#jaryl

Jesus smiles without thinking about it, setting his own guns on the kitchen table for cleaning later, still watching Daryl with careful attention. He watches him kick out of his boots and shrug out of his vest, leaving him practically naked in a pair of torn jeans and a black Henley with the sleeves rolled up.

“Tired as shit,” Daryl says, hair falling in his face as he pitches forward, picking up his boots and setting them out of the way of his path to the bathroom.

“You look it,” Jesus says.

“Yeah, well, you look like a basket of roses,” Daryl replies snidely.

Jesus tugs off his gloves and sets them on the table before tucking his hair behind his ears. “Well, this is just for you, you know.”

Daryl pulls his shirt over his head, the muscles in his sides and back flexing. The scar tissue stretches across the surface of flesh that isn’t tattooed. He uses the shirt to wipe the sweat from his armpits and chest then tosses it at the hamper, which he misses.

Jesus likes this. He likes how comfortable Daryl is around him now, after about a dozen attempts to get Daryl to let him touch his skin with his hands, a dozen tries to get Daryl to have sex with him, all the way naked, in a bed, naked and safe. A hundred nights holding Daryl as close as he could, trying to steep that love into him like black tea.

Now Daryl casually grabs his glass of tepid water from the nightstand and drinks the rest of it while half naked, his past carved into his back, looking at Jesus like he’s smelled something that tickles his nose.

“You see somethin’ you like, pretty boy?” Daryl calls, turning to face Jesus fully, hair still in his face.

Jesus gives him a look, slowly down, and then back up, watching Daryl’s reaction. His fingers tap along the glass anxiously, his jaw gives a tick, and he inhales just once, very quick.

Arching his brows, Jesus strides over to him. Daryl sets the glass down behind him, hands fluttering awkwardly as Jesus reaches out and cards the hair back from one side of his face. He runs his fingers down Daryl’s throat, over the fine cuts that have long faded along his chest, down between his pecs. With his other hand, he touches Daryl’s arm, following the deep curves of muscle along his bicep to his forearm, to the scarred-over gash along his arm where electrical tape had saved his life from a bite.

He runs both hands down Daryl’s sides, watching the fine hair on his arms raise, his dusky nipples tightening. Jesus smirks, resting his hands on Daryl’s hips, tilting his chin up to kiss Daryl’s forehead when he ducks his face away from the kiss Jesus wants.

He digs his thumbs into the tender space just above Daryl’s waistband. “I like this,” he murmurs against Daryl’s forehead, and Daryl fusses. He likes that too, but he doesn’t say. “It’s nice… how soft you are.”

“I ain’t soft,” Daryl huffs, grabbing Jesus’ wrists. But he doesn’t push him away, not even when Jesus presses at the softness of Daryl’s belly a bit harder.

“You’re soft here. I like it.” Before Daryl can protest, Jesus slides down to his knees, pressing his lips and the tip of his nose to Daryl’s stomach. “Soft tummy.”

“Knock that off, ya dumbass,” Daryl snaps, but his face flares up uncomfortably warm.

“Cranky,” Jesus says, kissing Daryl’s stomach, holding him still with his hands at his sides. “You don’t have to be like that with me.”

“Not bein’ like nothin’. Jus’ don’t want you kissin’ my gut.”

“Not a gut. Tummy,” Jesus corrects, kissing just a bit lower, over the pudgy bit of flesh.

Daryl tangles a hand into his hair and tugs Jesus’ head back, looking down at him. For a minute, it looks like he’s going to say something, but Daryl’s parted lips never form words.

Jesus moves his thumbs in arches over the soft skin, gently scratching his beard over the bit of hair just beneath Daryl’s belly button. “You’re beautiful… you know I believe that, right?”

And there he goes again, phrasing things in a way he knows won’t upset Daryl. In return, Daryl’s expression shifts, from frustration to annoyance, then resigned.

“Yeah, I know.”

Jesus kisses his soft skin again. “You know there isn’t a part of you I’d change, right?”

“…Yeah.”

Sighing, Jesus wraps his arms around Daryl’s waist, resting his head against his tummy. Daryl in turn releases the hold he has on Jesus’ long hair, instead threading his fingers through it, resting his palm against the back of Jesus’ head.

“You’re soft here. It’s different, from other parts of you. You’re all muscle, all hard. But this—I really like this,” Jesus admits, knocking his head back into Daryl’s touch like a cat.

“You like my fa—“Jesus levels a look up at him, and Daryl clears his throat sharply. “…That?”

“I like your pudgy belly, yeah.”

“Don’t know how I got a gut in this shitstorm.”

“You’re a happy cat,” Jesus says, running his hands up the small of Daryl’s back, over scars from belt lashes and kitchen counter edges. “A pudgey, grumpy cat.”

“You sound so stupid sayin’ that,” Daryl sighs, tangling both hands into Jesus’ hair as he starts kissing at Daryl’s hipbones. Jesus feels the goosebumps rise under his palms and fingers. Daryl shudders. “What… anythin’ else you like you ain’t mentioned yet?”

Jesus smiles, setting his teeth against Daryl’s skin gently. “What indeed,” he murmurs, and then writes the list out for Daryl with his lips and fingertips.

It’s nice. It’s warm.