daryl didn’t even flinch. Just glanced back over his shoulder with that aggravating little smirk of his, like he knew exactly how wrecked you were and liked it that way. “Ain’t quittin’ nothin’. You’ll still be here when I get back.”

You scoffed. “You don’t know that. Maybe I’ll pack up and elope with someone who doesn’t abandoning me after rearranging my guts.”

He tugged his shirt into place with all the urgency of a man late to brunch, not post-coital bliss. “Ain't abandoning no one. Besides, you’d get bored in five minutes.”

You grabbed the nearest sock—his—and threw it at his head. Missed.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, slumping back against the pillow with a dramatic huff.

He lingered at the threshold, one hand braced against the frame like it might collapse under the weight of his hesitation. His back was half-turned, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders, like he was trying to walk off a tether that wouldn’t snap.

“You know I don’t wanna leave,” he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “But it’s what we do. One of us goes, acts like nothin’ happened. Other one waits. We always come back.”

You turned your head into the pillow like the act of looking at him might physically wound you. “Fine,” you muttered, loud enough to carry but muffled just enough to be petty. “Go on, then. Abandon me in my time of need.”

That earned a low scoff from across the room. “Your time of need?” he repeated, and even without looking, you could hear the smirk forming.

You didn’t dignify it with a response. Just curled a little tighter, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might save you from this tragic betrayal.

You felt the shift in the air before the cot dipped under his weight, and then suddenly—an arm snaked around your waist. You squealed in protest, trying to writhe away, but he was already dragging you backwards against the heat of his chest, locking you in tight.

“Daryl—” you tried to snap, but then his mouth was on your temple.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing another kiss just below your eye. Then one to your cheekbone. Then the tip of your nose. “This is what you get.”

“For what?” you demanded, breath catching as he kissed the corner of your mouth with the kind of smug, lazy persistence that always made your brain melt.

“For actin’ like I ain’t gonna miss you,” he muttered, nudging his nose into your hair. “Tryna guilt-trip me into stayin'.”

You twisted, squirming, kicking a bare foot at his shin, but he caught your chin and kissed you straight on the mouth—slow and smug and so soft it made your teeth ache.

“Stop it,” you mumbled against his lips.

“Nope,” he muttered, already kissing down your jaw like it was his goddamn mission. “You started this.”

You tried to roll again, but his arm just cinched tighter, pulling you right back into his grip.

“You are so annoying,” you huffed, though you were smiling so hard your face hurt.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and worn soft around the edges. His hand skimmed gently down your side, grounding rather than possessive. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, your lips barely twitching around the grin you tried to suppress. “You say that like I’m not already devastated.”

That earned a quiet chuckle—more breath than sound—as he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and lingered there for a second longer than necessary, like your skin might convince him to stay.

He finally pulled back with a low groan, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it gently over your body like he was tucking in something precious. His palm smoothed it over your hip, fingers pausing at your thigh for one last squeeze, one last touch to anchor himself before he left.

He was halfway through the curtain when your voice followed him, warm and dripping with amusement.

“Uh, Dixon?”

He paused with a hand on the edge of the fabric, his head turning slightly, the curtain still clutched in his fingers.

You were propped up on one elbow, buried in the blanket except for a bare knee poking free—just enough to keep things questionably decent. Your chin rested on your palm, gaze sharp with affection and something smug curling at the corners of your mouth.

“…You forgettin’ something?”

He blinked once. Then again. Brows pinched.

“…Uh.”

You lifted both brows and waited, giving him nothing.

He stepped back into the room slowly, like you were some kind of puzzle he hadn’t been briefed on—his eyes scanning you, then the floor, then the table in the corner, as if he might be able to track down whatever vital thing he’d missed.

“…Thought I said I’d be back,” he tried, cautious.

You rolled your eyes, groaning softly. “Not what I meant.”

Daryl looked down at himself like a man running a mental pre-flight checklist. Belt? Buckled. Shirt? On. Knife? Holstered. Boots? Laced. Gun? Holstered.

Still nothing.

You snorted under your breath and shook your head. “Unbelievable.”

And that’s when you saw it—the flicker of clarity breaking across his face like dawn creeping over the mountains.

“Oh,” he muttered, sheepish now, and crossed the room again in a few quiet steps.

You thought he’d make a joke about it. Thought he’d grumble or say whoops or my bad or something equally Daryl. But instead, he reached for your face, cradling your cheek with one rough palm, and leaned in to kiss you. Not a quick peck. Not a teasing brush. A proper kiss. Slow and deep and full of everything he didn’t always say out loud. The kind of kiss that made your breath hitch even though your thighs still ached and your body was already wrecked from him.

He pulled back just enough for his lips to hover against yours, his breath warm as he murmured, “Love ya.”

You blinked. Then grinned, a little dazed. “Aww. I love you too, baby.”

A pause.

“…But I meant your scope, you actual dumbass.”

He froze.

Then glanced over his shoulder, following your eyes to where the long, matte-black rifle scope sat forgotten on the crate beside the bed.

“Shit.”

You were practically beaming now. “Real romantic though.”

Daryl shook his head, scooping it up and slinging the strap over one shoulder with a muttered curse. He was already halfway back to the curtain when your voice trailed after him, sing-song and gleeful:

“Can’t believe you almost strutted outta here half-cocked and scope-less.”

But his shoulders were relaxed, that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

You didn’t realize how much you missed the sound of a wooden spoon clacking against a pot until Alexandria made it possible to cook again—not just boil, but cook. Real food. Garlic sautéed in oil. Dough rising in bowls. Crackling butter, eggs cracked into hot pans. You had spices now. Not many, but enough. Enough to make you feel human again.

You stirred the soup gently, humming to yourself, bare feet cold against the tiled kitchen floor. The windows were open, and somewhere down the street, Judith was laughing. That kind of laughter—the kind that didn’t sound like it came from someone holding their breath—was new. A rare luxury. You soaked in the sound.

Your little house wasn’t much. It had peeling baseboards and that one light in the hallway that flickered if you stepped too hard. But it was clean. Yours. You’d hung mismatched rugs, lit candles with no scent left in them, fluffed pillows that didn’t quite match, and named the little houseplant on the windowsill “Martha” just to remind yourself to water her.

And for some reason, lately, Daryl Dixon kept showing up.

“Got ya wrench,” he said gruffly from your doorway, holding up a rusted tool with one gloved hand.

You looked over your shoulder. “Did I… ask for a wrench?”

“Nah. Figured y’might need one eventually,” he muttered.

You quirked a brow. “You sure that wasn’t just an excuse to show up during dinner?”

He shrugged like it was possible. “Smelled somethin’ good from down the street.”

You pointed your wooden spoon at him. “Boots off.”

Daryl glanced down, pretending not to notice the trail of mud he’d already left behind. “Shit. Sorry.”

The next time he came by—two days later—he left his boots on the porch without a word.

It became a routine neither of you acknowledged. You cooked. He showed up with something—an old book, a fixed knife, once even a box of instant pudding mix he’d found “for later.” You stopped asking why. You just made enough food for two.

“Soup again?” he asked one night, eyeing the steaming bowls on your table.

You handed him a spoon. “Be grateful. It’s chicken this time.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “Damn near gourmet.”

“You ever cook, Dixon?”

He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable for someone who never officially moved in. “Cooked squirrel once over a campfire. Burnt the ears off.”

You choked on your drink. “They have ears?”

“Yeah. Cute little ones. Not anymore.”

You laughed so hard you snorted, and Daryl grinned at the sound—barely, but enough.

Sometimes you’d catch him watching you. Not in a weird way. In a way that felt… reverent. Like he wasn’t quite sure how you were real. You’d be folding laundry on the couch, sleeves inside out, warm fabric tucked under your chin. You didn’t look your best—your hair was tied up in a half-falling bun, you had a smudge of flour on your cheek, and your socks didn’t match.

Still, his eyes lingered. Especially on your hands.

He didn’t know why he kept imagining them folding something smaller. Softer. Baby-sized.

Didn’t know why the thought made his heart twist like that.

One afternoon, you were putting away canned goods when you realized your shelf was suspiciously full. You stared at the neat row of tomatoes, peas, beans.

You turned toward the man fixing your porch light without being asked.

“You been sneaking in food again?”

He didn’t look back. “Ain’t sneakin’. Just settin’ it down.”

“Daryl.”

“Y’run low on stuff. I notice.”

You crossed your arms, trying to hide your smile. “You know, if you wanted an excuse to move in, there are more subtle ways.”

That made him finally glance at you. His ears went pink. “Ain’t movin’ in.”

“Sure,” you teased. “You’ve only eaten here five nights this week.”

“Six,” he corrected under his breath.

The next day, you caught him sniffing your laundry.

Not, like, creepily. He didn’t even notice he was doing it.

He’d picked up a folded shirt to move it and paused, his brow furrowing.

“Daryl?”

“Huh?” He looked up, startled, the shirt still in his hands.

You smirked. “That mine or yours?”

He glanced at it like he couldn’t tell. “Yours, I think.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat. “What soap d’you use?”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“Smells… real nice.”

Your lips curved up slowly. “You mean I smell real nice.”

He went bright red. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He dropped the shirt and muttered, “Ain’t askin’ no more favors.”

“Yes you are,” you said, grinning. “You’ll be back tomorrow.”

He tried to hide the way the corner of his mouth lifted. “Tch.”

One evening, while you were both on the porch—he was fixing your railing, you were drinking lukewarm tea—you caught him saying it.

“So,” you started casually, “you just go around fixing everybody’s house?”

“Just yours,” he said. Too quick. Too natural.

You blinked. He didn’t seem to notice.

He finished hammering in a nail and leaned back on his heels. “Was thinkin’… ya might wanna repaint this part of—” He paused, then frowned. “—your house.”

You gave him a look.

“What?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

“You were about to say home.”

“No I wasn’t.”

You grinned. “You were! ‘Your home.’ Admit it.”

He stood up, scowling. “Ain’t gotta admit shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

He muttered something under his breath about “smartass women” and stalked back inside—barefoot.

You followed him in, cheeks warm.

That night, when he left, he lingered in the doorway longer than usual.

You leaned on the frame beside him. “Y’know, you never knock.”

“Door’s always open.”

“Only for you.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes soft beneath the rough edges.

“I ain’t used to this,” he murmured.

“To what?”

“This,” he said, nodding at the warm kitchen, the folded laundry, the candles melted low on the table. “Quiet. Bein’… wanted.”

You rested your hand on his arm. “Get used to it, Dixon.”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

When you shut the door behind him, you could still smell the flannel he’d left on your couch.

You picked it up, held it close, and whispered into the empty room, “You already live here, dumbass.”

From the street, Daryl glanced back once before walking home.

Or, maybe—just maybe—not home.

Not yet.

But close.

So damn close.

It started with sandwiches.

At first, just plain ones—peanut butter, or if you were feeling generous, ham with a thin slice of tomato. Then they got fancier. Little notes tucked in foil. An extra fruit wrapped in cloth. One time, you even snuck in a brownie and drew a tiny, lopsided squirrel on the napkin.

You didn’t expect him to bring anything back. But he did.

A bottle of honey. A tiny carved bear he claimed “just showed up.” A beat-up paperback with half the pages intact.

“Found this in a glovebox,” he said one afternoon, tossing the book onto your kitchen counter.

You turned it over, lips twitching. “A Beginner’s Guide to Making Soap. Is this a hint?”

“Nah,” he said, though you caught the way his eyes darted toward you. “Jus’ thought ya liked that kinda shit. Feels… homey.”

You pressed your mouth to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dixon. I’ll be sure to whip up some lavender body wash next time you stomp in here smelling like smoke and bear traps.”

He chuckled—low and gravelly. “Ain’t my fault. Nature likes me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Nature wants you to shower.”

The rhythm between you and Daryl wasn’t something you planned. It just… settled. Like dust on windowsills, or the way the kettle always whistled five minutes before he knocked.

He never asked for food. Never requested anything. He just showed up, sat down, and quietly accepted whatever you handed him.

And in return, he gave.

Little repairs around the house. Odd tools left on your porch. And one particularly cloudy morning, a shelf.

He was on his knees, screwing the last bit of wood in place beneath your window when you padded in with a mug of coffee.

“You building me furniture now?” you asked, sipping slowly.

He didn’t look up. “Ya said ya ain’t got no place for them cookbooks. Figured this’d work.”

You stared at the sturdy thing. Real wood. Sanded edges. No frills, just strong and clean.

“You made this?”

“Didn’t steal it, if that’s what yer askin’.”

You bumped your hip against his shoulder, grinning. “We’re practically married at this point.”

That made him freeze.

Just for a second.

Then he cleared his throat and rose to his feet, brushing sawdust off his jeans. “Yeah, well… ya bake good.”

The wound was stupid.

Barely a scratch, really—just a scrape along his upper arm from a rusted fence post. But it bled, and he grunted about tetanus, and you rolled your eyes so hard it gave you a headache.

“Sit still,” you said, holding the wet cloth to his skin.

He flinched.

“Drama queen.”

“Ain’t dramatic,” he muttered. “Y’just heavy-handed.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

You sat on the edge of the kitchen table, close enough to smell the pine on his clothes, the sweat on his collar. His shirt was half-pulled down around his arm, bunched up awkwardly against his chest. Every time he moved, the fabric lifted just enough to show a line of taut stomach, scarred and sun-kissed.

Your fingers slowed.

His eyes flicked up—watching you, not the cloth.

“Y’almost done?” he asked, voice softer now.

You nodded, but your hand didn’t move. “Yeah. Just…”

The room felt quieter than it had a moment ago. Like something was leaning in. Like the walls knew.

You looked up, and he was already looking down—at your mouth.

And there it was.

That pause. That almost.

Your breath caught.

But then he blinked, and the spell broke, and you shoved him lightly in the shoulder. “Stop fidgeting, Dixon, you’ll get blood on my floor.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Ain’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.”

Later that week, while folding your laundry, you found his flannel again.

Still draped across the arm of your couch. Still worn and warm.

You held it up, burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled like firewood and wind. Him.

You didn’t ask if he left it on purpose.

You just folded it and left it on your bed.

“Here,” he said one evening, holding something small and metal between his fingers.

You looked up from your stew. “What’s that?”

“Knife. Cleaned it. Sharpened, too.” He pressed it into your palm. “Just in case.”

Your throat caught. “Daryl…”

“Don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbled quickly, backing off. “Y’know. Jus’ in case I ain’t around sometime.”

You closed your hand around it, blade snug in the leather sheath. It was small, light, but deadly. Like him.

“I feel safer already,” you said quietly.

He shrugged, but his ears turned red.

That night, you stood together in your tiny kitchen, washing dishes side by side.

You handed him a plate. He dried it.

You reached for a cup. He bumped your hand with his elbow.

“Careful,” you teased. “I’ll sue.”

He snorted. “For what? My crossbow?”

“Damn right. I’ll mount it above my new bookshelf. Like a trophy.”

He smirked. “Still think we’re married?”

You paused, fingers submerged in soapy water. “What, you think we’re not?”

He didn’t answer.

You turned, dish towel in hand, ready to tease him again—but he was already looking at you.

That same stare. Soft, wide-eyed, awestruck.

The towel slipped from your fingers.

Your shoulders brushed. His hand was on the counter, fingers just inches from yours.

You were close enough to kiss.

You were close enough to want.

Your lips parted slightly—but then he blinked, looked away, and rubbed his jaw with a muttered, “S’gettin’ late.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He left a few minutes later without taking his flannel.

And this time, you didn’t move it.

You curled up with it on the couch, heart fluttering against your ribs like it wanted out.

He didn’t say much the next morning. Just nodded when you handed him a sandwich, tucked it into his bag, and slung his crossbow over his shoulder.

“You comin’ by for dinner?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

He hesitated at the door.

Then, real soft: “Yeah. Reckon I am.”

He stepped out, but didn’t quite shut the door behind him. You could still hear his boots on the porch.

And just before they faded, you caught it—quiet and rough, like a secret spilled from his chest:

“Ain’t that somethin’…”

You stood frozen, dish towel still in your hand, heat rushing to your cheeks.

You didn’t know if he meant the sandwich. The shelf. The almost-kiss.

Or you.

Maybe all three.

But yeah.

It was somethin’.

It started with a vision he couldn’t shake.

You, barefoot in the kitchen. The morning light soft and golden, filtering through linen curtains you hung just to make the place “feel less apocalypse-y.” A coffee mug in your hand. One of his old button-downs barely buttoned over your chest, hanging loose over your thighs.

Your belly round, swollen, alive.

The image hit him like a punch to the gut. Not because it was hot—though it was—but because it felt like something sacred. Something he had no right touching.

He blinked hard and looked away, jaw tight.

You were just standing there. Coffee in hand. Bedhead. Sleepy eyes.

Messy and real.

And his, if he ever dared to claim it.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Didn’t mean he didn’t think about it.

Didn’t mean he didn’t ache for it.

“You okay?” you asked, voice raspy from sleep.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Jus’… starin’ off.”

You moved toward the stove, yawning into your shoulder. “You want eggs or oatmeal?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the way your shirt dipped at the collar. The way your hip swayed as you reached for a pan.

God help him, he wanted to walk over, wrap his arms around you from behind, and press his hands to the curve of your belly—his baby under your skin, your soft sigh in his ear.

He hated himself for it.

But he wanted it anyway.

The rain started around noon.

By four, the power cut out.

You lit candles like it was second nature, placing them carefully in jars, tea lights on the counter. Daryl stood in the doorway watching you, arms crossed like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Cozy, right?” you said, holding a match to a stubby wick.

He grunted. “S’quiet.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Ain’t bad. Just… loud.”

You tilted your head. “That sentence made no sense.”

“Did to me,” he mumbled.

You handed him a candle in a chipped ceramic mug. “There. You get ambiance.”

He took it, blinking at the tiny flame. “Ain’t this a fire hazard?”

You smirked. “So is your attitude.”

The storm outside turned from steady rain to thunderous sheets, rattling the windows and howling through the gaps in the frame. The wind shoved hard against the house. You pulled a blanket around your shoulders, sitting on the couch cross-legged. Daryl paced once, then settled across from you in the armchair.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Just candlelight and stormlight and the quiet.

Until you said it.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

His head snapped up.

You didn’t say it with malice. Just curiosity. Just soft and warm and real.

“You’re here almost every day,” you continued. “You fix things. You eat here. You sleep on my couch when you think I don’t notice. But you never say why.”

Daryl stared into the candle like it owed him answers.

“Dunno,” he muttered.

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “Bullshit.”

He shrugged. “Ain’t got nowhere better to be.”

“Liar.”

“I ain’t.”

You raised your brows. “So you just happen to bring me coffee filters and screws and dried lavender you found in someone’s abandoned sock drawer for no reason?”

His lip twitched. “Weren’t a sock drawer. Was a glove box.”

You smiled, but it faded quick. “Daryl. Just say it.”

“I don’t know,” he said again, voice harder now. “I jus’… it’s quiet here. Y’don’t talk too much. Smells good. You make real food. And I—shit—I like it, alright?”

You sat back, blinking at him.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and muttered, “Ain’t mean t’get loud.”

You didn’t flinch. You just said, “You’re already a part of this place. Of me.”

He looked up.

You gave him a little shrug. “Whether you realize it or not.”

The candle flickered between you.

You reached forward to adjust the glass jar around it, and your fingers brushed his.

He didn’t pull back.

You didn’t either.

His hand turned under yours, rough palm meeting your skin.

Warm. Solid. Familiar.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You let your gaze drift up to his—those stormy, uncertain eyes, like he was at war with something inside himself.

“Daryl,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to want something good.”

He inhaled through his nose, shaky.

“Ain’t used to it,” he said. “Wantin’ somethin’.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause if I want it, that means I can lose it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full—so full it felt like the room was pulsing with it.

You didn’t let go of his hand. “Maybe it’s time to stop thinking you don’t deserve it.”

He didn’t answer.

But his fingers curled around yours.

And that was something.

You stood a little while later, candle in hand, heading to the kitchen to check on the rainwater leak above the sink. You were halfway there when you felt him behind you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just lifted a hand, brushing your hair from your cheek.

Calloused fingertips against soft skin. Barely a touch. But it made you shiver.

You turned to look at him, and the candlelight caught his face just right—softened him. His brow furrowed in thought, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

You said it for him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled. Shaky. Relieved.

“You promise?” he asked, voice almost broken.

You nodded, stepping in just enough that your foreheads almost touched. “You already have me, Daryl. You just haven’t figured it out yet.”

Outside, the thunder rolled.

Inside, you stayed quiet.

But your hands stayed locked together until the candle burned low.

Your lips hovered over his, waiting for him to make the next move—wanting for him to make the next move. He stared up into your eyes, hesitating.

You closed the gap for him, pressing your lips into his. Dry and unmoving, you tried getting him to open up. Parting your lips, you lap at his lower lip once, twice—until he's parting his lips and taking your tongue in his.

Your tongues dance for dominance, Daryl's hands crawling lower and lower until they're rested on your hips. You suck on his lips, arching uour back to press your breasts against his hard chest. This action has the bowman grunting into the kiss, hands squeezing at your hips.

Your hands find themselves cupping his cheek and jaw as your greedily take and take and he just lays there and lets you.

As the pleasure builds inside you, so does the desperation. You're breathing harshly, your sex growing wet and hot, demanding for any kind of friction. So you give yourself exactly that.

You move your hips slowly, grinding down on Daryl's growing member. Heavy breathing fill the room as you grind harder onto him, the hard material of his jeans accentuating the feeling of bliss.

Your head starts growing light as you throw your head back, hips quickly moving back and forth as you chase after your high.

Daryl grunts and pants underneath you, eyes trained on your moving hips. His eyes shift up at yours as he looks at you through his lashes.

You smirk down at his desperate expression, planting your hand on his chest as your hips move faster. "Could you—" Daryl grits out, holding your hips down. Unable to move, you tilt your head to the right, waiting for his next move.

With his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands stay glued to your hips. The tension is thick and buzzing in the air—waiting for something, someone to move.

Then Daryl's hands move to hook your panties to the side, exposing your needy cunt. He presses his thumb onto your sensitive clit, making you roll your eyes back. He starts drawing circles, making you roll your hips.

"God, yes." You breathe out, pushing Daryl to add two more fingers, pressing onto your sex. He looks up at your for permission, only to be met with desperate eyes.

Daryl smirks, pushing his digits easily through your slick walls. A low moan leaves your chest as your hips slowly move back and forth, gringing onto his open palm.

Your fingers move nimbly to undo the last buttons of your shirt, exposing your bare breasts underneath. You can feel the way Daryl's hand hardens as soon as his gaze lay on your breasts.

Hand on his nape, you pull at him. "Open your mouth." You mutter, pulling him closer. He immediately follows your order, taking your nipple into his mouth. You let out a satisfied breath as his warm tongue circles your hardened bud.

He takes your other breast in his free hand, playing and tugging at your nipple. The stimulation from both the bottom and the top has your euphoria quickly rushing over at you.

Your moans quickly become louder as you grab and claw at the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. Your digits curl and tug as your orgasm washes over you, making your back arch and your pussy walls flutter around Daryl's digits.

You lift and lower yourself as you ride out your ecstasy. It quickly washes off, bringing you back to the present.

Looking back down at Daryl, you can't help but giggle at how desperate he looks. "Mmmm, your fingers are amazing." You move your hips into a slow circle, lifting them up.

Daryl's digits easily slip out of your cunt as you move into him, closing the gap between the both of you. You taste him once more, notes of cigarettes and musk filling your tongue.

Daryl's hips move on their own, pressing against your dripping cunt. His lips slowly move toward your neck, biting and nipping and leaving small marks until he reaches where your shoulder and neck meet.

His hands move quickly, undoing his belt and pants. His breathing is ragged and quick, but you don't point out his neediness.

"Condom?" You whisper, making him freeze.

He slowly looks up at you, eyes searching your face. You can practically see the wheels in his head turning as he thinks of another way through this.

"No..." He whispers back, still thinking of a different solution. You smile, pressing your lips into his. "Good." You watch as his eyes grow wide with your unexpected response. "Had to make sure."

"What do you—" You cut him off by taking his cock in your hand, pumping it a few times before lowering yourself on it until his head is pushing up against your ready folds.

You cradle his head, looking into his eyes before you continue lowering yourself. His size isn't something new to you, but you could never get used to his overall size. He was thick, filling you up completely, so much that it's hard to breathe.

When he's completely inside you, he stalls for a moment, holding you in his arms. He loves staying still inside you, just feeling the way your cunt pilses and grips around him.

He pulls back, only to roughly thrust in again. That first act pulls a surprised moan out of you until he's ramming his length in and out of you, his cock has the right curve to hit that bundle of nerves you love.

His hips snap at you roughly, forcing your tits to bounce and your moans to become more high-pitched, more whiny. And God knows Daryl loves hearing you come apart because of him.

With a new-found motivation, Daryl flips the both of you, pinning you to the couch. He grabs at your thighs, parting them even more to give himself more space to work with.

"God, yeah." He breathes out, eyes rolling to the back of his head as his jaw grows slack. His eyes arebshut as his hips move mechanically, as if he isn't thinking about anything else, anything at all, really.

With his head thrown back, his hips move selfishly for his own pleasure. You love how he uses your body greedily, but you don't dare tell him so he doesn't overthink his actions.

His thrusts become faster, more shallow; like he's moving less to feel you and more because he's—

"Close," He grunts, "I'm so fucking close." He's almost slurring his words as he thrusts into you, obviously nearing his release.

You gather your breasts together, looking up at him with wide eyes and scrunched brows. "Daryl?" You call out, his head snapping in attention to you. "Put a baby in me?"

The second he drinks in your lewd look, you immediately feel his release coating your walls. "Is—Is that what you want?" He hiccups, hips going still as he finishes releasing inside you.

"Want me to put a baby in ya?" He breathes into your neck, hand wrapping around your neck. Squeezing lightly, a grin stretches across your lips.

You love bringing this side out of him.

He straightens himself out, his hips resuming to deeper and slower thrusts as he regains his composure. "Hmm? That what the lil' lady want?" He mocks, tilting his head to the side.

His gaze digs into yours, moans spilling from your chest as he slowly reels upur own high in. His movements are slow but languid, building up the tension until you're ready to snap.

"Please, please!" You whine, digging your nails onto his shoulders as he squeezes your left breast. He stares at your nude body, legs eagerly open for him.

"You look ready to be a mommy." He chuckles, grunting as he feels his own release quickly approaching. "Tell ya what—" He breathes out, "Come with me," He looks into your eyes, "And I'll make sure you won't have to worry 'bout no period cramps for nine months."

The thought of him so willing to impregnate you is what pushes you over the edge. Unprepared and incredibly sensitive, your walls clamp down at his dick. Daryl groans as he releases inside you for a second time, your walls milking him dry as you pull him closer.

You can't get him close enough.

He keeps you plugged full until you've completely ridden out your orgasm, slowly pulling himself out. You feel his release slowly dripping out of you.

"Need ya pregnant by tomorrow." He mumbles into your neck, making you giggle.

"That's not how it works, Dare!" You squeal, his fingers tickling you as he slowly wraps his arms around your waist. He flips the both of you once more, settling you on top of him.

You yawn, the sense of home and peace overcoming you. It's like a big, warm hug. It's Daryl.

You look up at him one last time, studying his features, memorizing your favorite ones before letting your lids fall shut.

He woke up before you did. He usually did.

Even in Alexandria, with safety stitched into the walls and comfort stacked in jars on the shelves, Daryl’s instincts still buzzed before dawn. But for once, he didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t sit up and scan the corners.

He just lay there.

Watching you.

You were curled up under the quilt you insisted on keeping even when the nights were warm, one leg poking out, hair a wild mess against his arm. Your breath was steady. Soft. There was a crease by your mouth from the pillow, and you had this stubborn little frown, like even in sleep you were fighting something.

He reached up and gently ran a finger across your cheek.

Didn’t know why, but the sight of you—real, messy, completely unguarded—made his chest feel too tight and too full at the same time.

He’d never had this before. Never thought he could.

Peace.

Warmth.

You.

He could’ve laid there forever.

But then you stirred, mumbling something unintelligible and blinking up at him.

“Mornin’,” he said, voice low and scratchy.

“God,” you rasped, stretching with a dramatic groan, “do you always look this good at sunrise, or is that just my dumb luck?”

He snorted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Pretty sure it’s the other way ‘round, sunshine.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Come on. Let’s make something that doesn’t come out of a can.”

You cooked like it was therapy. Barefoot, hair up, music humming from the old record player someone scavenged last month. Daryl didn’t know the song—it had twang and heartbreak and something about wildflowers—but it made you sway around the kitchen like you were dancing just for yourself.

Or for him.

He stood behind you, cutting up potatoes. Clumsy but focused.

“So,” he said slowly, like the words might spook you, “what would ya name a kid if ya had one?”

You dropped the spatula with a clatter.

“Jesus, Daryl.”

“What?” he shrugged, defensive but not really. “Just askin’. Ain’t like I’m handin’ ya a ring or nothin’.”

You gave him a look. “Uh-huh. That a proposal in disguise?”

He flushed, ears turning pink. “Ain’t what I meant.”

You grinned. “You’re blushing.”

“Ain’t.”

“You so are.”

He turned back to the potatoes, grumbling, “Well, you didn’t answer.”

You bit your lip, stirred the eggs. “I dunno. Something sweet. Maybe something old-fashioned. Nora, if it’s a girl. Eli for a boy.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Nora Dixon. Got a nice ring to it.”

You turned, arching a brow. “You just assigned your last name without even blinking.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, smirking, “ain’t givin’ ‘em anyone else’s.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

Later that day, you were on a supply run near the edge of town—clearing a half-looted baby store you’d always skipped, assuming there wasn’t much worth salvaging. Most shelves were dust and crumbled boxes, long since picked over.

But Daryl stopped dead in the middle of an aisle.

You turned to find him staring at something.

A crib.

Wooden, pale. A little dusty but intact. A tiny mobile still hung from one corner, faded stars and clouds gently turning.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked up to it, gave it a little push, and watched it creak back and forth.

Then—without a word—he bent down, lifted it, and carried it to the cart.

You blinked. “What… are you doing?”

He didn’t look at you. Just said, “Ain’t gonna be here next time. Someone else’ll take it.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant. “You think we’ll need it?”

He paused. Just long enough to say everything without saying a word.

Then: “Hope so.”

That night, the crib sat in the corner of your bedroom, not built yet—just leaning against the wall like a promise waiting to be made.

You lay beside him in the low light, one hand on his chest, the other tracing lazy patterns across the thin scar just above his collarbone.

He was quiet. Tense in that way that meant his brain was working overtime.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded once. Then again. Then finally spoke.

“Ain’t never had a real home,” he said, voice soft. “Not one where I felt like I belonged. Always someone else’s rules. Someone else’s roof. Got used to leavin’. Got good at packin’ light.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just let your hand rest over his heart.

“But you,” he continued, “you make me wanna build one. Y’know? With walls I picked. With shit on the shelves. With meals that ain’t cold. With you in it.”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, heart full to the point of aching.

“Daryl,” you whispered.

He looked up at you, expression unreadable.

You cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his stubble.

“We already are.”

Then you kissed him—slow, deep, like sealing a vow you hadn’t even needed to speak aloud.

The next morning, you found his crossbow mounted on the wall.

You hadn’t heard him do it.

But there it was—above the fireplace, neat and proud and deliberate. Not tucked by the door like he was waiting to leave.

You touched the edge of it, smiling.

A silent signature.

This is where I stay.

The sun was setting when you brought two mugs of tea out to the porch. The air was warm and sticky, the sky painted in shades of honey and fire.

Daryl was already sitting there, legs stretched out, eyes on the horizon.

You handed him his mug and sat beside him, your thigh pressed to his, head resting on his shoulder.

For a while, you just breathed together.

No words.

No pressure.

Just that quiet kind of peace that only shows up when you’ve got nothing left to prove.

“So what now?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you when he answered, but his fingers laced with yours.

“Now?” he said, voice low and sure.

So’lek had a habit of appearing beside you without any warning, just suddenly there as if he had always been standing close and you had only just noticed.

You were crouched near a supply crate outside Resistance HQ, sorting through spare gear Anqa had asked you to inventory, when his shadow fell across your hands.

“You are very focused,” he said. “It makes you difficult to interrupt.”

You did not look up. “You are interrupting anyway.”

“Yes,” he replied easily. “That was the plan.”

You finally glanced at him. He was leaning against one of the support beams, arms folded, relaxed in a way that suggested he had nowhere else he needed to be. His queue hung loose over his shoulder, beads catching the light.

“You need something?”

“I was curious,” he answered. “Nor has been busy all morning. I thought you might be missing him.”

Your mouth tightened. “I am allowed to exist without my brother nearby.”

“I did not say you were not,” So’lek said. “I said I was curious.”

You turned back to the crate. “Be curious somewhere else.”

He crouched across from you instead, mirroring your position. “You are very welcoming.”

“You keep coming back.”

“And you keep not telling me to stop,” he replied.

You glanced at him. “I am telling you now.”

“Are you?” he asked. “It sounds more like a suggestion.”

You looked at him again. “You enjoy this.”

“I enjoy many things,” So’lek said. “Some of them involve you being annoyed.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“For you,” he said. “I find it entertaining.”

You pushed yourself to standing. “If you are bored, find someone else.”

“So direct,” he said. “I thought you liked honesty.”

“I like silence more.”

He rose as well, stepping just close enough that you became aware of him fully. Not touching. Never touching. His eyes flicked briefly to your mouth before returning to your gaze.

“You should not lie,” he said. “You listen very carefully when I speak.”

You scoffed. “You are imagining things.”

“Am I?” he asked. “Then why did you stop breathing just now.”

You stepped past him. “Move.”

He did. Immediately. That unsettled you more than if he had not.

The days that followed fell into a strange rhythm. Missions came and went. The Resistance HQ shifted and adjusted around the ever-present threat of the RDA. Nor was everywhere, coordinating patrols, speaking with Ri’nela and the humans, returning late with tension in his shoulders.

So’lek remained close to the edges of your awareness. He walked beside you during perimeter checks. He passed you drophets without comment. He made small remarks that lingered longer than they should have.

“You walk too fast,” he said once, matching your stride anyway.

“You are keeping up.”

“Barely,” he replied. “You enjoy making things difficult.”

“You enjoy complaining.”

“I enjoy conversation,” he corrected. “Especially when you pretend you are not enjoying it.”

You stopped walking. He stopped with you.

“You are very confident,” you said.

“I am observant,” he replied. “There is a difference.”

At night, when the camp settled, you often found yourself sitting near the fire longer than necessary. So’lek would sit across from you, watching the flames. Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes he did not. The silence between you nonetheless felt full.

One evening, Nor joined you briefly, placing a hand on your shoulder before moving on. You noticed the way So’lek’s gaze followed the movement.

“You are close,” So’lek said after Nor left.

“He is my brother.”

“I know,” he replied. “You speak his name differently than you speak others.”

You frowned. “You pay attention to strange things.”

“They matter,” he said. “The way you soften when he is near. The way you stiffen when he leaves.”

You stared at the fire. “Do not analyse me.”

“I am not analysing,” So’lek said. “I am noticing.”

You exhaled slowly. “You notice too much.”

“That is why I am still alive,” he replied.

The next mission took you deeper into the forest than usual. A scouting run. You moved through the undergrowth with So’lek behind you, close enough that you could hear his breathing when the forest fell silent.

At one point, you paused abruptly. He stopped just short of colliding with you.

“You do that often,” he murmured. “Stop without warning.”

“You are meant to be paying attention,” you whispered back.

“I am,” he said. “Mostly to you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Focus, skxawng.”

He leaned in, voice low but steady. “I am focused. You are the one distracted.”

You should have snapped at him. Instead, you continued forward, your pulse uncomfortably quick.

Later, when the mission ended without incident, you found yourselves alone briefly while the others checked equipment. So’lek handed you a flask.

“You did well,” he said.

“So did you.”

He tilted his head. “You say that like it surprised you.”

“You take risks.”

“I calculate them,” he replied. “You notice because you care.”

You took a drink, then handed it back. “Do not assume things.”

“I assume very little,” he said. “I observe and draw conclusions.”

“That sounds like assuming.”

“Then I will rephrase,” he said. “I am interested.”

Your breath hitched despite your best effort.

“In what?” you asked.

“In how long you will keep pretending this is nothing,” he said.

You stepped closer. “And what do you think this is.”

His eyes dropped briefly, then returned to yours. “Something that will cause problems.”

“Then why keep pushing,” you asked.

“Because you push back,” he said. “And because you have not told me to stop.”

“I did earlier.”

“You told me to move,” he corrected. “I moved.” He lifted a hand, then let it fall again. “I respect boundaries.”

“That is new,” you muttered.

“I am learning,” he said. “You are very instructive.”

The first time he kissed you, it happened without ceremony. You were standing too close again, arguing quietly about patrol routes, when his mouth brushed yours as if by accident.

It was not an accident.

You pulled back immediately. “So’lek.”

“Yes,” he said, calm as ever.

“That was—.”

“A mistake,” he finished. “If you want it to be.”

You stared at him. “You did that on purpose.”

“I wanted to see if you would stop me,” he said.

“And if I had?”

“Then I would have apologised,” he replied. “And stepped away.”

You did not step away now. Neither did he.

“This complicates things,” you said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But it also clarifies others.”

You swallowed. “We should not.”

“We should not many things,” he said. “Yet here we are.”

You kissed him this time again. Enough to say something without admitting too much.

After that, it became easier and harder all at once. You did not speak about it. You did not name it. You simply began to exist in closer proximity.

He brushed your fingers when passing gear. He stood at your side during briefings. He walked you back toward your shelter and stopped just short of where anyone could see.

Nor noticed the change, even if he said nothing. His eyes lingered longer. His questions became more pointed. You answered easily, too easily.

One night, So’lek caught your wrist as you turned away from him.

“You are smiling again,” he said.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps happening,” he replied.

You leaned closer. “You are dangerous.”

“Yes,” he said. “But you keep choosing to stand near me.”

You kissed him again, longer this time, and when you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“This is already a problem,” he said quietly.

“Then stop,” you replied.

He did not.

You were returning from a short perimeter check when you saw Nor speaking with So’lek near the edge of camp. They stood facing each other, bodies angled slightly apart as if neither wanted to acknowledge how tense the moment was. Nor’s posture was rigid. So’lek’s was still, which somehow looked worse.

You slowed your steps without meaning to.

Nor spoke first. You could not hear the words, only the tone. The kind of voice he used when he was already angry and did not want anyone else to know.

So’lek replied evenly.

Nor stepped closer. His hand lifted briefly, gesturing toward the centre of camp. Toward you.

Your stomach tightened.

So’lek did not look in your direction. His gaze stayed on Nor, expression unreadable. He nodded once.

That was it.

Nor stepped back. So’lek inclined his head in acknowledgment and turned away, walking toward the opposite treeline without a glance back.

Nor spotted you a second later. His expression shifted instantly.

“You are done already?”

“Yes,” you replied. “It was not far.”

He studied your face. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” you said again.

He nodded, satisfied enough and moved on.

You stood there longer than necessary, watching the space where So’lek had disappeared.

That night, he did not sit near the fire.

The following days confirmed what you had started to suspect. He stopped walking beside you. He no longer brushed your fingers when passing equipment. When you spoke to him, he answered politely, and then excused himself.

“You are being strange,” you told him on the third day, when you finally caught him alone near the supply racks.

“I am behaving appropriately,” he replied.

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only one you will get.”

You crossed your arms. “Did I do something?”

“No,” he said immediately.

“Then why are you acting like I offended you?”

He looked at you for a long moment, jaw tight. “This is not a conversation we should be having here.”

“Then where?” You demanded.

“Nowhere,” he said.

That stung more than you expected.

“You do not get to decide that for both of us,” you said.

He lowered his voice. “I am trying to keep you out of something.”

“Out of what?”

“Trouble,” he replied.

You laughed once, sharp. “You keep saying that like it explains anything.”

His eyes flicked past you, checking the area. “We should stop.”

Your chest tightened. “Stop what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely between you. “Whatever this is.”

“There is no this,” you said. “You made sure of that.”

His gaze softened for a fraction of a second before hardening again. “That was not my intention.”

“Then what was?”

“To protect you.”

You stared at him. “You sound like my brother.”

He flinched.

That was when you knew.

“You spoke to Nor,” you said.

So’lek did not answer.

“You spoke to him,” you repeated.

He exhaled slowly. “He spoke to me.”

“When?”

“Recently.”

“What did he say?” you demanded.

“He…expressed concern.”

“You mean he told you to stay away from me,” you said.

So’lek’s silence was confirmation enough.

Anger flared. “And you agreed?”

“I did not argue, he’s only being protective,” he corrected.

“That is the same thing.”

“It is not,” he said. “I listened.”

“And now you are punishing me for it.”

“I am not punishing you.”

“You are,” you said. “You are making a choice about me without me.”

His voice stayed calm, but there was strain beneath it. “Nor is your family.”

“And I am my own person,” you snapped.

“Yes,” he said. “And he worries.”

“That does not give him control.”

“No,” So’lek agreed. “But it gives him a voice.”

“And what about mine?”

He hesitated. That hesitation hurt more than anything he had said.

“I am listening now,” he replied.

“Then listen carefully,” you said. “I did not ask you to pull away. I did not ask for distance. I did not ask my brother to interfere.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“Then stop acting like you owe him something,” you continued. “If anyone should be angry, it is me.”

He stepped closer, then stopped himself. “I am trying to do the right thing,” he said.

“For who?”

“For all of us.”

“That is vague and unhelpful.”

His mouth curved faintly, despite the tension. “You are difficult.”

“You like that,” you said.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I do.”

“Then why are you walking away,” you asked.

“Because if I do not,” he said, “this becomes something that cannot stay quiet.”

You scoffed. “It already is.”

He shook his head. “You do not understand how quickly this would escalate.”

“I understand perfectly,” you replied. “You are afraid of my brother.”

“I am respectful of him,” So’lek said. “There is a difference.”

“And what about respect for me.”

He met your gaze fully. “That is exactly why I am stepping back.”

You stared at him, frustration and something else tangled together. “You are infuriating.”

“I have been told.”

You turned away before he could see your expression soften.

From then on, the he avoided being alone with you. If you joined a group he was in, he found a reason to leave. His eyes still found you across camp, but he did not act on it.

Nor noticed the change and seemed relieved by it. That alone made your irritation worse.

“You have been quiet,” Nor remarked one evening.

“You prefer me loud,” you replied.

He gave a short smile. “I prefer you safe.”

You clenched your jaw. “From what?”

He hesitated. “From complications.”

“You keep using that word,” you said. “You never explain it.”

Nor studied you. “Trust me.”

“I do not like that answer,” you replied.

He reached out, squeezing your shoulder briefly. “You do not have to.”

So’lek watched the interaction from across the fire. His expression was unreadable.

Later that night, you found him near the river again. You had hoped you would not. You had hoped you would.

“You are still avoiding me,” you said.

“Yes,” he replied.

“At least you are honest.”

“I owe you that much.”

“Why here?” you asked. “Why not somewhere else?”

“Because this is where I think clearly,” he said.

“Then think clearly about this,” you replied. “You cannot half exist in my life.”

He leaned against a tree, arms folded. “I am not half existing.”

“You are,” you said. “You are looking at me like you want to say something and refusing to.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “You make this difficult.”

“I did not start this alone,” you said.

“No,” he agreed. “You did not.”

Silence settled between you, filled with the sound of water and distant camp noise.

“Nor asked me to stay away from you,” So’lek said finally.

“I know.”

“He did not threaten me.”

“That does not make it better.”

“He said I’d drag you into more danger,” So’lek continued. “He spoke of you as if you were fragile.”

Your hands curled into fists. “I am not.”

“I know that,” he said. “But he does not see what I see.”

“And what is that?” you asked.

“That you choose,” So’lek replied. “Even when it causes trouble.”

You stepped closer. “Then trust that.”

“I do,” he said. “That is the problem.”

He reached out, stopping himself inches from touching you. His hand dropped again.

“If I continue,” he said, “this will stop being subtle.”

“It already is,” you replied.

“No,” he said. “This is still contained.”

“Contained for who,” you demanded.

“For Nor,” he answered. “For the camp. For you.”

“You do not get to decide what is good for me,” you said.

“No,” he said quietly. “But I get to decide what I do.”

“And what are you deciding?”

“To step back,” he said. “For now.”

Your chest tightened painfully. “You think that will make this easier.”

“I think it will make it subdued.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “It is not.”

You laughed bitterly. “You are choosing my brother over me.”

“I am choosing to not turn this into something messy,” he replied.

“You are choosing avoidance.”

“Perhaps.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the conflict there. It did not make you feel better.

“This is not over,” you said.

“No,” he replied. “It is not.”

You stepped back first this time.

From that night on, the tension became something everyone could feel but no one named. You stopped seeking him out. He stopped pretending not to notice you.

Nor remained oblivious or pretended to be.

So’lek tried to stay away.

He really did.

You could tell because when he failed, it was never dramatic. It started small. A glance held a second too long. A pause before he answered you. His steps slowing when you passed him, like his body reacted before his thoughts could catch up.

You noticed because you were looking for it.

The first time he spoke to you alone again, it was almost accidental. You were returning from a supply run with Anqa when she veered off toward the comms tent, leaving you with a crate balanced against your hip. So’lek appeared at your side and took the weight without comment.

“You do not need to prove anything,” he said, lifting it easily.

“I was managing,” you replied.

“I know,” he said. “That is why I helped.”

You glanced at him. “That does not make sense.”

“It does,” he said. “Just not to you yet.”

He walked beside you until the shelter came into view, then handed the crate back like nothing had happened.

“You are avoiding me less,” you said.

“Yes,” he replied.

“That is not subtle.”

“I was never subtle,” he said.

That made you smile despite yourself.

It became a pattern after that. He never sought you out where Nor could see. Never stood too close at HQ. But if you stepped beyond the perimeter, if you took a longer route than necessary, he found you.

“You are doing this on purpose,” you said one evening as he fell into step beside you on a forest path.

“You walked away from camp,” he replied. “I followed.”

“That is the same thing.”

“I am aware.”

You stopped near a cluster of roots, turning to face him. “You said you would keep your distance.”

“I said I would try,” he replied. “You keep forgetting that part.”

“You are bad at trying.”

He tilted his head. “You are encouraging.”

“That is not fair.”

“I know,” he said. “It makes it worse.”

You were smiling again. He noticed.

“You do that when you are about to forgive me,” he said.

“I am not forgiving you.”

“You are considering it.”

“Do not push.”

“I am standing still,” he replied.

“You skxawng,” you rolled your eyes but closed the gap.

The kiss this time was had no urgency. Just his mouth against yours like it belonged there. His hand rested at your side, firm enough to be reassuring.

When you pulled back, you did not move away.

“This is a terrible idea,” you said.

“Yes,” he replied. “But it is a consistent terrible one.”

From then on, the sneaking to see him felt almost easy. You learned where not to be seen. You learned how to touch without drawing attention. A hand at your lower back when passing behind you. Fingers brushing your wrist when he handed you something. His voice close to your ear when no one else was listening.

“You are enjoying this,” you told him once.

“Enjoying what?”

“Pretending we are not doing this.”

He smiled faintly. “I am enjoying that you notice.”

You met at the river more often. In shallow inlets where the water masked sound. Under overhanging branches where moonlight barely reached. He kissed you there with more intent.

“You trust me,” he said quietly one night, forehead resting against yours.

“Yes,” you replied.

“Good,” he said. “Because I am not careful when I am uncertain.”

That was the night things went further. You knew when to pull him closer. He knew when to slow. Afterwards, you stayed tangled together longer than necessary, listening to the forest around you.

When you returned separately to camp, Nor greeted you like nothing had changed.

You hated how easily he smiled at you.

You caught So’lek watching you during briefings, his mouth curved just slightly, like he was remembering something private.

“You are distracted,” Nor said once.

“Am I?”

“Yes,” he said. “But you seem happier.”

You shrugged. “That is allowed.”

Across the clearing, So’lek met your eyes. He dipped his head just enough to be respectful, just enough to be for you alone.

Later that night, he found you again.

“This cannot stay hidden forever,” he said.

“I know,” you replied.

“But for now,” he continued, stepping closer, “it is ours.”

You smiled up at him. “You sound confident.”

“I am,” he said. “You keep choosing me.”

“And you keep coming back,” you replied.

He brushed his nose against yours, voice soft. “Ke tsun lu fpom srak? (Is this not good)”

“It is,” you said. “That is the problem.”

He laughed quietly and kissed you again.

And then the other Sarentu woman showed up. Tamtey.

She arrived quietly, which somehow made it worse. By the end of the day, everyone knew her name. By the end of the second, everyone knew where she preferred to sit, which routes she favoured, which humans she tolerated.

So’lek knew all of it before you did.

You realised something had changed the first morning you went looking for him and did not find him where you usually did. Not near the fire. Not checking equipment. Not watching the tree line.

Instead, you saw him near the map table with Tamtey.

They stood close, shoulders nearly brushing as they bent over the layout Anqa had pinned down. Tamtey spoke animatedly, hands moving as she traced a route with her finger. So’lek listened. Properly listened.

You slowed without meaning to.

“That path is unstable,” he said. “The roots will not hold after the rain.”

Tamtey smiled. “That is why I thought we could adjust it east. The old Sarentu markers still stand.”

“You noticed those,” he replied, slightly impressed.

You did not remember the last time he had sounded like that with you.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

The next patrol assignments confirmed otherwise.

“So’lek and Tamtey will take the western stretch,” Anqa said. “You know the terrain best between you.”

It made sense. It always did. That logic did nothing to settle the tightness in your chest.

You kept your expression neutral as they gathered their gear. So’lek glanced toward you once before turning back to Tamtey when she spoke again.

They left together.

You stayed.

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. You had lived long enough around soldiers and resistance fighters to know how quickly focus shifted.

Still, the pattern continued.

They trained together. They returned from patrols together. When Tamtey laughed, So’lek’s mouth curved in response even if he did not speak. When she asked questions, he answered without hesitation.

You noticed how he stood when she spoke to him. You noticed how he stood with you now.

Like day and night

Nor did not mention it, but you caught him watching too. Not with suspicion but approval.

“She is capable,” Nor remarked one evening as Tamtey passed them, nodding politely. “Sarentu usually are.”

“Yes,” you replied.

Nor glanced at you. “You do not seem convinced.”

“I did not say otherwise.”

He hummed, and changed the subject.

You stopped seeking So’lek out. It just became easier to let the distance exist than to feel it spike every time you stood near him. If he spoke to you, you answered. If he smiled, you returned it. Nothing more.

You watched instead.

You watched him lean closer to Tamtey when she spoke softly. You watched her tilt her head toward him when she listened.

One afternoon, you found yourself lingering near the shelter longer than necessary, pretending to adjust gear you had already checked. Voices carried from the other side of the structure.

“I did not expect him to be like that,” Tamtey said.

You froze.

Ri’nela replied, amused. “Like what.”

“So patient,” Tamtey continued. “Most warriors interrupt. He does not.”

“That is So’lek,” Ri’nela said. “He listens first.”

“I noticed,” Tamtey replied. “It is rare.”

Your grip tightened on the strap in your hands.

“You sound impressed,” Ri’nela teased.

There was a pause. You held your breath without meaning to.

“I suppose I am,” Tamtey said carefully. “It is easy to speak with him.”

Easy.

Ri’nela laughed softly. “Careful. That is how people get attached.”

Tamtey did not answer immediately.

“He is…grounded,” she said instead. “Steady. You trust him quickly.”

Ri’nela hummed. “Many do.”

Your chest felt tight, like you had swallowed something sharp.

“I would not cross boundaries,” Tamtey added. “But it is nice, having someone reliable.”

You stepped back quietly before they could sense you there.

The rest of the day passed in fragments. You missed instructions you would normally have caught. You answered questions on autopilot. When So’lek passed you near the fire that evening, he inclined his head politely.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied.

He hesitated, as if considering something else, then nodded and moved on.

You watched him sit beside Tamtey instead.

That night, you lay awake longer than usual, staring at the fabric ceiling above you. You told yourself you were imagining things. That proximity did not equal interest. That Tamtey had not said anything outright.

Still, the words replayed in your mind.

Easy. Steady. Reliable.

Things you had felt first.

Over the next days, it became impossible to ignore. So’lek’s time belonged elsewhere now. Not entirely, but enough that you felt the absence like a weight. You no longer met by the river. You no longer shared quiet moments under the excuse of patrols or errands.

When he did look at you, there was something apologetic in his eyes.

That almost hurt more.

You caught Tamtey watching him when she thought no one noticed. You wondered if she watched him the way you did, memorising without realising.

You wondered if he noticed.

One evening, you passed near Ri’nela again and heard your name.

“She has been quiet,” Ri’nela said.

Tamtey replied, thoughtful. “Yes. I noticed.”

You slowed your steps.

“I hope I did not offend her,” Tamtey continued. “I do not mean to intrude.”

“She is not easily offended,” Ri’nela said. “Just…observant.”

Tamtey was quiet for a moment. “She and So’lek are close.”

Your pulse quickened.

“Yes,” Ri’nela agreed. “They are.”

Another pause.

“He did not say,” Tamtey said.

Ri’nela laughed lightly. “So’lek rarely does.”

You moved on before you could hear more.

That night, you stood near the edge of camp and watched So’lek laugh at something Tamtey said.

You turned away before he could catch you looking.

You did not confront him. You did not ask questions. You did not stake a claim or demand reassurance. You swallowed the jealousy and let it sit.

You told yourself that whatever this was, it had never been named.

That did not make it hurt less.

As you walked back toward your shelter, you heard Tamtey’s voice again, drifting through camp.

“So’lek,” she said. “Tomorrow, could you show me the markers near the ridge?”

“Yes,” he replied easily. “Of course.”

You closed your eyes briefly.

Whatever was happening, it was no longer yours alone to watch.

And the worst part was not knowing whether you were losing something. Or whether it had already slipped away without you noticing.

You had never meant to let it wait out this long.

That was the lie you told yourself as you stood at the edge of camp, watching So’lek and Tamtey return from yet another patrol together. Dirt streaked their gear. Leaves clung to their clothes.

You turned away before they noticed you.

Keeping things hidden had become second nature. You and So’lek never stood too close when Nor was near. You never spoke in tones that could be questioned. When you were alone, it was always far from camp, always brief, always with one ear tuned for footsteps.

But lately even that had thinned.

You saw him less. You heard his name more.

“So’lek said…”

“So’lek thinks…”

“So’lek showed me…”

Always Tamtey’s voice. Always his name.

You swallowed it down until it sat in your chest.

The breaking point came two nights later.

You had gone to the river alone, not expecting him to follow. You were halfway through skimming stones across the surface when footsteps approached from behind.

“I was looking for you,” So’lek said.

You did not turn. “You found me.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Eventually.”

You tossed another stone harder than necessary. “Busy?”

“A little,” he admitted.

“With her.”

There it was. Finally said, even if you had not meant to say it like that.

He paused. “With Tamtey.”

You turned then. “Do you hear yourself?”

He frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

“You say her name like it explains everything you’ve ever needed.”

“She is Sarentu,” he said. “She needs guidance.”

“So did I,” you snapped.

He stepped closer. “You never needed guidance.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then tell me what is,” he said.

You laughed humourlessly. “You really do not see it.”

“See what?”

“The way she looks at you,” you said. “The way she follows you. The way you let her.”

“That is not what is happening,” he replied.

“That is easy for you to say,” you shot back. “You are not the one watching.”

He reached out, stopping himself halfway. “Nothing has changed between us.”

You shook your head. “Everything has.”

“I have not chosen her,” he said firmly.

“You do not have to,” you replied. “You are doing it without meaning to.”

“That is not fair.”

“Neither is this,” you said. “I am still hiding. Still waiting. Still pretending this does not matter while you spend every day with her.”

His jaw tightened. “We are still keeping this quiet because of Nor.”

“Yes,” you said. “And somehow she gets all of you while I get fragments.”

“That is not true.”

“You talk to her,” you continued. “You train with her. You laugh with her. When was the last time you even looked for me first?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“I am right here,” you said. “And you keep drifting away.”

“I am trying to balance things,” he replied.

“There is no balance,” you said. “There is choosing.”

He stepped closer, voice steady. “Look at me. I am here.”

“You are standing in front of me,” you said. “That is not the same thing.”

His expression softened. “You are angry.”

“Yes,” you said. “I am jealous. I am tired. And I am done pretending this does not bother me.”

He exhaled slowly. “Tamtey is not what you think.”

“You always say that,” you replied. “You never say what she is.”

“Because it does not matter,” he said.

“It matters to me,” you snapped. “Because all I hear from you is her name.”

He reached for you again, this time not stopping. His hands settled at your waist, grounding, familiar, infuriating.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You are the one I choose.”

You pushed lightly against his chest, not enough to break contact. “Then act like it.”

“I am here,” he repeated.

“And tomorrow,” you said. “You will be with her again.”

He searched your face. “You do not trust me.”

“I trust you,” you replied. “I do not trust what I see.”

“That is fear,” he said.

“That is observation,” you shot back.

His hands tightened slightly.

“Say it,” he said.

“Say what?”

“Say what you are afraid of,” he replied.

Your voice dropped, raw. “That I am the quiet choice. The secret. The one you keep tucked away while she gets the daylight.”

His brow furrowed. “You are not a secret to me.”

“Then why does she know you better right now,” you demanded.

He shook his head. “You are twisting this.”

“Because you refuse to look at it straight,” you said.

He leaned closer, foreheads nearly touching. “Ke tsun oe lu fpom fte nga? (Do you think I would give you this if you did not matter)”

“Then stop saying her name like it belongs in my mouth,” you said, breaths uneven.

He stilled. “What?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him fully, anger and jealousy bleeding together.

“All I hear from you is her name,” you said. “Tamtey. Tamtey. Tamtey.”

“Then make my lips preach your name.”

So’lek's eyes narrowed, but a spark of heat flashed in them. He grabbed your shoulders and pushed you back against the smooth rocky surface of the cliff side.

Your tail flicked in irritation, but your body heated up under his touch.

You glared up at him, your chest rising fast. “Prove it then.”

He did not wait. So’lek lowered his head and captured your mouth with his. His tongue pushing in to claim you. You tasted the salt of his skin, felt the roughness of his braid against your cheek.

Your hands came up to grip his arms, nails digging into flesh. He growled into the kiss, a sound that vibrated through you.

So’lek's hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your hip. He tugged at the ties of your loincloth, pulling it loose.

Cool air hit your skin making you shiver. His eyes dropped to your body, taking in the swell of your breasts and the patch of darker blue between your thighs. “Seykxel (beautiful),” he murmured.

You shifted under his gaze, heat pooling in your belly. “Only me,” you whispered.

“Only you,” he agreed. He leaned down again, mouth finding your neck. He sucked at the skin there, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arched up, a soft moan escaping.

His hand cupped your breast, thumb rubbing over the hardening nipple. It sent sparks straight to your core.

So’lek moved lower, lips trailing over your collarbone, then down to take the nipple in his mouth. He sucked hard, tongue flicking against it. You gasped, fingers threading into his hair. “So’lek...”

He hummed in approval, switching to the other side. His free hand pushed your thighs apart, settling between them. You felt his erection press against your leg. The jealousy faded a bit as he focused on you, making you feel wanted.

“Tamtey is my student,” he said between licks. “She learns from me. You are mine.”

You tugged his head up. “Show me.”

He rose on his knees, stripping off his own coverings. His cock sprang free, long and veined and his throbbing tip glistening. You swallowed, reaching for it. Your hand wrapped around the base, stroking slowly. So’lek hissed, hips bucking forward.

“Like that,” he said. “Touch me.”

You pumped him faster, thumb circling the head. He watched you, eyes dark with need. Then he pulled your hand away and guided his cock to your entrance.

He rubbed the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness. You were soaked already, body aching for him.

“Ready?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes,” you breathed.

So’lek pushed in slowly inch by inch. You felt every bit of him stretch you open. It burned a little at first, but the fullness made you moan. He bottomed out, balls against your ass and held still.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Move.”

He started thrusting, steady at first. Each slide in and out built the pressure inside you. His hands braced on either side of your head, muscles flexing. You met his rhythm, hips rising to take him deeper.

“Say my name,” you demanded, nails scratching his back.

His blown eyes found yours, your name spilling from his lips along with pants.

He picked up speed, cock slamming into you now. Sweat beaded on his skin, dripping onto your chest.

But it was not enough. You wanted more. “Connect with me, yawntu (lover),” you said, reaching for your kuru.

So’lek freed his own kuru, the pink tendrils wriggling free. Yours did the same, seeking his. They met in the air, tips touching, then bonding with a soft click. The world sharpened, his pleasure echoed yours, your jealousy a faint echo in his mind.

He groaned as the bond formed. “Feel me.”

You did. Every thrust pulsed through the connection, his arousal mixing with yours. He fucked you faster, the bond letting you sense how close he was.

“Harder,” you urged, the link carrying your need straight to him.

So’lek obliged, pounding into you. His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. The dual sensation pushed you over the edge.

You came with a sob, walls clenching around his cock. Waves of bliss rolled through the tsaheylu, making him shudder.

He followed seconds later, burying deep and spilling inside you. Hot spurts filled you as he groaned your name. The bond amplified it all, leaving you both trembling.

So’lek collapsed onto you. The kurus stayed connected. You stroked his back, the anger gone now replaced by warmth.

“Tamtey means nothing like this,” he said softly, nuzzling your neck.

You smiled, tracing his ear. “Good. Because I want this again.”

He lifted his head, smirking. “Then we continue.”

So’lek rolled off you, pulling you into his side. His arm draped over your waist. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

So’lek's fingers trailed down your arm. “You worried for nothing.”

“I know,” you admitted. “But seeing you with her, it hurt.”

He kissed you again, softer this time. “No one compares to you.”

You melted into the kiss, tongue meeting his. Heat stirred in your belly again.

“Again?” you asked.

“If you want.” His cock twitched against your leg, already hardening.

You pushed him onto his back, you straddled his hips. His erection slid against your slick cunt. You ground down, coating him again. So’lek gripped your hips, guiding you.

“Take me,” he said.

And he did until he made sure you both forgot about Tamtey.

You both lay there on the rocky edge. “Promise me,” you whispered. “No more Tamtey talk in our time.”

“Promise. Only you.”

You eventually managed to get back to HQ and to your den. You woke up late. Your body felt loose in a way it had not for days.

You kept your distance anyway.

Nor passed you once near the fire and nodded, already speaking to Alma about patrol rotations. You answered questions, completed tasks, moved through camp like nothing had happened the night before.

So’lek stayed elsewhere. That was intentional. Whatever had happened between you was still yours alone. Still tucked away where Nor could not see it.

You took work farther out, past the eastern boundary, checking a sensor line that did not strictly need checking. It gave you space. It gave you quiet.

“Do you mind company?”

You turned. Tamtey stood a few steps back, hands empty, posture open. No weapon drawn. No urgency.

“I am almost done,” you said.

“I can walk with you,” she replied. “If that is alright.”

You considered it, then nodded once. “Fine.”

You walked side by side for a while without speaking. The forest filled the silence easily.

“I wanted to speak to you,” Tamtey said eventually. “Without others nearby.”

You glanced at her. “About what?”

She smiled faintly. “I think you already know.”

You stopped walking. She did too.

“You do not like me very much,” Tamtey said.

“I do not dislike you,” you replied. “I just do not enjoy guessing your motives.”

“That is fair,” she said. “Then I will be clear. She faced you fully. “I am not interested in So’lek.”

You watched her carefully. “You spend a lot of time with him.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Because he is reliable. Because he listens. Because he helped me fit back in after the RDA took me.”

“That does not always stay simple,” you said.

“I know,” Tamtey replied. “That is why I wanted to say something before it became a problem.”

You exhaled slowly. “You let it look like something.”

“I let it look like work,” she said. “Others filled in the rest.”

You studied her expression. There was no hesitation there.

She hesitated then, just slightly. “Besides,” she added, “my attention is elsewhere.”

You raised a brow. “Is it?”

Tamtey’s smile returned, amused in a way that felt unexpected.

After long, intense, exhausting battles and war, defending your people, saving your father, the Olo’eyktan, he had found a place among your clan. Your father had held out his hand to him after witnessing So’lek’s strength and loyalty firsthand, and you couldn’t be happier. You’d made good friends with the mysterious warrior from an extinct clan, you’d been the one to patch him up after his fights and the one to hold him gently as his loud, disturbed mind threatened to break him. Although you were young and hadn’t even begun to see the things he’d witnessed, you felt his pain. You connected to him in a way no other could with you. You saw him.

You couldn’t admit this before. Your father, although he deeply respected So’lek, would not allow a courtship between the two of you. So’lek was an outsider, a loner, and you were the Tsakarem, with a male already promised to you.

Neylut, your promised, was strong, capable, and providing, yes — but he wasn’t what your heart desired. You knew, deep inside, that it was So’lek who Eywa was guiding you towards. And you had to listen. 

And now that he was one of the People, perhaps you had a chance after all.

Chewing the last piece of syìl meat off of the grisly bone you held, you glance to your left and watch as So’lek, dressed in your clan’s traditional warrior attire and painted in the finest berry dyes, finishes the last of his meat too. Your heart feels warm and your soul glows with pride and excitement. Seeing him so content like this felt so special.

A nudge to his shoulder had him glancing at you, raising a brow bone. 

<“You are one of us, now.”> You smile, it brightening your features as you gaze upon the warrior who had come to you in a time of great need, now a brother within your clan. 

Gentle, calm, happy, is what he feels right now when you said that, although he tries to hide that last one more with his serious facade. He hums in response, slowly blinking as if he were still coming to terms with this fact.

So’lek’s eyes flicker down on their own, admiring the decorative chest covering and animal tooth necklace that seems to stand out much more than your other ones — perhaps you brought it out for this special occasion. This occasion… that celebrated him. He’s quick to redirect his gaze to your own, internally berating himself for ogling you so perversely, even if he hadn’t really meant to. It is not about you, he chastises himself.

With a quick glance around the fire, you see your people still happily feasting as they talk with one another. Seeing an opportunity, you take it. Laying down the bone you held, now stripped of its meat, you stand, watching him closely as his golden eyes follow your upward movement. <“Come.”>

<“Where are we going?”> He asks, his deep voice rumbling and almost sending a shiver down your spine. But you hide it well.

<“Just come.”> You insist, and watch as he grunts and stands. He faces you with an almost deadpan expression, but you see that glint of mirth and curiosity behind his gaze. A grin pulls at your mouth, flashing your canines at him as you quickly scuttle off, taking So’lek by surprise as he rushes to follow.

A gentle, slow pace is set as you both wander into a quiet, wet cave. It’s not dark — far from it — the bioluminescence of the moss and flora around you light up the rock walls and guide your path. So’lek takes his time to let his surroundings sink in and soothe his conscience. After so much time spent in metal walls made by Sky People, here is where he truly felt alive. Like himself. Like Na’vi. 

The tunnel led to a more open area, and right in the centre stood an almost pearlescent tree, with hanging roots and branches that weaved through the rock and moss, protected within the sanctuary of the cavern. Your footsteps left a trail of bioluminescent light beneath you as you approached your clan’s sacred tree, the gentle glow calming and breath-taking all the same. This place radiated a calming aura, one that ignited the feelings of hope and quiet joy within you. Surrounded by Eywa, by the ancestors. 

<“You know what this is?”>

So’lek almost forgot to breathe, his eyes snapping from the tree to your figure beneath it, dwarfed by its impressive size. You were so beautiful, and even more now that you were enveloped in Eywa’s light. He struggled, but found his voice again to answer you.

<“The tree of voices,”> he replied, his voice low and deep.

<“Yes…”> you murmur, before gesturing with your hand for him to come closer. A strange feeling within him, something akin to fear, wrapped itself around his heart. He would be so close to the Great Mother, he was afraid she would see what he had seen. What torments his mind at night, the death, the war, the Sky People. He did not want to taint her. But your large eyes, looking at him in that way you usually did, so full of warmth and so inviting, lured him to you anyway. He often found himself powerless like this when it came to you. 

His careful footsteps made their way next to you, and you smiled at him.

<“You may come here whenever you wish to seek Eywa. Or, speak to the ancestors…”> you say, thinking of who he may have loved in his past, and how many of them are now with the Great Mother. Ones he may wish to tell of his achievements, of his sorrows. Perhaps, he once had a love? The thought hurts your heart, but even if he did, they were long gone now. You would not hold contempt for someone who loved So’lek, if there ever was any.

You continue. <“You are a man now. A brother of the clan. Which means you now have the right to carve a bow of your own from Hometree.”>

To say he was a man only now would be a lie. He was a man when you first met him, a man when he protected you and your people, and a man when he rested his head upon your shoulder. But within the eyes of the clan, he now had the rights that any other male had, which also included…

<“And…”> you hesitate for a brief moment, looking away so you couldn’t see his face, or he yours. <“You may begin choosing, now, if you wish.”>

<“Choosing?”> So’lek mutters, tilting his head a little.

<“A mate.”> You manage to get out, even if your throat threatened to tighten.

Recognition passed So’lek’s eyes. 

A mate is something he has never had. Not even in his birth clan. He was still young, and war had become too much of a priority to even think about women at the time. But now war is over. He can have what he never had the chance to have.

His silence pulls your gaze back to him again, but you regret it as soon as he catches it. So’lek searches within your almost telling eyes, but as soon as he thinks he sees something in them change, you turn away, pretending to be busy admiring the scenery around you both. 

He hums in understanding, a low sound more akin to a grunt. You take his hum as agreement, and your heart sinks. It was foolish to have ever thought he’d choose you, anyway. He sees you as too young, too naïve, and he’s so much wiser.

Swallowing to clear your dry throat, you find comfort in holding onto a strand hanging down in front of you.

<“We have many beautiful women. Many unmated. Skilled…”> you begin, thinking of many prospects whilst ignoring the ache in your heart, the thought of him mated to another making you sick. <“Ayteya is a good weaver. She is one of the best in the clan. Lei’wa… has many prospects— but no doubt, she would choose you.”>

<“What about you?”>

Your hand freezes against the glowing root of the tree in front of you, but you don’t dare look at him, afraid of getting your hopes up. <“…what about me?”>

So’lek notices your purposeful avoidance, and steps before you to look at you again. Your eyes meet. 

<“You are unmated, are you not?”> He inquired, something in his tone felt as though he were leading up to something, but you didn’t want to assume what. Your heartbeat quickened when his scent crossed your nose. The one you’d come to love, even if it sometimes smelt like metal and blood. Your scent crossed his too, and it warmed him inside. You smelt so familiar, like home, like the tana’ring that filled his childhood memories.

Stutters fall from your mouth, your grip slightly tighter on the root as you try to find the right words for him. <“Well… yes, but…”>

<“Then are you not able to be chosen?”>

Your chest tightens, ears perking and eyes slightly widening. Was he suggesting what you hoped he was? The warmth within you spreads to your cheeks, the tanhì speckled on them glowing brighter. You quickly break away your gaze to look elsewhere other than his own deep, enticing, golden gaze.

<“I… I am promised to Neylut.”>

So’lek feels his insides burn for a moment at your declaration— longing? Jealousy? Pain? He did not know, all he knew is that it ached. 

He’d met Neylut before. He was a proud warrior. Capable and strong. So’lek had watched once as he had rode with the other men on Pa’li into your camp, sweat dripping down their muscles and deep, intense expressions upon their faces. Neylut had brought back an entire syìl on his mount, and had offered you the biggest, finest piece of it, wrapped in a soft leaf. A courting display. One that showed his strength and prowess, his ability to provide, to protect. At the time, So’lek hadn’t really thought too hard about the relationship between you and Neylut. But now he has feelings for you. He wanted you. He wanted to court you like how a man should, properly, and he would do so far better than Neylut.

A swallow, and he takes a step forward towards you. He’s so close now, staring deep into your eyes like he was trying to see your soul. You gaze up at him, breaths unsteady as you anticipate his next words— or moves.

<“Do you love Neylut?”> He asks.

<“No.”> You blurt, the answer tumbles out of your mouth faster than you can think, but it was honest. 

Relief bloomed within So’lek’s chest before he could stop it.

Unaware of his relief, you ramble on. <“He is a good man. There is nothing wrong with him. But… I never felt anything more than friendly appreciation.”> A sigh left you. <“It was always only an obligation. My father… he decided for me. But I want to decide for myself.”>

<“And what would you decide?”>

You fall silent, gazing into his eyes as you try to search for the answer in them. Fear wracks your body, fear of rejection, but every nerve and muscle aches to be entwined with his. Being so close to him, it felt so right. And somewhere deep inside you, you sensed he may feel the same.

Your name falls from his lips, uttered so sweetly that for a second you didn’t believe it came from him. But it did. The shiver that crawled up your spine had your ears swivelling in his direction, more than ready to listen.

<“Feel.”>

His large hand reaches for yours, holding it gently as he brings it to his chest. The paint there barely smudges onto your fingers. You watch your hand as you feel the steady beating underneath it, a reminder that he was alive, real, in front of you. So many times you feared he wouldn’t return, but here he is. And right now, all yours.

With soft eyes staring at you, he murmurs, <“my heart. It used to ache. Weighed down by the pain of my past. Now, it only aches when it is not near you.”>

Your breath catches in your throat. What?

So’lek leans closer, watching you closely. <“It only beats for one. If it is not you, then it is no one.”>

You blink, unsure if you heard him right, but by his expression you knew he had spoken.

<“…Ma So’lek… it is true? What you say?”>

He doesn’t respond, he only leans into you, pressing his forehead against yours. His hand never lets go of yours, instead he brings his other to hold yours tighter against him, afraid you’d run, or disappear, or Eywa will decide he wasn’t good enough for you.

The silence is deafening, but after a long moment, you finally speak.

<“I see you,”> you whisper, fearing you’ll shatter the moment if you raise your voice any higher. Your free hand comes up to cup his defined cheek as you shift your head to press your lips against his in a small, gentle kiss. <“I see you, So’lek.”>

<“I see you,”> he repeats back to you, the low grumble of his voice reverberating through you now. 

He is quick to lean back in and catch your lips again, this time not letting you back away so soon. Your eyes flutter shut, feeling instead of seeing, feeling the way he kisses you with so much emotion, like you were precious and he was trying to stop himself from taking you without savouring you first. His hands let go of yours to reach up and hold where your jaw meets your neck, caressing you softly. Your own hand, now free of his hold, finds his arm, feeling the firm muscle beneath the scarred skin and feeling the smallest spark of excitement being born within you.

After a long moment of enjoying the feeling of your lips against his own, he found himself leaving your mouth to leave a trail of kisses down your neck. You leaned back to bare it to him, an act of submission and vulnerability, one he took good care of respecting. His teeth grazed your sensitive skin there, but he didn’t dare bite down, not until he heard it from your mouth that you were his to take.

<“Ma yawne… tell me,”> he mumbles into your neck, <“tell me you are mine.”>

<“I am yours, ma So’lek,”> you answer quickly, perhaps too eager, but he appreciates it. 

A deep purr vibrates deep within his chest, and he carefully bites you. A gasp escapes your throat, skin tingling and sending shocks throughout your body. Your hands clutch onto him as he claims you— for now. A mark that will fade over time, but until he can properly mate you, this would do for now.

He pulls back for a moment to leave soothing kisses where he left his bite, a silent apology for any pain he may have caused you — even if you were shivering in pleasure, not pain — and he comes back to meet your eyes, which pupils have blown wide.

So’lek is silent for a moment, before a small grin tugs at his lips.

<“He cannot have you now,”> he murmurs under his breath. 

You’d worked as the makeup artist on set for the band’s last few video shoots.

Anytime Eddie was in your chair, there was flirting, little compliments, holding each other’s gaze much longer than necessary. Or, to call it what it really was — full on eye fucking.

Unfortunately, Eddie’s manager had a strict “no mixing business with pleasure” rule. And as much as it killed him, he waited.

On the last day of shooting the final video for the album, you were powdering Eddie’s face for the camera when he couldn’t stop smirking — especially when you leaned in close and muttered,  “You really do have obnoxiously good lips.”

Everyone had gone out for drinks after the shoot, a post wrap celebration of sorts. Halfway through his second drink, Eddie couldn't hold off any longer, leaning in to whisper, "You wanna get out of here?" into the shell of your ear.

He thought about kissing you in the cab — wanted to — but the ride to his apartment was short, the kind that barely gave you time to settle in.

The moment you stepped inside, you made yourself at home. You moved through the narrow hallway like you’d been there before, fingers trailing the walls until you found his room.

"It's been fucking torture, staring at those lips, y'know."

And in one stride, he was on you — crashing his mouth against yours, hands cradling your cheeks. All he could taste was the rum on your tongue.

Maybe it was the anticipation. Or maybe it was just you — but Eddie was already losing himself in the kiss.

You’d talked about his lips before, but yours?

Soft. Plush. Addicting. Like the best fucking drug he’s ever had.

He moves from your lips to your jaw, then down to your neck, and suddenly his knees hit the floor before he even fully registers what he’s doing. 

Heart thumping in his chest, the type of beat you can hear in your ears. He looks up at you from the ground, eyes wide. His hands run up your thigh, palms spreading over the soft flesh as he kneads it with the pads of his fingertips, inching up the hem of your dress.

You cock an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing, baby?” 

Christ.

The words were sweet, but patronizing. Almost like you were looking down on him, more than the literal sense. 

Eddie swallowed hard, his throat dry. Like for once in his life he was at a loss for words. 

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment before leaning down just enough for him to feel your breath on his face. “I know all about your reputation, Eddie,” you smirked. “But would you be open to changing it up tonight? Let someone else call the shots.”

Giving up control? It wasn’t in his nature. Not anymore — not when he had the choice. It had never gone well with other partners. But surely, he was already halfway there — considering he was on his knees for you.

His voice cracked, but he managed a shaky laugh despite himself. “What do you have in mind?”

“Why don’t you go on your bed.”

His body moved before he could think it through. And as he sat on his mattress, his heart continued to hammer as he watched you begin to undress at the foot of the bed. 

Your body was a vision. One he didn't feel lucky enough to be graced with. His hand reached for you on instinct, but recoiled at your words.

"Ah, ah, ah," you tsked. "No touching."

The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd used that line more times than he could count — and now here he was, desperate to feel you and yet forbidden to. 

Call it some kind of cruel karma.

Maybe if he asks nicely.

"Please... let me touch you.” 

"Hmm….. I don't know if I should yet," you teased. “Don't you think you should show a little restraint?"

Eddie scoffed.

You were toying with your prey. And he fucking hated it — yet, the rush of blood to his dick told him otherwise.

Your syrupy, sweet voice cut through his thoughts as your hands moved to unbutton his shirt.

"I'll tell you when you can touch me," you said softly. "I promise it'll be worth the wait. Does that sound good?"

He nodded. 

"Words, baby. You've got to use your words."

Fuck. There it was again. Baby. 

"Yes," he whispered, voice cracking.

You smiled — the same kind of grin he was used to giving partners. Like a twist of the knife, that promises one hell of a night.

"So, Eddie," you purred, amusement curling around your voice, "when you got on your knees… what exactly did you plan to do?"

"Wanted to taste you,” he rasped. 

“I thought you might say that."  You peeled off the rest his shirt, then ran your hands across his bare chest.

"Lay back for me," you said softly, pushing him toward the mattress.

Eddie's chest rose and fell in shallow, shaky breaths — equal parts terrified and thrilled as his head hit the pillow. 

"I'm going to let you have just that, Eddie."

A groan slipped past his lips before he could stop it. 

You giggled and the sound of your laugh taunted him — like a glimpse of heaven he was yearning to get to. 

His gaze locked on you as you climbed onto the bed and crawled up to position yourself.

"Now, aside from your mouth, no touching," you commanded as you lowered yourself onto him, straddling his face.

Eddie's lips parted instinctively, pressing his mouth against you. So warm. So soft. So fucking wet. And all for him.

His cock strained painfully against his jeans, and he moaned into your heat as you mewled above him. Even as his hands ached to touch you, to grip your hips, to pull you down onto his tongue — he obeyed. His fists instead clenched into the comforter, knuckles white, as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

"Ah, fuck, yes. You’re such a good boy, Eddie."

He whimpered at the praise. It twisted something deep inside him, made him ache in ways he hadn't known were possible. And he fucking loved it. Wanted nothing more than to be your good boy — relentlessly tongue fucking you like it was the only thing he'd ever been meant to do. Like he was exactly where he belonged.

But as you eventually began to fall apart on his tongue, something like instinct took over. His hands rose to grip your shaky thighs, holding you to his mouth as he worked you through your climax. Feeling the warmth of your skin under his firm grip, while you writhed on his tongue was everything he could want.

But the look you gave him as you rolled off, kneeling next to him on the bed, calm, controlled, eyes boring straight into his — he knew he fucked up. 

"Oh, Eddie," you said, tilting your head. "What did I tell you about touching me?"

"Right, yeah,” he breathed. "I just... I wanted you to enjoy it," he said, sitting up quickly.

The disappointment etched on your face even further and a brutal realization settled in — he'd given that same look before. A taste of his own medicine. And it was so fucking bitter.

"I’, fuck… sweetheart, I’m sorry.” 

"I know you are. But you didn’t listen…. And you know what happens when someone doesn’t listen.” 

"Oh," Eddie frowned. "I  don’t —“ 

"Eddie." You arched an eyebrow. "What do you do when someone doesn't listen to you?"

"Punish them."

"That's right, baby. So what do you think is an appropriate punishment for this?"

He knew, but admitting it made his skin crawl. It was clear — he'd met his fucking match.

"Deprivation…. I'd edge them. Tease them until they were begging for it."

You paused, a playful glint flickering in your eyes.

Slowly, you leaned in, your lips brushing his ear. “Lucky for you... I'm not that cruel.”

He sighed the moment he felt you press down over his stiff cock.

"Go ahead, Eddie," you whispered, voice soft and indulgent. "You can touch me now."

Before the words had fully registered, your lips were on his — mouths crashing together, tongues colliding in needy haste. 

His hands flew to your waist, dragging you closer, feeling the shape of you as your bare cunt began to grind over the hardened outline straining in his jeans. 

His hands roamed like he couldn't get enough. Every curve, every inch of soft skin beneath his calloused fingertips. When his hands made their way to your ass, your teeth sank into his bottom lip, dragging back as your hips kept rolling over him.

A sharp hiss left his mouth, as you kissed along his jaw, slow and purposeful, until your mouth was hot on his ear.

"You’re gonna cum for me, Eddie," you whispered.

"F-fuck," he groaned, grip tightening on your ass as he buried his face in your neck, teeth sinking in to your supple skin, to stifle his moans.

The praises you were whispering into his ear were nearly incoherent. The white hot coil building deep within him, threatening to snap at any second.

You pulled back, hands moving form his shoulders to his cheeks, cradling his face softly, eyes locked and a sinful grin on your lips. 

"In fact, you're going to cum again and again... until you've got nothing left to give." You rolled your hips especially hard and that was all it took. 

The orgasm ripped through him, hips stuttering, cock twitching as he came with a desperate breathless, groan. 

Clearly, you were that cruel. 

His mind foggy and spent, as you were climbing off his lap and unbuttoning his jeans — peeling them down along with his soaked boxers.

His half hard cock was exposed, still twitching, still leaking.

Pathetic. 

Only it didn’t look like you thought it was pathetic at all. You looked, proud. 

Without a word, you settled on your knees between his legs. Your lips brushed over him soft, slow as you began to clean him up.

"Ahh, fuck," he groaned, voice already frayed, as you took him into your mouth.

You swirled your tongue around the sensitive head, licking up the mess he'd made, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you, the way his cock hardened again.

His hand found your cheek, caressing it shakily as his breathing quickened and you took him deeper. There was no time to recover, no chance for him to catch his breath — just your mouth, your tongue, and the slow build of aching, unbearable need.

“Fuck, sweetheart," he gasped.

His eyes were burning, that feeling when they get all glassy, and he could hardly keep them open. 

You hollowed your cheeks harder, and his hand flew to your hair, gripping it tight, pulling you closer as he started to unravel.

His hips bucked, chasing the friction as you pushed him over the edge again.

"Shit-oh shit, shit—“

His body shuddered violently beneath you, his cock twitching in your mouth as his second orgasm tore through him, white hot cum shooting down your throat. 

You swallowed it all before easing off him, with a smirk. 

His chest rose and fell in erratic bursts, skin flushed, eyes unfocused-lost in the haze of overstimulation. “God. I, fuck, that was.. agh.” 

You let out a soft laugh, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. "You okay, baby?"

He nodded weakly, still trying to find his breath.

"Yeah. Just... holy shit."

Your fingers grazed down his stomach, gentle, soothing but then dipped lower. 

He twitched under your touch.

“Wait—fuck, sweetheart," he groaned as your hand wrapped around his cock. "I don't have anything left..”

"Mm. You sure about that baby?”

Eddie whined as your hand began to lazily stroke him. His hips involuntarily jerking. Even soft, he was still so sensitive, and your touch had him trying to figure out whether he could take any more.

"Please.” 

"Please what?" you cooed, tilting your head.

"I... I can't go again," he whimpered.

You let out a soft sigh, feigning disappointment as your hand slowed. “Okay. If you really want me to stop-"

"No!" he gasped, the word breaking from him like it hurt to say.

The sting of your touch leaving was worse than the ache of overstimulation.

“Good," you whispered. "You haven't even had me yet.” 

The sound that slipped from Eddie's lips was pitiful. He couldn’t help it, though.  You had him utterly wrecked.  Skin slick with sweat. Tears clinging to his lashes, His voice, hoarse and rough. All of it proof of how far he'd been pushed — how far he was still willing to go.

"You ready?"

His throat burned with restraint, the kind that made him want to nod, but he knew better. Knew you wanted verbal communication, so he mustered up the strength — answering with the most feeble 'yes.'

You slid yourself over him again, sinking yourself down on his length. Both of you gasping in unison.

Eddie’s cock felt incredible inside you — deep and thick and filling you so perfectly, like the final piece of a puzzle. 

And your warmth wrapped around him like a vice, velvet heat clenching around his already sensitive cock.

Eddie cried out beneath you, that same pitiful noise from earlier. 

"Does it hurt, baby?" you whispered, leaning in.

Yes.

You cupped his face gently. "Does it feel too good for you to take?"

Yes - again. 

"Should I stop?"

God, no.  

He may be overwhelmed and aching but still he needed more.. 

His wide, dilated eyes locked on yours — wet, desperate. "Don't want you to stop," he whimpered.

The smirk that curved your lips might've been the worst of it — cruel in its beauty, and dripping with satisfaction.

You stilled, just long enough for him to catch a breath.

Then you began to move - slowly, grinding down with a rhythm that made him groan.

After a few minutes, your hips began to rock gently, back and forth. The friction was tender but relentless. Eddie’s hands found your waist, gripping possessively — gritted teeth and sharp inhales indicating his struggle to hold it together. 

As you continued to rock softly, a tear finally slipped from his lashes. Then another. And another one. All born out of beautiful agony.

“Aww, Eddie,” you whispered, caressing his cheeks and brushing away the tears with your thumbs. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

His cheeks flushed, lips parting in a breathless gasp. That phrase alone, could undo him. 

His tears fell freely now, tracing warm, silent paths down his skin — and you echoed again just how pretty as you continued to mercilessly ride him. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna—"

"Not yet," you whispered. "Hold it for me. I'm so close — just a little longer.”

Fuck. Hold it. Just hold it, Munson.  

Slowly, his hand slid down from your hip, trembling fingers finding your clit. He began to rub slow, tight circles — trying to help you get there, trying to distract himself from how badly he needed to let go.

Your breath caught, arching into his touch as your walls clenched around him.

"Ohhhh," you moaned. “So good… you’re such a good boy for me."

"Fuuuuuck,” he gasped. “Sweetheart… you can’t—can’t say that right now.” 

The praise was too much. The feeling was too much. Pure pain and pleasure coursing through his veins, utterly consuming. Tears completely blurred his vision, as your body squeezed him. He was fighting with everything he had to restrain himself, holding off for you.

His fingers quickened on your clit, desperate for you to let go. 

"Eddie," you purred, your hips rolling hard against his. “Fill me up, baby. I want every last drop." 

Dear God. 

That was it. 

A guttural groan tore from his throat as his body convulsed beneath you. His left hand dug into your hip — surely leaving a bruise — while his right kept moving, frantic but reverent as his cock pulsed deep inside you.

His orgasm hitting so fucking hard, dragging cries from his lips as he spilled into you. 

You rode every shuddering ripple, gasping into his mouth as your climax followed his.

Eddie couldn't move.

He was wrecked. Absolutely destroyed. Muscles twitching, trying to steady his breath.

You were to the right of him, one thigh slotted between his, your cheek resting against his chest. Your fingers traced lazy lines across his sternum. It toe the line of too much — every inch of him raw, tingling, burning — but he didn't tell you to stop. Couldn't. Wouldn’t.

He was still coming down, and your touch reminded him that you’d just ruined him in the best fucking way imaginable. 

He thought he knew what giving up control — in this situation — would feel like. He'd tried it before. Hated every second of it. Felt exposed, wrong. Tapped out before he even got hard.

So when it came to tonight, he figured maybe he'd tolerate it. I mean, it was with you, after all. If anything he’d get off on the novelty. Chalk it up to a one time thing.

But that?

He’ll fucking curse his own goddamn existence if he never gets to have that again. 

And it wasn't just the orgasms - though, holy hell, those alone had him completely fucking wrecked.

It was you.

"You're so pretty when you cry.”

The words have been playing on a loop in his head — the reverence behind them, the quiet awe in your eyes. No teasing, or taunting, you admired it. Sincerely. 

You'd said you weren't as cruel as him. And while he'd started to doubt that for a second — turns out, you were right.

He’s not sure you ever could be. 

Because Eddie likes to push when he's in control. Make someone beg. Draw it out. Break a sweat. While you did all of those things to him, it wasn’t in the same way.

Instead you met him, exactly where he needed. Graced him with your control, made him understand that sometimes control comes in the form of willingly relinquishing it to someone else.

You pull him from his thoughts, kissing a slow path up his collarbone. 

"Baby," you whisper, lips brushing the edge of his jaw, "you with me?”

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice rough.

You press a kiss to his jaw, then another to his cheek. "How'd it feel?" you ask, fingers brushing through his hair. "Being on the receiving end?”

"I liked it.”

“Yeah?"

He huffs a soft laugh, still catching his breath. “Yeah. More than I thought I would."

You smile into his skin, smug and satisfied, and fuck, if that doesn't do something to him all over again.

“So it wasn't too much for you?" you tease, brushing your nose along his temple.

"No," he says. "Actually, I uh...I wouldn't mind being at your mercy again.”

“Mmm. That’s right” You drag your lips along the edge of his jaw. "Because you're such a good boy.”

He groans - deep and ragged - and you steal it with a kiss.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his. "I'd be at yours too, y'know," you say softly.

“Are you sure? I’m not as graceful as you.”

“Oh I’m counting on that," you admit. “Think I’m in for a real treat.” 

“Sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.” 

“And baby….”

“Hmm?” 

“I’m pretty when I cry too.” 

Fuck.