#nicfics

Daryl’s fucking weird.

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

Intent. 

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

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

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

Alright. Message received.

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

It isn’t.

Because you keep catching him.

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

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

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

But this doesn’t feel like someone checking in.

It feels like being tracked.

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

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

He’s always there when you do.

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

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

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

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

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

You just wish someone had told Daryl.

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

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

You turn before you can stop yourself.

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

You flip him off and go inside.

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

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

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

Your neck prickles when they stay there, heavy.

The blade stills in his hand.

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

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

Slow.

Deliberate.

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

Your stomach drops anyway.

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

Like he’s sighting down it.

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

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

Shhk.

Shhk.

The sound picks up again like nothing happened.

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

Like that wasn’t meant for you.

You retreat inside and lock the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate longer than you should before finally giving in.

It should feel safe.

For a moment, it does.

Then you notice the window.

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

It feels wrong, immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you check.

The windows are bare.

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

So you learned.

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

And right now, that’s the problem.

There’s nothing you’re not seeing.

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

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

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

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

Leaves you exposed.

Of course he moved.

Because you did.

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

It isn’t perfect, but it’s enough.

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

You linger longer than you should.

Long enough for your guard to soften.

Long enough for the quiet to feel safe again.

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

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

Then stop.

The bathroom door is open.

Not by much. Just enough.

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

You closed it.

You know you did.

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

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

It burns.

Because now there’s context.

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

Your grip tightens around the towel.

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

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

Fine.

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

It only feeds the same conclusion.

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

The windows come into view.

And so does he.

Back on the stoop.

Like he never left.

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

Walnuts this time.

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

Of course he’s back.

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

Daryl looks up.

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

It lands.

And lingers.

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

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

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

The shift in him is immediate.

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

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

Oh.

His voice is nice.

This is the first time you’ve heard it.

It only pisses you off more.

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

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

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

"Why?"

"So you can give me my underwear back."

That hits.

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

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

Not because he doesn’t have the words.

Because he’s looking past you.

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

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

Your stomach swoops in realization.

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

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

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

A hush.

A warning.

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

Your pulse spikes.

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

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

That’s it.

That’s the moment it locks.

Because he’s not confused.

He’s not denying it.

He’s trying to contain it.

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

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

You’ve already decided what that look means.

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

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

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

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

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

It looks like guilt trying not to get caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel it then.

The shift.

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

You don’t look.

Your focus stays locked on Daryl.

He’s glaring now, breathing heavier.

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

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

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

It lands like a spark in dry grass.

Your hand moves before you think better of it.

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

For a second, everything stills.

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

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

It almost scares you.

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

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

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

Your fists curl at your sides, anger coiling tight.

“That a threat?”

“Is if you swing again.”

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

You hate how pretty his eyes are.

So much that you do move to swing again.

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

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

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

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

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

“Daryl,” Rick warns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words settle.

Slow.

Heavy.

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

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

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

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

Embarrassment. 

You don’t stay.

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

An hour later, there’s a knock.

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

They stay for dinner.

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

Zones out.

Which is so completely valid. You do the same.

But he is not zoning out.

He's zoning in.

On you.

You tell them that.

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

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

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

He’s not quick to trust.

Neither are you.

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

The next day at the infirmary confirms your suspicions.

But everyone subverts your expectations. Mostly the women.

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

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

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

You test it.

Throw a middle finger over your shoulder without even looking.

Wait a beat.

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

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

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nothin’.”

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

Nothin'.

Fucking douche.

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

Nothin'.

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

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

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

Just to piss you off some more.

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

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

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

If anything, he becomes a bigger focus for you.

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

It’s irritating.

Like a tongue worrying a sore spot.

Three months in, you start noticing something new.

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

It’s lower.

You catch it once. Brush it off.

Twice. Coincidence.

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

Daryl.

And he’s staring at your ass.

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t turn away.

Doesn’t even look embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what? Hell yeah.

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

The arguments come easier after the ogling starts.

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

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

It never resolves.

It just resets.

Over and over.

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

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

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

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

Dammit.

And your fucking panties start going missing again.

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

It happens.

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

Except it keeps happening.

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

They always vanish after they've been worn.

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

You remember putting them in the basket.

You remember it clearly.

And then they’re just… not there.

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

What the fuck.

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

Nothing.

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

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

It’s a decent explanation.

Until it happens again.

And again.

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

It’s. a. fucking. pattern.

Screw this.

You adjust.

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

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

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

You leave.

You come back.

Gone.

Not shifted. Not misplaced.

Gone.

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

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

Just… tired.

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

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

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

Everything is exactly how it should be.

Every time.

And that’s the part that gets to you.

Because if nothing’s wrong—

Then what the hell is happening?

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

Doubt.

Not about the situation.

About yourself.

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

No.

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

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

Which leaves only one option.

Daryl.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But tonight, you’re done waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. It’s been too long. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s not enough.

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

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

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

Daryl.

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

His cock ruining you.

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

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

But of fucking course it’s no use.

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

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

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

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

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

Just a little more—just a little—

The sound splits through the air like a gunshot.

Floorboard.

Hallway.

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

Your bedroom door is open.

Wide.

You didn’t think you needed to close it.

Daryl’s not supposed to be here.

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

Don’t blink. 

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

Then, another sound. A shift of air.

Slowly.

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

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

Instinct takes over before thought can catch up. 

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

The room is empty. Exactly as it should be.

Then—

Thump.

Upstairs.

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

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

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

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

Cigarettes.

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

Nothing. No one. 

The house is still. Too still.

Then you see it.

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

Maybe you did.

Maybe you’re imagining things again.

Your throat goes dry.

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

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

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

You slam the window shut and lock it.

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

But the heat under your skin doesn’t fade. 

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

Your panties.

The ones you’d kicked off in a frenzy—

Gone.

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

Of course.

Of fucking course they are.

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

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

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

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

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

Which you’re still pretty confident is utter bullshit.

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever.

At least this is something you can fix.

You take two steps forward—

Thwip.

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

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

No way.

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

You whip around to see, who?

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

That’s it. 

Enough.

You snap.

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

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

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

Like you're nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes lock onto yours.

Dark, feral. 

God, it makes your pulse kick harder. 

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

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

"Let go—" you snarl.

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

He leans forward, breath rasping against your ear. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your neck.

Ultimately landing on your tits.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's rock hard.

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

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

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

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

Your brain short circuits.

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

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

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

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

You quickly decide to go with the latter.

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

He just manhandles you.

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

Your calves hit something solid. 

His fucking crossbow. 

And then you’re going down. 

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

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

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

You put a hand in his face and push up. 

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

It works—sort of. 

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

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

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

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

Good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth curls into that infuriating smirk again. 

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

Deliberate, taunting.

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

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

You hate him for it.

So you spit in his face.

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

Then he does the same right back. 

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

Messy. Rough. 

All teeth and tongue.

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

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

Mostly because you can’t. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you,” you grit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he puts up a fight again.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

His fingers dive into your jeans with no courtesy. 

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

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

He’s already there though.

“No panties today, huh?” he chuckles.

God.

“Gee, I sure wonder why—”

“Slut.”

“I hate you.”

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

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

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

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

It feels so much better than you thought it would.

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

So you grab his wrist and pull on it.

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

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

He’s rigid, immovable.

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

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

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

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

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

Your scratch makes him bleed.

He doesn’t care.

You feel helpless. 

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

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

And that’s all you need.

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

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

"Shit–!" he shouts.

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

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

He sounds pissed.

Good.

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

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

Confusion flickers, then his pupils flare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drown him in your cunt.

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

Not in pain apparently. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck. 

A low, throaty moan muffled against your clit. 

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

That’s how you play with them—

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

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

What the fuck. This is how you touch yourself.

And that little slip up just gave you away.

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

You gulp and shiver when you remember.

He did. 

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

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

You jerk forward with a gasp. 

Oh.

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

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

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

Shit.

Maybe he can.

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

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

You’re close. Too close.

And he knows.

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

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

The bastard laughs again.

And that’s what does it. 

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

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

He doesn't let up. 

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

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

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

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

Oh, shit.

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

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

You feel him pushing you. 

You lag behind.

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

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

You yelp. Loudly. 

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

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

There’s no rhythm. No warning between.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You feel your stomach coil again.

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

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

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

Pulse stutters. 

Heat blooms.

No.

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

No, no, no. 

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

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

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

You panic.

You buck. 

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

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

Your second orgasm hits you like a fucking brick.

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

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

You go rigid. 

It’s torture. It’s too much.

You might say something, but who cares?

You’ve never felt pleasure like this.

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

You scowl at him through your haze and—

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

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

You gasp. "Don't even think about—"

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

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

"Just fuck me," you snap. 

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

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

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

But you do hate him.

You do.

You promise.

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

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

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

"That’s real pretty," he breathes.

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

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

You just don't have the energy left. 

Face down, ass up. 

Cunt used and filled.

You take it.

He must feel the shift, because he redoubles.

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

Him moving you?

You dunno.

Don’t care.

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

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

Daryl doesn’t give you one.

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

You swallow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t taste him.

You don’t taste anything. 

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

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

Then your vision just dips to black.

The world comes back in slow, aching pulses.

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

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

Everything hurts. Everything feels used.

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

Oh, yeah.

Daryl.

Arms tighten around you.

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

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

The thought should piss you off. 

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

So you just forget it.

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

It’s nice. Soothing.

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

Never mind. Not nice.

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

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

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

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

You want to bite him. 

You want to lean into it. 

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

"Fuck you," you mumble lazily. 

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

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

It's possessive and annoying.

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

For once, you don't fight him.

And he doesn't fight you.

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

It tracks down your neck and into your cleavage.

That feels good, too.

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

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

And you drift.

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

The cicadas are deafening today, their shrill cries a backdrop to the sharp crunch of boots on dry grass.

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, shirt damp with it, clinging to his ribs like a second skin. Rick took his shirt off a while ago.

Ever since then, it’s been a little hard to focus on the matter at hand.

They've been sparring for almost an hour, working on redirects and takedowns under the ire of the Georgia sun. Daryl is reaching his limit.

Not physically. Just... you know.

He can only spar with Rick for so long before he pitches a tent. He’s had to adjust his dick in his pants at least three times.

It's starting to hurt like a bitch. Blue balls and all.

This little infatuation has gotten worse lately too, because Rick keeps asking him for practice sessions like this.

And Daryl can't say no to him.

"Just a little longer," Rick breathes, rolling his shoulders. His voice is easy, but his stance isn’t. Knees bent, weight balanced forward, chest heaving but steady. "'Kay?"

Daryl swallows thickly, then grudgingly nods. "Fine."

Rick lunges. He's slow, too telegraphed, and Daryl sidesteps, twisting his body to catch Rick’s wrist and yank him off-balance. Daryl kicks the back of Rick's knee and his leg buckles.

Rick hits the dirt with a thud, coughing out a laugh. Dust and dirt clings to his skin. Daryl tries not to stare so long.

“Damn,” he huffs, squinting up at Daryl against the sunlight. “You make that look easy.”

Daryl shrugs.

Rick's been especially heavy on the praise today, much to his chagrin. 

"Alright," Rick says, still sprawled in the dirt, but grinning now. "I wanna work on breaking a grapple from behind, then we're done. Come here." He rolls onto his knees.

Daryl's pulse kicks up.

"Nah." The refusal comes out too fast, too sharp. Daryl’s already backing up a step. "Let's just call it, man. Hot as hell out here."

Rick eventually concedes with a nod, swiping his wrist across his forehead, but his eyes don’t leave Daryl’s face. 

"Alright, fine. Go grab the pack," he says, jerking his chin toward their gear piled under the shade of a gnarled oak. "Then we’ll head back."

Daryl exhales, relieved, and turns away before Rick can see the flush creeping up his neck.

And really, Daryl should’ve known it was a ploy.

The tackle comes from behind, sudden and rough, Rick’s weight slamming into him with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Daryl hits the dirt hard, knees scraping, palms stinging where they catch his fall, instinct kicks in at the same time as his gay panic.

He twists, throwing Rick off-balance with a sharp jerk of his shoulder. Rick rolls, laughing, but he’s already standing back up before Daryl can get to his feet, and then—

Fingers knot in his hair and push Daryl back down to his knees, tight enough to sting. Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick forces his head back, then he’s staring up at him with his mouth hanging open, eyes a little unfocused.

That feels so nice.

Rick holds him there.

"You should really cut your hair," Rick smiles, voice low and casual.

Daryl doesn’t realize Rick’s boot is between his thighs until it shifts, just slightly, wedging up beneath him. The hard edge pressing against the seam of his jeans, right under his balls. 

Daryl's breath stutters, and a breathy whimper slips out before he can clamp his teeth down on it.

Rick's playful smirk slips away, but his hand stays put, fingers tightening in his hair.

"Good job today," Rick murmurs, expression unreadable.

The praise hits Daryl right in the gut like a hot punch. God damn it, his hips twitch forward on instinct, just a bit, grinding down.

Daryl quickly stills himself though, praying he didn’t notice.

Rick notices.

Of course he fucking notices.

Daryl can see it in the way Rick’s jaw goes slack, how his brows raise just a bit, the tilt in his head. His grip tightens in Daryl’s hair, just enough to make him whimper again.

Rick exhales slowly through his nose.

Daryl shifts his hips again, grinding down against Rick’s boot—because fuck it, because Rick knows, because there’s no reason for him to still be holding him like this.

No reason other than wanting it just like he does.

"I knew it," Rick murmurs, unbearably pleased. His fingers flex against Daryl's scalp, blunt nails scraping. 

Daryl's whole body shudders, hissing at the pain. His cock aches, trapped and straining against the denim.

Rick shifts his stance, deliberately rolling his foot upward, pressing harder into his balls. The toe of his boot grinds right where Daryl needs it, fuck.

Fuck.

Daryl sucks in a ragged gasp. His hips jerk forward without permission, chasing the pressure, and Rick hums, amused and approving.

“Yeah, there you go,” he murmurs, fingers flexing in Daryl’s hair. 

His scalp tingles.

Daryl’s face burns. He wants to hide, wants to bury himself in the dirt or maybe just fucking combust. It's humiliating. Rick saw right through him.

Rick’s grip keeps him right where he is, exposed and trembling. Another whimper slips out when Rick presses his boot up again. Daryl can’t stop his hips from rolling into it, a little too desperate.

“Fuck,” Daryl chokes out, thighs shaking. His cock throbs, trapped and neglected, and the friction isn’t enough, not nearly enough.

But Rick’s watching him with those dark, knowing eyes, and the heat in them is worse than the sun could ever be.

The cicadas seem louder when Rick’s grip tightens, pulling just enough to tip Daryl’s head back further. His throat bobs, exposed, pulse jumping under sweat-slick skin.

“That’s it,” Rick murmurs, voice low and warm.

And then, like he’s fucking dog.

“Good boy.”

Daryl’s breath punches out of him in a ragged moan, face burning. He tries to twist away, but Rick’s grip is relentless, holding him in place while his boot leaves his crotch. 

It’s not gone for long though.

The sole comes down this time and he’s putting steady pressure right on Daryl’s cock under his jeans.

“Fuck—Rick—” Daryl chokes, thighs trembling. 

"What's wrong?" Rick asks with a pout. "Feelin' a little ruttish?"

Rick’s grip in Daryl’s hair loosens.

Then he's petting him.

"Shit," Daryl whines.

“You been achy a while, haven't ya?” Rick murmurs, soft and gentle.

Daryl fucking squeaks, high and punched-out, hips jerking forward again. He’s mortified.

"Answer me."

"Y-Yeah," Daryl blurts, voice shaking. "Yeah, I'm… I’m—"

"You're what, sweet boy?"

Daryl can’t take it—can’t take the way Rick’s watching him, dark-eyed and knowing, like he can see every filthy thought rattling around in Daryl’s skull.

So he doesn’t let him.

Daryl ducks his head, pressing his burning face against Rick’s thigh, hiding.

"Achy,” Daryl whines finally. “I’m achy.”

"I know. Just wanted to hear you say it."

The rough fabric of Rick’s jeans scratches his cheek, sweat-damp and sun-warmed.

Without Rick's scrutiny, Daryl unravels.

Daryl presses closer, lifts over his boot and settles down on it again. He wraps both arms around Rick’s thigh and ruts forward with a choked-off moan, shameless. The rough seam of Rick’s jeans drags against his cock through the denim, the toe of his boot rubbing just right under his nuts.

It’s not enough, but fuck, it’s something. His hips stutter forward again, harder this time, grinding against the solid leather, gripping the heel of his boot to add more pressure.

“That’s it,” Rick murmurs, fingers carding through Daryl’s sweat-damp hair. “You take what you need. Good boy.”

The praise burns through Daryl’s veins, hot.

He buries his face deeper against Rick’s thigh, muffling a broken sound as his hips jerk forward again, desperate. The pressure is maddening. Daryl’s breath comes in ragged gasps, lungs seizing when Rick’s hand holds his head against his thigh.

Just solid pressure at the back of his skull.

Then Daryl hears the sound of a zipper. 

Daryl’s head whips around to see Rick pulling his cock out, right in front of his face. He's veiny and flushed, already wet at the tip.

Daryl's breath stutters. He doesn’t think. Just moves.

His hand wraps around the base, and then his mouth is on him, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and heat.

Rick makes a noise like he’s been punched, fingers tightening in Daryl’s hair, not pulling, just holding on like he wasn’t expecting the attention.

Neither was Daryl, really.

"Shit. Yeah, yeah," Rick breathes, affected. "That's it, good boy. Suck."

Daryl hums and moves his hand in tandem with his lips, head bobbing, spit-slick and eager.

His own cock aches between his legs, still trapped in his jeans, still grinding down on Rick’s boot like some dumb fucking dog.

Daryl gives him sloppy head. Wet, filthy noises that would be embarrassing if his brain wasn’t already reduced to static.

Choke.

Gag.

Pull back to stroke it.

Sink down again.

His own hips jerk forward without rhythm, grinding against Rick’s boot in erratic little spasms.

Rick's breath comes in ragged bursts, his hips spasm too, rocking with each eager bob of Daryl's head.

"Yeah—yeah, good, just like that," he rasps, thick with praise. His fingers twitch against Daryl's scalp, blunt nails scratching lightly like he's a pup. Daryl shudders, whining around the cock in his mouth. "Perfect. God, you're so—fuck—so good at this."

The words sink into Daryl like sunlight through honey. His hips stutter against Rick's boot, chasing friction mindlessly now, lost in the haze of praise and heat. His cock pulses, trapped and aching, precome soaking through his jeans, sticking uncomfortably to his thigh.

"My good fuckin’ boy," Rick murmurs, dragging the words out low and deliberate. 

That's all it takes.

Daryl stops moving, his entire body going taut, thighs trembling violently as his cock pulses against Rick's boot. His hips jerk forward one last, pathetic time, and then he's coming with a punched-out whine, eyes rolling white.

Rick gasps. “God.”

His mouth falls slack around Rick's cock, drool dripping down his chin as he rides Rick’s boot through it, mouth filled, humming and groaning.

When his vision clears, Daryl pulls back, panting. He nuzzles Rick's cock, rubbing his cheek against his shaft reverently. His lips brush and he drags a long lick, tongue flat, root to tip, breath hot and uneven against his skin.

"Fuck," Rick curses, fingers tightening in Daryl's hair, rough and painful this time. He forces Daryl's head back just enough to meet his gaze, pupils blown wide. His free hand reaches down and starts pumping his own cock, fast and reckless. 

"You want it, boy?"

Daryl nods frantically, tongue darting out to wet his lips, chin slick with spit. His fingers dig into Rick's thigh, nails scraping through the rough fabric of his jeans.

"Want it," he whimpers, voice wrecked. "Please."

Rick exhales sharp through his nose, hips jerking forward, cock nudging against Daryl's lips.

“Be good and open wide for me.”

Daryl leans in, mouth open, tongue out, waiting, brow furrowed.

Rick’s hips stutter forward, then his breath catches, his cock throbbing against Daryl’s tongue. 

The first spurt hits the back of his throat, hot and bitter, and Daryl moans. The next lands on his tongue, slick and heavy, and the next just drips, dragging thick and hot down his tongue and onto his chin in sticky stripes.

"Fuck yes," Rick groans. “Shit.”

Rick watches himself defile Daryl’s face with rapt fascination, the muscles in his stomach fluttering, breath coming in ragged bursts. 

Daryl takes it.

He takes it so good, tongue laving slow under the head to catch every drop, lips smeared white, chin glistening. 

"Dammit," Rick exhales, voice rough. His fingers loosen in Daryl’s hair, petting again instead of pulling, thumb brushing along his temple.

Daryl whimpers, high and breathy, and just stays there like that, covered in him. 

“Thank you,” Daryl blurts.

Rick chuckles, chest heaving.

"You're shakin'," Rick murmurs against the inside of Daryl's thigh, breath hot even through the worn fabric of his jeans.

They’d pulled the mattress from the bunk down onto the floor. The curtain hangs limp, cutting them off from the rest of the block. Regardless, they have to be quiet. It does very little to muffle the sound from within.

Daryl grips the edge of the mattress with both hands, knuckles whitening.

Rick reaches forward to start unbuttoning his jeans, but Daryl grabs his wrists and stops him. "Stop—it ain't—" He swallows. He tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, jaw tight.

Rick patiently waits.

The prison’s quiet tonight, just like every night, the only sound being the occasional distant murmur of voices and a steady drip of water somewhere they can never find.

Finally, Daryl whispers, "Ain’t gonna be the equipment you’re expectin’."

Rick pauses. His thumbs rub slow circles against Daryl’s wrists. "Okay?" he says, simple as that, like Daryl hadn’t just thrown a grenade between them.

Daryl exhales hard through his nose. His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go.

"Used to get all sorts’a shit for it," he mutters. "Merle, my old man. Just figured you oughta know ‘fore we—" He cuts himself off. 

Ain’t like he’s got the words for this.

Rick tilts his head, then realization settles into his expression. He almost seems more excited by the prospect of getting his mouth on him now.

"You just tell me what you need," Rick says.

Daryl’s pulse thrums in his throat, loud enough he’s sure Rick can hear it. He lets go of Rick’s wrists, fingers twitching against the mattress again.

Daryl’s throat clicks when he swallows. "Ain’t—" He exhales sharply through his nose. "Ain’t done this before." The words scrape out like gravel, too loud in the quiet. He regrets them instantly, heat crawling up his neck.

Rick stills.

Then, Christ—his whole face changes, like someone lit a match behind his eyes. His breath hitches, fingers tightening just slightly where they rest against Daryl’s hips.

"Yeah?" His voice is rough, lower than before. "That right?"

Daryl glares at the ceiling, jaw working. "Don’t gotta mock me."

Rick huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I'm not, just—" His fingers flex against Daryl’s hips, restless. "Christ, Daryl. You gotta let me see you."

Daryl swallows hard, the heat in Rick’s voice curling low in his gut. His pulse stutters when Rick noses at the inside of Daryl's thigh, eyes flicking between his crotch and his face.

"Please," Rick breathes, barely audible. "Lemme get these off you."

Daryl nods, just once, shaky.

Rick’s sitting up and his fingers are on his belt before he’s even finished the motion. The buckle clinks, leather sliding free with a quiet hiss, and then Rick’s dragging his jeans and boxers down his hips with a hunger that punches the air from Daryl’s lungs. 

He wasn’t expecting the enthusiasm. 

Daryl’s legs snap shut before Rick can even get a proper look, thighs pressing tight enough to ache. His heart jackrabbits against his ribs, and he claws at his chest like he can physically stop it. 

The air tastes thick, sour, panic climbing his throat like bile.

Rick doesn’t push. Instead, he exhales warm against Daryl’s knee, pressing a kiss there. 

"You’re doin’ so good," he murmurs, lips brushing skin.

His words stitch together some of Daryl’s frayed nerves. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Rick's hands glide down the outside of Daryl’s thighs, palms smooth. Soothing, not demanding. "Already lettin’ me go this far." 

Rick nuzzles his face on Daryl's knees.

Daryl takes a shaky breath and slowly, minutely separates his legs, just enough to let Rick plant another kiss on the inside of his knee, a little higher on his thigh.

"Sweetheart," Rick breathes against his skin, the word so tender it makes Daryl’s stomach flip. "C’mon, lemme see you."

Rick’s arms tuck under Daryl's knees, then circle around his thighs. His thumbs trace idle patterns against the skin there, coaxing, and when Daryl doesn’t pull away, he kisses the inside of his knee again, breathing hot.

Daryl’s legs part in slow, trembling increments, the muscles in his thighs jumping with tension. Daryl slips one hand down his chest, until his fingers are splayed protectively over himself; like he’s still bracing for ridicule, expecting to be the punchline.

But Rick doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink. His eyes drift shut as he presses his mouth to the soft skin just inside Daryl’s knee, lips warm. 

An open mouthed kiss, then another, each one moving higher, slower, until his teeth scrape lightly. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make Daryl’s breath hitch.

Rick exhales, puffing against damp skin, and Daryl feels it all the way up his spine. His stomach clenches, tight and hot, but his hand still doesn’t budge.

It’s stupid. 

Pointless. 

Rick’s gonna see him eventually, but the thought of Rick’s eyes on him like that makes his pulse throb painfully in his throat.

Rick’s tongue drags a slow, wet stripe up the inside of his thigh, and Daryl’s hips jerk without permission, a punched-out noise catching behind in his teeth.

Rick hums, pleased, and does it again, this time with a hint of teeth at the end that has Daryl shaking with it. His breath comes faster now, uneven, his fingers twitching where they’re still pressed tight against himself.

"Rick—" It’s half a warning, half a plea, but Rick just nuzzles deeper between his thighs, nose brushing Daryl’s knuckles. His breath is ragged against the back of Daryl’s hand.

He kisses his knuckles just once, soft, and Daryl deflates like a punctured tire. All the tension bleeds out of him in one ragged exhale. 

Rick takes advantage of the moment, nudging at Daryl’s wrist. “C’mon. Please.”

Daryl presses his eyes shut and lets his head fall back against the mattress with a soft thud. His hand finally moves, then lands over his face like a shield.

Rick’s breath stutters against him, hot and uneven. 

"Holy shit," he murmurs, voice thick with something Daryl’s never heard before. Some syrupy, saccharine twang that curls around his ribs and squeezes. 

"Fuck, you’re so pretty," Rick breathes, and the reverence in it nearly knocks Daryl sideways. 

Rick’s hands hover, barely touching, fingertips skimming the inside of Daryl’s thighs like he’s afraid he’ll spook him.

"Sorry, I gotta chill—" Rick exhales with a laugh, and that’s when Daryl realizes Rick’s shaking too.

"No you don't."

They lock eyes, and Rick holds his gaze as he slowly settles down onto his stomach between Daryl’s thighs.

This is the first time in his life anyone’s looked at him like this. Not like he’s broken or wrong, not like he’s a problem to solve or a disappointment to bear, but like he’s desired. 

Wanted.

Daryl’s throat tightens.

Rick doesn’t say anything else, just ducks his head and licks a hot stripe up the center of him.

Jesus Christ, Daryl wasn’t expecting that.

His hips jerk off the mattress with a punched-out moan, bordering on too loud. Daryl slaps a hand over his mouth, fingers digging into his cheek.

Rick shushes him gently, chuckling, his breath blowing hot.

Daryl acknowledges him with big shaky nods. The other hand settles on Rick’s head, gripping his hair.

Rick gets back to it, and he's relentless, tongue circling his clit with a precision that speaks to his experience.

Fuck, fuck, his tongue is so broad and wet.

Rick hums against him, the vibration shooting straight up Daryl’s spine, whose hips jerk again before he can stop them. Daryl’s fingers tighten in his hair, but Rick doesn’t pull away—just presses closer, lips sealing around him with a gentle suck that makes Daryl’s vision blur at the edges.

He’s too good at this, dammit. 

Daryl’s panting now, breathing wild through his nose.

Rick’s eyes flick up to watch him, dark and hungry. Like he’s starving for every twitch, every stifled noise Daryl makes, like he’s filing this moment away.

Then one of Rick’s hands shifts, fingers sliding around and away from Daryl’s thigh. Daryl’s hand falls away from his mouth when a fingertip drags through his slick heat.

Slow and testing.

“Yeah, shit,” Daryl breathes. “Please—oh.”

The first press of a finger inside is careful, just to the first knuckle, but it’s enough to make Daryl’s stomach flip. His breath catches, legs twitching with the effort of keeping them spread. 

Rick’s mouth never leaves him, tongue lapping at him in slow, wet strokes while his finger thrusts shallow, moving deeper in increments, inching further inside until he’s got it all the way in.

He pauses there, breathing in deep through his nose—like he’s trying to memorize Daryl’s scent, like he wants to drown in him.

Then he curls his finger up, pressing against something inside that makes Daryl gasp and seize up.

Daryl’s thighs jerk together on instinct, trapping Rick’s head between them, squeezing a little, and Rick—Christ, Rick groans on him, finger flexing and pressing right on that money spot again.

That touch punches straight through Daryl’s gut like an arrow. Rick’s free hand grips his thigh hard, fingers dimpling in like he’s trying to keep him right there, like he needs that pressure around his head.

Craves it.

Daryl’s fingers tremble as they scrabble for purchase against the mattress. He needs both hands now. Needs to grip something, anything, because Rick’s pushing a second finger in, and it just glides alongside the first. 

The stretch is so satisfying, just enough to make Daryl’s breath hitch, but then Rick’s fingers start to move, and—

“Shit, shit, shit.” Daryl’s hips jerk off the mattress, thighs clamping around Rick’s head again.

Rick doesn’t stop—just presses his tongue flat and licks at him while his fingers curl and twist inside. The combination gets a ragged gasp out of Daryl, loud enough that Rick glances up, eyes dark. Daryl’s stomach flips.

“Quiet,” Rick murmurs against him, voice wrecked.

“Yessir,” Daryl blurts breathlessly. 

Oh.

It takes him a second to process what he just said.

Rick’s eyes widen, then they flutter shut.

Oh.

Rick's hips jerk down against the mattress, a muffled groan vibrating against Daryl's skin as he sucks again, oh fuck.

Damn.

The friction on the mattress must be good. Rick's nose flares with every ragged inhale, his whole body moving in shallow, desperate thrusts against the bedding like he can't help it.

Daryl pants, arching off the mattress at the sudden flare of pleasure. His legs wrap around Rick's head on instinct, calves pulling at the back of his head, thighs clamping like a vise.

Rick just moans around him, fingers twitching inside as Daryl grinds and writhes against his mouth in erratic little circles.

Rick’s fingers go stiff and hold, letting Daryl take over, letting him fuck himself on the stretch of them, on the wet heat of Rick’s tongue.

The surrender of it makes Daryl's stomach clench.

Seeing Rick give up control, letting Daryl chase his own pleasure and set the pace from the start.

Shit, it's too much.

He’s never had this before, never been allowed to take, never been given the space to want without shame.

Daryl’s hips stutter, losing rhythm, overwhelmed.

Rick’s free hand grips Daryl’s hip hard, digging in, like he’s trying to ground him, to keep him from flying apart.

Daryl squeezes tighter—just to see if he can, just to hear Rick groan again—and his nose digs into him, his stubble tickling just right.

Yeah, fuck.

The pressure is electric, sending sparks skittering up his spine, and Daryl arches into it, thighs trembling with the effort of holding Rick right there.

Rick groans, muffled, ragged, uneven, but he doesn't pull away. Just takes it, both hands gripping Daryl's hips now, fingers flexing like he's trying to ground himself.

Almost a minute passes like that. Rick's face buried between Daryl's thighs, his calves locked behind his head.

Then Rick's hand starts patting frantically at Daryl's leg, fingers tapping urgently. Like a fighter tapping out.

Daryl releases him instantly, thighs falling slack, his chest rising and falling too fast. Rick moves up gasping, lips slick and chin shiny, eyes blown black as he gulps air like a drowning man.

"Christ," Rick rasps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His hair's a wreck, sticking up where Daryl's fingers had been buried in it. 

Then he's moving before Daryl can process the motion, tilting forward over him and pressing two fingers back inside with no warning, no tact—just deep, relentless strokes that make Daryl's vision go fuzzy.

Daryl's hips buck off the mattress, a desperate sound building in his throat. He barely catches himself before it turns into something loud, something that'd carry, biting down on his lip.

Rick doesn't slow down. He speeds up, fingers curling just right on every pull out, the heel of his palm grinding against Daryl's achy clit in a way that's cruel and intense and so, so good.

Then Rick's just leaning, propped on an elbow overtop him, beating his fingers in and out of his cunt.

Daryl's so fucking wet he can hear it. It’s so loud, but Rick doesn’t quit.

"Feelin' good?" Rick's voice is wrecked, lower than Daryl's ever heard it. "Gonna come on my fingers?"

Daryl nods frantically.

Then Rick's fingers twist, crooking just so—and fuck, fuck, that's—

Daryl muffles a sob into Rick's neck, curling up into him as his thighs clamp around Rick's hand.

He's coming. Oh, god, he's coming so hard. Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck, Daryl just grinds.

"There it is," Rick breathes. "That's it."

Daryl rides Rick's hand through it, thighs trembling, arms wrapped tight around Rick's neck.

The pleasure crests, sharp and bright, then he's just shaking and panting, boneless and twitching as he collapses onto his back.

His chest heaves, skin slick with sweat, aftershocks still sparking through him in little jolts, cunt pulsing around his hand.

Rick sits up between Daryl's legs, his breath uneven as he fumbles with his own jeans. His hands tremble as he hurriedly works the buckle loose.

Daryl props himself up on his elbows, curiosity outweighing exhaustion, and holy shit, Rick’s cock is pretty. Long and veiny, flushed, curving slightly toward his stomach.

Dripping.

Rick doesn’t waste time. He sweeps his fingers through Daryl’s wetness. Daryl gasps, oversensitive.

Then his jaw drops open, because Rick is using his wet to slick himself up.

“Holy shit,” Daryl whispers.

Rick pumps his hand recklessly. Fast, hard, chest heaving. His gaze flicks between Daryl’s face and his cunt like he can’t decide where to look.

Daryl’s chest tightens. He should say something, but his throat’s dry and his mind blanks.

Rick’s grip stutters. He shoves Daryl’s shirt up with his free hand, bunching it under his ribs, exposing the soft plane of his stomach.

Daryl barely has time to register the cool air before Rick’s coming with thick, hot stripes painting his skin in long lines.

Rick bites his lip so hard it goes white, his shoulders hunching as he rides out the last waves of his orgasm, fingers twitching where they're pressed against Daryl's hip. 

Daryl watches him covetously.

The way Rick's lashes flutter, the sheen of sweat highlighting his toned shoulders and collarbones.

Then Rick finally sits back on his haunches, head lolling back, sucking air into his lungs in deep, ragged breaths. His cock is abandoned now, still half-hard, resting against his thigh, glistening with his own mess.

God, Daryl's so lucky.

Rick's eyes drift shut for a moment before he cracks them open again, gaze landing on Daryl, warm and satisfied.

"Fuckin' hell," Rick heaves, voice wrecked.

Rick gestures vaguely toward the box of tissues beside Daryl’s head, catching his breath. Daryl reaches for it blindly, fingers closing around the cardboard to simply shove the whole box toward him. 

Rick huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he plucks a few free.

“What?” Daryl asks.

“Nothin’,” Rick smiles.

The first swipe is careful. Rick’s other hand rests on his waist, thumb smoothing over Daryl’s skin. Daryl twitches, oversensitive, nerves still sparking.

Rick murmurs a soft apology without breaking rhythm.

“Was that—uh.” Daryl’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, staring resolutely at the ceiling. “That too much for you?”

Rick pauses, then barks out a laugh so sudden it makes Daryl jump. 

“Hell no.” His hand settles just below Daryl’s ribs. “You kiddin’ me? That was—” 

He just shakes his head again. "No, that wasn't too much, Dixon." 

Daryl watches Rick’s hands work, methodical and unhurried as he wipes the mess from his stomach. This is more care than he’s ever been given in his life. 

Daryl flinches when he drags lower.

Rick catches it, pausing mid-swipe. “You alright?” 

Daryl nods, smiling. “‘M great.”

➜ Part Two

thanks for reading, friend! comments are always appreciated. 🖤

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"Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to ask Glenn to get this on his last run?" Rick shakes around a bottle of lube while he sits down on the mattress beside Daryl.

Daryl chews his lip. "The hell we even need it for? I get wet."

Rick’s thumb strokes over the bottle’s cap like he’s nervous, which is stupid, because Rick doesn’t get nervous about shit like this.

"It’s not about need, Daryl," he says sweetly, quieter now. "Just don’t wanna risk hurtin’ you. It’ll be your first time having sex."

Daryl shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. "But," he mutters, timid and quiet. “You touch me inside all the time.”

Rick laughs through his nose. “Dicks and fingers are very different things, D.”

“Ain’t made’a glass.”

"I know that. Trust me." He tosses the bottle aside on the bed and turns to press a gentle kiss to Daryl's cheek, then he leans in close to whisper, "I also just happen to like it extra wet and messy."

"Stop," Daryl groans. He leans forward, elbows on his knees with his face in his hands.

Daryl always squirms when he talks like this. He knows just what to say to get him flustered. Sometimes he even treats it like a game.

He’s being especially incorrigible today.

Because the cell block is quiet. The rest of the group has gone outside for dinner, and Rick seems intent on capitalizing on that.

Rick moves closer beside him, looping an arm around his waist. He always smells a little like campfire and gunmetal.

"Been thinkin’," Rick starts, thumb rubbing absent swipes over the dip in his waist. "Should probably talk about—" He pauses, brow furrowing like he’s searching for the right word. "Hard no’s? Like, things you don’t want me to do."

Daryl shakes his head with a shrug, shoulders lifting awkwardly under the weight of the conversation. "Ain’t got none."

“Nah, c’mon.” Rick’s mouth twitches into a smile. "Everyone’s got ‘em."

Daryl crosses his arms over his chest and slouches forward. The toes of his boots tap restlessly against the floor. "Well, I don’t." His voice comes out gruffer than he means it to. “Sorry, I dunno, Rick.”

And he ain’t lying, he just doesn't know. 

He wouldn’t know. 

He’s never fucked anyone before. The most he and Rick have done since their first time is some impromptu fingering, and every time they have ample privacy, Rick goes down on Daryl like he’s famished. 

For a while, Daryl was just fine with that arrangement. In fact, he was becoming somewhat of a pillow princess.

But a few days ago, while being fingerfucked within an inch of his life, Rick growled in his ear about how bad he wants to stretch him open and ruin his cunt with his cock.

That’s what made Daryl come.

So yeah, whatever. He hasn’t really had the chance to find out what he likes or doesn't, not with the way things were before the world went to shit, and especially not after. 

Merle’s sneers still echo in his head sometimes.

Sissy boy. Ain’t nobody gonna want you like that.

Et cetera. Daryl doesn’t like to dwell on it too long.

And Rick’s here, isn’t he? Rick, with his calloused hands and that stupid, deep, commanding voice. 

Who looks at Daryl like he’s something worth keeping.

Rick exhales through his nose, slowly. "Alright." He leans forward in front of Daryl’s hunched shoulders, meeting his eye. "But if somethin’ doesn’t feel right, you say so immediately. Got it?" 

Daryl swallows, throat dry. He glances up at him and nods.

Rick hums, his hands traveling along his back, sliding down to come right back up under his shirt, making it ride up. “How about things you like?” he asks. “Stuff you wanna try?”

There’s so much that he likes, and he definitely can’t name it all. Not without spontaneously combusting. 

Oh, but wait, actually…

Daryl fidgets, ears burning.

“Kinda like it when you talk to me… during... you know.”

“When I talk you through it?” Rick asks amusedly.

Daryl squirms when Rick starts nosing at his neck. He gets the memo, tilts his head to the side, then Rick’s pressing wet kisses on the skin he offered him. 

“What else?” Rick whispers against his neck.

“This,” Daryl keens quietly.

"I know." Rick chuckles, low and pleased. “Keep goin’. Anything else?”

“Praise.”

“Knew that one too.” Rick’s teeth drag on his throat. “Keep talkin’, pretty boy.”

"I like—shit—" Daryl moans when he starts to nibble at his pulse, one hand flying up to clutch at Rick’s head. “I-I like—”

“Be creative.” 

Fuck.

Daryl shudders and wriggles away from the assault on his jugular, then turns to simply shove his face into Rick’s shoulder, face scalding hot.

Daryl's words come out fast. “There was this one time, when you put your hand on my throat. Not squeezin’, just...”

"Oh, yeah?" Rick hums, interest piqued. “Just restin’ there?”

“...Yeah.”

Rick hums and rubs his hand along his back. “Noted.”

“And I like…,” Daryl trails off, then just shakes his head. “Nah, never mind.”

“Ah-ah. Tell me.”

Daryl gulps. “Like it when you get a little rough.”

Rick takes a long breath in, then exhales a quiet, “Fuck.”

Daryl goes on, "When you kinda get meaner… Like when I'm about to come."

"Darlin', can I come inside you?"

Daryl turns away from him with a groan, hiding his face behind his palm. “God, Rick.”

Rick laughs, "What?"

"You're just..."

"I'm what?"

"Blunt."

"Well, can I?"

Daryl nervously picks at some dry skin on his lips, then finally lifts his head to look at him. Rick's pupils are so dilated it looks like he just snorted a line of coke.

Daryl looks away. "Yeah. You can... come inside."

There’s a faint tremor in Rick’s fingers where they’re still pressed into his waist. Rick always shakes a little when he’s getting worked up, like his body can’t contain whatever’s burning under his skin.

It’s ridiculous. 

And very fucking hot.

Daryl squirms, breathing jagged when Rick leans and presses his lips to the side of his neck again. The scrape of his stubble tickles, sending Daryl’s breath stuttering out of him in a rush.

Rick retreats, only to lay on his side and drag Daryl down with him to the pillow. 

Rick pulls Daryl flush to his chest, one arm slung heavy over his waist. He props on an elbow and leans over him and picks up where he left off, kissing his neck all slow and open-mouthed. 

Daryl’s breath hitches, fingers twitching and pulling where they’re tangled in the scratchy prison-issue blanket. He can feel how hard Rick is already. The hot line of him, rigid against the curve of his ass.

Rick hums. “Let’s test it out, hm?” His hand slides upward along Daryl’s belly and chest, until his fingers curl around the base of his throat. “Just wanna see how much you like it,” he teases.

“Fuck,” Daryl breathes. 

“You’re so easy.” 

“Shut up.”

Yeah, he is.

Only because Rick knows just how to disarm him. Playing him like an instrument. 

Daryl's head tilts back even farther, exposing the long line of his neck to him. His pulse thrums wild under Rick's thumb, then moves it and kisses him, slow and hot right over the jump of it.

“Rick—fuck—”

His teeth scrape lightly, just once. Daryl's breath catches on a whimper. Daryl squirms, but Rick's hold on him tightens, then he's rolling his hips forward against his ass.

Daryl pushes back into it, stomach fluttering. Rick lets out a gratified hum that travels directly to his cunt.

Rick's lips move up to his jaw, kissing the rough stubble there, the hinge of it. He noses the sensitive spot just below his ear that makes his whole body jerk.

"Shit," Daryl whines.

"You like this too?" Rick murmurs against his skin. “Rubbing back on me?”

It’s rhetorical, more a taunt, really. Because he already knows the answer. 

Daryl nods anyway, quick and jerky, too far gone already to feel ashamed about it.

Rick's chuckle vibrates through him, warm and low, and then his hand slides down, fingers slipping under the hem of Daryl's shirt to press against the soft skin just beneath it. 

His touch is calloused from years of gun grips and knife handles, but it's gentle too, tracing idle patterns that make Daryl's muscles twitch.

Then Rick’s hand starts working at his belt, and Daryl looks down to watch, shaking just like him. 

Rick whispers, “I think we’ve got enough time, don’t you?”

Daryl starts panting when Rick’s got his jeans undone. 

Rick's fingers dip past the waistband of Daryl's boxers with the same deliberate ease he uses to reload his revolver—slow, practiced, like he's done it a thousand times. Daryl certainly feels like a loaded gun.

His palm cups him first, warm and firm. Daryl's breath leaves him before Rick even moves. And when he does, stroking him slow, dragging his middle finger through slick heat, Daryl's hips tilt forward.

“You’re so wet for me already.”

"Stop teasin’ me," Daryl grits out, fingers clawing at the blanket.

Rick's breath hitches against the back of his neck, his own hips stuttering forward in answer when Daryl grinds back against him. 

The friction is electric, Rick's cock hard and insistent against the curve of his ass. Daryl can't decide which sensation to chase. The wet glide of Rick's fingers, or the hot press of him through fabric.

So, he tries for both, rocking forward and back in a jagged rhythm, and Rick groans like he's been gutted.

"Fuck," Rick rasps, his voice wrecked already. His fingers curl, pressing lower then hooking inside of him. Daryl's thighs tremble when Rick finds that money spot that makes his vision blur. "That's it—keep moving just like that."

Daryl obeys without thought. It's been weeks since he last heard Rick like this. All low and throaty and fucking hungry. It coils tight in his gut. 

Rick's other arm snakes under Daryl's neck and tightens around his chest, hauling him even closer. Daryl whines when Rick's fingers slide out of him only to press back in with a twist that makes his back arch.

"Tell me," Rick murmurs against his ear, his breath hot. "Tell me how it feels."

"G-Good. Fuck, feels good," Daryl gasps, the words spilling out between panting breaths. His hips jerk forward again, chasing Rick's fingers, and then back, grinding against his cock. 

“Just good?”

Daryl gulps. “Nah, it’s—shit—”

Rick starts fingering him in earnest, and Daryl turns his head into the pillow to muffle his surprised moan.

Rick exhales sharply. "That’s it, sugar," His fingers slow, teasing, dragging just enough to make Daryl whimper. "Want me inside you?"

Daryl nods frantically, face still buried in cheap polyester, fingers twisting in the blanket. He rocks back against Rick's cock harder, surer, rolling more confidently now.

Rick groans, his hips jerking forward in response. "Damn—" His voice is ragged, his breath hot against Daryl's skin. "You're gonna kill me."

Daryl grins, shaky but triumphant, and does it again, rubbing back on him insistently. Rick's hand falters for a second, rhythm stuttering, and Daryl feels a surge of satisfaction. 

He can rattle Rick too.

But Rick recovers fast, fingers curling just right. Then he’s just rubbing him inside, right over that spot. Daryl’s face leaves the pillow and he looks down at where Rick’s hand disappears into his pants. 

“Yeah,” Daryl whispers, panting hard. “Yeah, yeahyeah.”

He's close, so fucking close, and Rick knows it, his fingers speeding up just enough to push him toward the edge without tipping him over.

"Not yet," Rick murmurs, his lips brushing Daryl's ear. "Want you to come with me inside you."

Daryl whines, pitiful. 

Rick's hand stills, his fingers rubbing deep, and Daryl's hips buck against him.

"Please—"

The moment fractures.

Laughter ricochets down the hall. Daryl jolts, every muscle locking tight as the noise swells. Maggie’s dry edge cuts through it, Sasha just behind her, sharper, brighter.

Shadows spill across the thin curtain at the front of the cell, stretched long and warped. They sway with each step on the metal stairs. Climbing. Closing in.

Daryl moves fast.

Too fast.

He scrambles off the bunk just as the shadows sharpen on the other side, but his foot catches in the loose sheet half-dragged from the mattress.

And then he’s going down.

He hits the concrete hard, flat on his stomach. The air punches clean out of his lungs.

God. That hurt.

Behind him, Rick breaks. Not even a proper laugh, just a wheezing, breathless mess of it, like he can’t get enough air to make sound.

Daryl pushes up with a hiss, cheeks burning, one hand already flipping him off over his shoulder before he’s fully upright. He staggers toward the door, dragging what’s left of his dignity with him as he hurriedly puts his pants back together.

Maggie’s voice lands right outside, clear as a knock.

“Daryl? You in there?”

He scrubs a hand down his face like he can wipe the heat right off it. It doesn’t quite take. Just makes his face redder.

Still, he moves, stepping close to the cell door as he drags the curtain aside, just enough to poke his head out.

"Yeah," he rasps. His throat clicks when he swallows. "Yeah, m’here. What’s up?"

Maggie frowns. “You okay? You’re breathin’ funny.”

“Tripped. Fell.”

Maggie stands framed in the sun, one brow tipped up. Her gaze flicks past him, quick as a knife.

Daryl shifts. Blocking it.

“What were you doin’ though?”

“Nappin’.”

The lie lands flat between them. Maggie stares at him vacantly for a second, then sighs.

"You comin’ to eat?" she asks, casual as anything. “We’re outside.”

“I know.” Daryl nods, stiff as a board. “Be out in a bit,” he mutters, chin jerking down like his boots have suddenly become real interesting.

Maggie hums, slow and knowing. She doesn’t move. 

Instead, she tips her head toward the bunk behind him. “Tell Rick to come eat, too,” she says, sweet as pie.

Daryl’s face burns so hot that fire crackles in his ears.

Maggie turns, already walking off. Sasha throws him a grin over her shoulder, like she’s caught the punchline.

Daryl blanches and drops the curtain back into place. 

Behind him, Rick lets out a quiet chuckle, then whispers, “You could be a little less conspicuous, y’know.”

"Christ," Daryl hisses, dragging both hands down his face. His palms come away damp.

When did he start sweating?

Daryl goes on, “I’m just not good with this stuff.”

“What? Talkin’?”

Daryl crosses his arms and frowns at him.

Rick coos as he sits up and reaches for him, fingers curling around his wrist and tugging him back toward the bunk. Daryl goes, petulantly, knees hitting the bed frame with a bump between Rick’s thighs.

Rick pushes up the front of his shirt to nuzzle his face in Daryl’s belly, arms circling around him.

"Mm. So, Maggie knows," Rick murmurs against his skin, then he chuckles.

Daryl makes a noise of disgust and shoves at his shoulder weakly. "Ain’t funny."

“Sure it is.” Rick grins up at him, all lazy confidence and boyish charm. His thumb hooks into Daryl’s belt loops, tugging him closer as he kisses a slow line up Daryl's body until he's standing tall in front of him. "Especially when you faceplant like that," he adds.

"Fuck you."

"That can be arranged."

Daryl deadpans.

Rick laughs, full-bodied and bright. Daryl feels it everywhere, smiling despite himself.

About an hour later, full of lukewarm beans and a surprisingly decent garden salad, Daryl trails after Rick down the prison corridor.

His boots rasp against the concrete, steady and unhurried. He’s got a cigarette rolling between his fingers, already digging in his pocket for his lighter, muscle memory carrying him through it.

Rick doesn’t slow for him.

He also doesn’t warn him.

His hand flashes out, catching Daryl by the elbow and yanking him hard off course.

One second he’s in the hallway.

The next, the world tilts sideways and he’s hauled through a doorway, shoulder clipping the frame as he stumbles into a dark room.

The door shuts behind them with a sharp metallic click. 

It’s pitch dark in here.

“What the hell, Rick?”

Daryl turns, then two hands are shoving him back into the metal door hard enough to rattle it. Daryl’s breath jolts out of him as Rick crowds in close, pressing him flat before he can get another word out.

Daryl gasps in at the same time Rick’s mouth meets his.

Hot. Urgent. No space left for second thoughts. His teeth catch Daryl’s bottom lip just enough to sting. He pulls on it, then soothes it with a sweep of his tongue.

The cigarette slips from Daryl’s fingers, forgotten the second it leaves his hand.

Rick groans eagerly as one hand drops, searching by feel until it finds the lock near Daryl’s hip with a quick, decisive click.

The sound feels final, like a bullet chambering. Both of Rick's hands frame Daryl's face, thumbs rough against his cheekbones as he kisses him deeper, licking into his mouth.

They kiss until they’re breathless. Rick places one quick peck on Daryl’s cheek.

Then he simply sinks to his knees like a man in worship. Rick gets Daryl’s boots off, then promptly moves up to his belt.

“Fuck,” Daryl breathes.

The metal buckle clinks loud in the cramped space, followed by the rough slide of denim and boxers being shoved down past his hips, pulled off, and thrown onto the floor somewhere nondescript.

Daryl drags in a sharp breath, hands shooting out blindly, skimming along the wall until his fingers snag the light switch. He flips it up fast.

Fluorescents flood the room with light, plinking and buzzing on.

Rick comes into focus piece by piece, kneeling and peering up at him. There’s a curve to his mouth. “Wanna watch me, huh?”

“Mm-hm,” he manages.

The room’s actually rather big. Shelving units crowd the walls as well as creating aisles between them, stacked with yellowing paperwork and dead electronics. Other stuff too, but whatever.

He doesn’t care.

His hand tangles into Rick’s hair, gripping tight. His breath breaks, when Rick’s hands close around his left leg, lifting it up and over his shoulder with easy strength, like Daryl weighs nothing at all

The sudden shift makes him lean off the door, his shoulder blades scraping against the metal.

Then Rick's mouth is on his cunt, wet and eager, tongue dragging a slow, filthy stripe up that wrenches a shaky sound from Daryl's throat. His head thunks back against the door, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

Rick groans against him, the vibration pulling Daryl's hips forward, chasing the sensation like a magnetic pull. One of Rick's hands digs into the meat of his thigh, the other spreads Daryl open on either side of his mouth as he laps at him in wide, slow licks.

Daryl's leg trembles where he holds himself up.

Rick's tongue flicks over his clit, alternating between quick, teasing circles and broad, wet presses that make Daryl's breath hitch.

He never got to finish earlier, when Rick had him writhing in bed, fingers inside him. So now he’s eager for release, grinding a bit on his face.

Rick’s tongue presses deeper, slick and relentless, tracing paths Daryl didn’t even know existed. The heat between his legs is liquid, pooling fast, and Rick laps at him like he's his post-dinner dessert. Like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn day. 

And, well, he probably has.

Daryl’s thighs twitch, his fingers tightening in Rick’s hair. Daryl's sussed out that Rick likes a little pain. So he's not surprised when Rick growls his approval against him, the sound vibrating straight through to his bones. 

Rick pulls back, eyes locked on the seam of him with fiery obsession. “Still so wet ,” he murmurs. He pulls both hands down, thumbs pressing in, spreading him wide.

Daryl looks away, scandalized by the scrutiny.

“I could live between your legs, shit—” His words dissolve into another rough groan as Daryl pulls him back to shut him up, because God.

Rick ducks back in, peering up at him just as he starts to suck. Daryl's hips jerk forward with a bitten cry. Rick's hand slides around from his thigh to palm his ass, squeezing hard as he drags him even closer yet.

Daryl trembles, heat clinging to his skin, sweat beading at his temples. Rick stays locked in, focused like nothing else exists.

Voices drift past on the other side of the door.

Daryl can hear it over the wet sounds of Rick's mouth and the ragged panting of his own breath.

Glenn passes by, easy and familiar. Maggie’s laugh follows, light and bright, the sound swelling as they pass, then tapering off down the hall.

Too close.

Way too close.

God, they’re right off the main stretch leading straight to the cell block.

Daryl bites down hard on the inside of his cheeks, swallowing the sound that tries to claw its way out of him as Herschel’s crutches tap their steady rhythm past the door.

Then another set of footsteps. He knows those too. Sasha’s stride, sharp and even. Tyreese is just behind her, heavier.

A whistle echoes faintly from the far end of the hall.

Life moving. People everywhere.

And here they are.

Pressed up against a thin door that might as well be paper for all the noise it lets through, every sound from the hallway bleeding in. Every breath Daryl takes feels too loud, too obvious.

It’s reckless in a way that borders on stupid. No lookout, no plan, just a locked door and hope holding the line.

It also makes his head spin deeper into his arousal.

Daryl bites back a moan, eyes squeezing shut as Rick's tongue presses deeper, pushing inside of him. His hips stutter forward, grinding on the heat of Rick's mouth.

Rick growls approval against him, one hand sliding up to press flat against Daryl's stomach, pinning him to the door.

"Shit—Rick, I'm—" The whisper fractures on a gasp as Rick's free hand slips lower, two fingers rubbing slow circles at his cunt before pushing in easily, curling and rubbing and, "Yeahfuck."

Daryl comes, jerking and grinding. The door rattles behind his back, his leg hooked tight over Rick's shoulder.

Rick's eyes flash open, gleaming in the light. He looks up at Daryl like he's something holy.

And he doesn't let up, tongue working him through it, fingers still curled deep inside him, bruting against the way Daryl clenches.

Daryl's leg wobbles dangerously, thigh quaking where it's holding him up, and he knows he's about to collapse. Rick must feel it too because his grip tightens, fingers digging into the back of his thigh to steady him even as his mouth keeps moving, lips dragging wet, slow kisses along his inner thigh now, gentler but no less intent.

"Fuck," Daryl rasps, voice wrecked already, head resting back against the door again, chin tilted up at the ceiling. His chest heaves, sweat cooling on his skin. "You’re insane," he breathes.

Rick lets his leg back down and moves fast. He swipes a hand over his mouth, then he's back on his feet and kissing him again. Hard and messy. He can taste himself on Rick's tongue, and Christ, that shouldn't be hot, but it is, it just fucking is. Daryl groans into it, hands clutching at his shoulders.

Rick practically lifts him away from the door, both hands spread wide on Daryl's back as he’s steered around in the room. The kiss breaks only when Daryl's thighs hit the edge of an old work desk, rattling what's stacked on the other end.

"Gonna fuck you right here," Rick growls against his mouth, one hand already working his own belt open. "Right now."

Oh.

Oh, that’s why they had that conversation earlier.

He’s been planning this.

Daryl's breath stutters out of him in a rush, nodding before he can even think, hands fumbling to help. His fingers brush against Rick's knuckles, clumsy with want, and Rick bats them away with a laugh to get it done quicker, shoving his pants down past his hips.

The sight of him makes Daryl's mouth water.

Rick palms the desktop with one hand, the other gripping Daryl’s hip. 

“Up,” he orders, voice gravel-deep, and Daryl clambers to obey, hoisting himself onto the edge of the desk with shaky arms. The metal surface is so cold on his ass, he hisses.

Rick reaches around to fish a familiar bottle of lube from his back pocket.

“Christ, you’ve been carrying that this whole time?”

Rick grins as he pops the cap one-handed, squeezing a thick glob onto his fingers. Daryl watches, throat dry, as Rick rubs it between his fingers, warming it.

“Seriously. Ain’t sure I need that,” Daryl mutters, shifting on the desk and laying back. His thighs tremble where they’re spread, still wet from Rick’s mouth.

“You don’t,” Rick agrees easily, just before he drags lubed fingers through Daryl’s slick, smearing it down the seam of him in one slow, drag. The sensation pulls a groan out of Daryl, oversensitive. 

“But I like it wet and messy,” Rick adds, voice rough as he circles his fingers at Daryl’s entrance, teasing. “Remember?”

He pushes in wihtout an answer, two fingers sliding deep without resistance. Daryl’s breath catches. 

The glide is too damn easy, his fingers slipping in like Daryl's body just knows him already.

Daryl bites down on his own noise, eyes squeezing shut for a second before he’s forcing them open again, needing to see Rick's face. 

Fuck, Rick's grinning at him, sharp and satisfied. "You good?" he asks, fingers curling just enough to make Daryl jerk. 

The bastard knows he is.

Daryl nods though, fast, like if he doesn’t answer quickly, he’ll stop altogether.

Rick hums with amusement and withdraws his fingers. “Want my cock now, darlin’?”

Like Daryl would ever say no to that. He nods again, quicker this time, mouth open on a silent gasp when Rick presses the blunt head of him against his entrance.

“Say it,” Rick murmurs, grinding just enough to tease, to make Daryl squirm. “Then you can have it.”

“Don’t make me,” Daryl complains, hips hitching up. “C’mon, Rick—”

Rick slicks himself with what’s left on his hand, rubbing the excess off on his jeans before gripping Daryl’s thigh, thumb pressing into his skin.

Rick tsks. “Say it proper,” he murmurs. He drags the head of his cock over Daryl’s clit, side to side. Daryl flinches with every pass. “Go on.”

“F-Fuck—” Daryl chokes out, peering down. 

Daryl watches Rick spank his cock against his cunt, wet and heavy, and his brain misfires.

Words dam up in his throat, half-formed and clumsy, coming out in fast stutters that sound more like breaths than anything, punctuated by puffs of air. “I can’t—fuck—Rick—please—” His fingers curl around the edge of the desk, hips lifting uselessly like he can somehow force Rick inside faster.

“Shit, Dixon, all you gotta do is ask nicely.”

Daryl’s insecurity finally just crumbles, words rushing out as the dam breaks. “Please fuck me with your cock, Rick. Please, please—”

Rick stares at him in awe as he keeps rambling.

Daryl can’t stop. 

He wants him so bad that…

“... I'm gonna die. Shit, I need it, please.” Daryl sucks in a ragged breath, face on fire. 

“Damn.” Rick’s trembling, violently. His voice shakes with it. “Already got you cockdrunk and I ain’t even inside you yet.”

The words curl hot in Daryl’s belly, then Rick finally lines up and pushes forward, breaching him slowly.

“Ohhshit,” Daryl whimpers.

He’s splitting him open and it doesn’t hurt at all. Nah, not like he thought it would. It just burns, stretches, fills him up so damn good his eyes roll.

A moan rips out of him before he can choke it back, loud enough to bounce back at them between the shelves, and surely to the hall beyond the door. 

Rick freezes, the grip on his thigh tightening with a warning. “You sound so pretty, sweetheart,” he grits out. “But you gotta be quiet, okay?”

Daryl nods fast, because he knows, he just can’t help it. It’s so good.

Rick’s trembling like he’s fighting to keep control. He isn’t even halfway in yet, and that thought alone makes Daryl whine.

Rick tries pushing in farther, just a bit, and Daryl thighs tremble, then his fingers scramble at the backs of his own knees, yanking them back until they’re up beside his chest. Like he’s desperate for it, like he can’t stand the idea of being empty anymore.

“Rick, fuck—why didn’t we do this sooner?” His voice cracks, ragged at the edges. “Feels’s’damn good—”

Rick groans, rough, gaze locked on Daryl’s face. "Yeah?" His hips stutter forward again, but this time it doesn’t seem intentional.

Daryl barely registers the words spilling from his own mouth. Something about how full he is, how his body seems to know exactly how to take him, and Rick’s breath just comes faster and faster. 

His hips inch forward in shallow, stuttering thrusts, like he just can’t help it anymore. Like he’s fighting not to lose it.

But Daryl loses it.

Fuck.

Another moan surges out of him, lurid and unfiltered. Daryl covers his mouth, cutting it off.

Rick’s grip on his thighs tightens, fingers digging in hard. “Hey,” he grits out, voice strained. “You gotta quiet down.”

“M’tryin’,” Daryl whines, but the lie shatters the second Rick finally gives him one solid, deep roll of his hips. He doesn’t stop pushing until his hips settle against Daryl’s ass. 

Effortless. Glides.

The sound that tears from Daryl is humiliating. Downright obscene, high and broken.

Rick freezes, pupils blown wide. His whole body goes rigid above him. Jaw clenched, knuckles white where they’re resting on the back of Daryl’s thighs. 

And for a wild, breathless second, Daryl thinks he’s going to move. Finally fucking move. But then Rick’s face twists, frustration darkening his expression like storm clouds rolling in, and he pulls out. Slow at first, then all at once, the sudden absence of him so sharp Daryl actually whimpers.

Rick turns around, then starts to walk away.

“Wait, no, no, no—” Daryl scrambles upright, fingers reaching for Rick’s wrists, his forearms, anywhere he can reach. “I can—nah, I will be quiet, swear, it just—” His voice cracks, raw with desperation. “Need it—Need you—”

Rick doesn’t answer. He just walks toward the door.

That’s when the panic really hits, like a snake winding around his throat. 

He fucked up.

He fucked up.

Rick’s gonna walk. Decided it ain’t worth the risk, ain’t worth the noise. 

Hell, maybe he hates how he sounds. The thought makes the snake coiled around his neck squeeze tighter.

But Rick doesn’t walk. Doesn’t leave. Just shakes out Daryl’s crumpled pants with one sharp flick, then he drops them again. 

He turns around to walk back toward him, holding his black bandana. Rick balls the fabric up in his hands.

Oh.

Daryl knows what he’s—

The bandana is held to his mouth before his brain can finish the thought, jaw opening wide for him. Rick doesn’t bother being careful as he stuffs it past his lips and works it in.

“There we go,” Rick murmurs, voice rough. “That’s better.”

Daryl sucks in a sharp breath through his nose when Rick simply lifts him by his hips, then puts him back on the edge of the table. Then he’s lining himself up again.

Daryl’s leftover panic in his chest dissolves into something hotter, sharper. Then, God, fuck yes, he’s pushing back in. Daryl tosses his head back, moaning, loud in his head, but muffled now.

Rick loses it the second he bottoms out again, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that punches a whimper out of Daryl.

But he doesn’t stop like he did before. He keeps moving.

Out, then back in so goddamned far he almost feels it in his stomach.

Daryl’s eyes widen, overwhelmed as Rick drives into him properly. Every drag of his cock lights him up from the inside. Daryl’s legs tremble, pushed back by Rick’s hands.

Rick’s breathing goes ragged, sweat collecting on his brow already. “Fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”

Daryl’s never seen him quite this unraveled. Wild-eyed. Animal. it sends a thrill rattling up his spine.

Rick sweeps his tongue across his bottom lip, vein on his forehead standing out. Then his teeth sink into his bottom lip like he’s trying to hold back an avalanche. 

His gaze flicks up to Daryl’s face, assessing and hungry, before flicking back down to watch himself disappearing inside him. “You’re lovin’ this, aren’t you, baby?”

Daryl watches his thrusts too, nodding, breath hitching as one of Rick’s hands slides down his belly. 

Oh.

Oh.

Daryl gasps through his nose when Rick’s thumb finds Daryl’s clit and rubs slow, firm circles.

Daryl arches off the desk, muscles locking tight, every nerve alight. The moan that tears out of him dissolves into weepy moans as Rick keeps rubbing.

Keeps talking.

“Needy as shit. Look at you.” His voice is so low, gravel-rough. “Dammit, I’ve wanted to fuck you like this all day,” he murmurs, thumb working in time with his thrusts. “Weeks. Months.”

Rick thrusts hard and surprises him. Daryl’s arm jerks out instinctively, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.

But his fingers find something cold and metal instead, catch on it, then send whatever it is to the floor with a garish tinny clatter. 

Rick winces and Daryl jolts.

That was loud as shit. 

There’s no way people didn’t hear that.

For one heartbeat, two, the only sound is their ragged breathing.

Daryl yanks the bandana from his mouth, his voice cracked and desperate. “Rick, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Rick doesn’t let him finish. He snatches the bandana from his hand and bullies it back into his mouth.

God, it makes Daryl’s legs quake.

Rick pulls out and grabs him by the forearm. He yanks him off the desk, and Daryl goes eagerly, body pliant. Rick spins him around with a rough twist, and the push comes next, firm between his shoulder blades. Daryl bends at the waist without resistance, forearms hitting the desk. 

Rough.

He’s being rough.

He’s putting Daryl’s words from earlier into practice. 

Rick leans over his back, his cock an iron rod branding into his asscheek. 

“How many fuckin’ times do I have to tell you to be quiet, huh?” he growls, voice stuck between fury and hunger. He pushes off between Daryl’s shoulder blades as he leans upright again. “Now, you’re gonna take what I give you. Quietly.”

Daryl whimpers and nods profusely when he feels Rick lining up. He slips back inside in one effortless push. Daryl jolts, his elbows sliding outward on the desk until his chest drops to meet the surface. 

“And since you like throwing things around,” Rick purrs. He grabs both of Daryl’s wrists and pulls them behind his back. Arms straight, shoulders pulling. Then they’re just being held like that.

Daryl’s mind whites out when Rick starts thrusting again. Harder. Rougher. Using Daryl's arms as leverage to yank him backward onto his cock to meet his assault.

The rhythm is brutal from the jump, unrelenting, knocking a muffled whine out of Daryl’s throat with each snap of his hips.

Fuck, it’s too much.

Or maybe it’s not enough.

Either way, he doesn’t want it to stop, doesn’t ever want this to end, God—

The sound of voices whiz through his haze like a bullet. Daryl goes rigid, chest stuttering in his effort to keep quiet, to listen.

“... hell. Was that in here?” Glenn’s voice, right outside the door. “Didn’t we already clear this room?”

Daryl’s stomach drops when the doorknob rattles. His fingers twitching and flexing in Rick’s grip. His pulse jackhammering so loud he’s sure they can hear it.

Rick’s thumbs dig into his wrists. 

He hasn’t stopped thrusting.

Daryl squeaks, but Rick shushes him quietly.

Then, nonchalant as anything, Rick calls out, “Sorry ‘bout the noise. Just lookin’ for something.” 

His voice is so steady. Like he isn’t balls-deep in Daryl right now. Thrusting and working him over like it’s nothing. Like his cock isn’t throbbing inside of him right now.

“Rick?” Glenn replies, confused.

“Yah.”

“You good in there?”

Rick’s hips snap forward, sharp, and Daryl bites down on the bandana, eyes pressing shut. “Fine,” Rick answers, voice tight, but amused. “Found an old toolbox and the handle broke. I dropped it.”

What the fuck.

Daryl turns to look at him over his shoulder, huffing through his nose. 

Rick keeps fucking into him in quick, punchy snaps of his hips.

God, this shouldn’t be so fucking hot.

None of it should be.

Daryl should feel mortified. Disturbed. Instead, he feels his stomach curl with want—

Oh.

Oh, shit, ohh.

Daryl’s second orgasm hits him before he’s prepared for it.

"You seen Daryl? Hershel’s looking for him."

The man in question whimpers, eyes rolling back, legs clamping together, shaking and failing to hold himself up. He starts sliding down the edge of the desk.

“God, what the hell, Daryl,” Rick breathes out softly. He quickly lets go of his wrists in favor of holding him up by the hips.

“Uh," Rick starts, "he went on a hunt. Said he’d be back by dusk.” He punctuates the lie with another deep thrust, grinding his hips in as Daryl rides his bliss.

Daryl breathes out through his nose hard.

“His crossbow’s still here though.”

Rick answers again, smooth as fucking silk. “He said something’s busted on it. Doesn’t fire right. Probably took a gun.” His grip on Daryl’s hips tightens, and he starts driving into him again. 

Daryl’s face goes ruddy with the effort of keeping quiet, clamping both hands across his mouth.

Glenn sounds pretty convinced, or at least too preoccupied to think about it much. “Alright, thanks, man.”

Daryl listens to two sets of footsteps retreating back down the hallway, and the moment the sound disappears, Rick exhales hard through his nose, his grip loosening enough for Daryl to feel the tremor in his fingers.

“Did you just fuckin’ come?”

Daryl’s neck burns as he nods timidly.

“You’re filthy,” Rick murmurs, forehead dropping between Daryl’s shoulder blades, then pushing  higher, resting his cheek on the back of Daryl’s head. “You’re so fuckin’ filthy,” he heaves.

Daryl huffs breaths through his nose, still twitching, so unbelievably sensitive. He’s thankful for how he’s pinned, because Rick’s hand slithers up under his arm and settles on his neck just like it did earlier. Just like he asked for.

Only he does squeeze this time, just a little, and Daryl’s back bows, groaning as Rick’s head comes to rest on his shoulder.

“Gonna come inside you,” Rick growls, voice coarse with restraint. “So be fuckin’ quiet. You hear me?”

All Daryl can do is goddamn nod. Then Rick’s using his hold on his throat to pull him upright, until Daryl’s back meets Rick’s chest. 

Daryl's head drops back on his shoulder when he loops an arm around his waist and starts fucking up into Daryl in earnest. Short, sharp thrusts.

The edge of the desk digs into his thighs, the metal cold against his overheated skin. Rick’s rhythm falters after a handful of thrusts.

Then he’s groaning, louder than Daryl expects him to, rough and unrestrained. His fingers tremble around Daryl’s throat as he jerks forward one last time and stays there, buried deep.

His cock pulses hot, and his head lolls around on Rick’s shoulder, breathless, fucked out and bone-tired.

Rick grits out another groan, voice wrecked, lips dragging damp and open-mouthed over Daryl’s jaw. “Feel that?” His words are throaty, hips twitching shallowly as he rides out his orgasm.  “Fillin’ you up?”

God. 

Damn.

Daryl whimpers when he gives him one last deep thrust.

“Fuck,” Rick huffs. “Holy fuck.”

They stay there for several minutes, floaty, rocking back and forth while Rick showers him with kisses and praise.

“You did so good,” Rick says shakily. “You took me so well.”

Rick tilts his hips back with a slow, slick pull, and Daryl feels the loss instantly, empty and raw.

The bandana gets plucked from his mouth, and Daryl gasps in a deep ragged breath.

"That’s it," Rick murmurs, his voice gone soft, reverent. He cups Daryl’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. "Breathe, sunshine."

He does, shuddering through the exhale, body near-limp. Rick gathers him up again, pulling him tight against his chest. His heartbeat thumps wild under Rick’s palm where it settles over his sternum.

"You okay?" Rick asks, lips pressed to the crown of Daryl’s head. His hand rubs slow circles on his chest. "Did I hurt you?"

Daryl licks away the dryness in his lips, then he grins lazily. Croaks out a, "Hell nah," voice shredded.

Rick exhales against his temple. Relief, or amusement, maybe both. He grips his waist and turns him around again. 

Rick’s fingers dig into the backs of Daryl’s thighs and hoists him up to sit on the desk.

The moment Rick lets him go, Daryl just slumps forward. No grace, forehead thunking against Rick's shoulder, body liquid and loose.

Rick laughs into his hair. "I can’t believe you came with Glenn on the other side of that door.”

“Shut up.” Daryl curls his fingers into Rick's shirt, wrinkling the fabric as he tucks his face into it. "Didn’t mean to."

“Guess that’s another thing to add to your likes.”

“Stop,” Daryl groans.

Rick stops teasing, but he definitely doesn’t shut up. 

He keeps talking, warm and whisper-soft, praise right in his ear about how tight he was, how pretty he looked when he was coming on his cock, how he wished he could’ve just taken that bandana out of his mouth and just let him be loud. 

All until Daryl groans and bites Rick’s collarbone through his shirt.

His teeth stay latched for a solid few seconds before he finally unclenches his jaw, leaving behind a damp spot on the fabric. He exhales hard through his nose, the adrenaline still buzzing under his skin.

Rick chuckles, rubbing a slow circle between Daryl’s shoulder blades. “Biting? That a new thing?”

“Shut up, God,” Daryl groans. He lifts his head just enough to glare, but it’s ruined by the way his eyelids keep drooping. “Did it 'cuz you won’t stop runnin’ your damn mouth.”

“You like it.” Rick grins. “And that comes from a reliable source.”

Daryl takes his bandana back and shoves it into Rick’s mouth.

hah. thanks for reading, friend. i already have plans for a pt. 3, and i'm going to start working on it ASAP!!

comments are always appreciated 🖤

taglist: @annastarcandy, @absolutebimbo-doll, @kitty-grimes, @boondockreedus, @allisterfiend, @staticonrewind, @headknight-oh, @electroniczombieprince, @amethystfawn, @twd-bee3, @officergrimesloml, @rickgrimesismyboyfriend, @rickgrimes-cupid, @kyrasworldd, @c0yotebites, @shtgshdrnit, @loveregan, @themastergat0r

𝕋𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕣 𝔽𝕚𝕔𝕤

𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙮𝙡

⫘ 𝙼𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚝 - daryl and rick are in a hush-hush relationship, and rick finally gets inside daryl’s pants. ⌖ (pt. 3 [1.3k~])

⫘ 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙱𝚘𝚢 - daryl humps rick’s leg like a goddamn dog. oh, and he has a praise kink. ⌖

⫘ 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚎 - rick and daryl get stoned and have sex. send tweet. ⌖

⫘ 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙸𝚝 𝙵𝚒𝚝 - daryl mentions offhandedly that he's scared he'll die a virgin. rick offers to help with that. ⌖

𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙭 𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡

⫘ 𝙷𝚒𝚝 - you’re shot in the leg. rick and daryl dote on you. 𓉸 ☾

𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

⫘ 𝙻𝚞𝚛𝚔 - you're new at alexandria, and from the jump, daryl won't leave you the fuck alone. your panties also start disappearing. ⌖

⫘ 𝚂𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 - i started thinking about this after the lydia/henry worm eating scene in season 9 and couldn't stop. it was some of the freakiest flirting i've ever witnessed. thus, this drabble was born, and turned into a 3 pt. + series. ☾⌖

𝔸𝕆𝟛 𝔽𝕚𝕔𝕤

𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙮𝙡

⫘ 𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 - daryl mentions that Motörhead always got him horny when he went on long rides listening to them pre-apocalypse. so rick makes it a priority to find a Motörhead CD, because he needs to test that theory. ⌖

⫘ 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙸𝚝 𝙵𝚒𝚝 - daryl mentions offhandedly that he's scared he'll die a virgin. rick offers to help with that. ⌖

𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

⫘ 𝙻𝚞𝚛𝚔 - you're new at alexandria, and from the jump, daryl won't leave you the fuck alone. your panties also start disappearing. ⌖

⫘⫘ Most of my fics will be crossposted to AO3 soon! ⫘⫘

𝔽𝕒𝕟𝕒𝕣𝕥

𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣

⫘ 𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛

𝙍𝙞𝙘𝙠𝙮𝙡

⫘ 𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚢 ⌖

𝕎𝕀ℙ𝕊

𝘙𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘺𝘭 - 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐞𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝 (44𝑘 words) 𓉸 ☾ ⌖

𝕋𝕒𝕘𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

@annastarcandy, @kitty-grimes, @boondockreedus, @allisterfiend, @staticonrewind, @headknight-oh, @electroniczombieprince, @twd-bee3, @officergrimesloml, @rickgrimes-cupid, @kyrasworldd, @c0yotebites, @shtgshdrnit, @loveregan, @themastergat0r, @heater4yourthighs, @medievalcherry, @rickylthedead, @dixonsss, @hail-yourselves