#twd fluff

rick had already had a run-in with pete anderson, alexandria’s doctor. quite simply, rick took a shining to pete’s wife who didn’t make an effort to rebuff his advances.

but since rick’s wife is dead and he’s yet to replace her, not that he isn’t trying (and with another man’s wife, no less) — pete’s sights settled on the next best thing.

and who better than the wife of rick’s best friend and second-in-command?

the clock ticks, the ceiling fan whirs, the house creaks against its earthy shrine, and here you sit.

the faucet drips, you sit.

the breeze curls against the windows. still, you sit.

your book remains open in your lap; you stopped reading it at least an hour ago. you kept rereading the same line anyway.

you swallow, it’s painful. your fingers brush your throat where a gnarly bruise blackens the skin, you wince.

but when the front door opens, you jump.

it’s only daryl, of course it is. it’s always daryl.

“hey,” he greets in his usual tired, a little rough, very raspy voice. he’s always tired after a day of hunting or scouting with aaron. “y’alright, babe?”

you hum a meek ‘mhmm’, head faced away from him.

you know he heard you. he hears everything.

with his boots still on, muddy and wet, he slings a rabbit—already skinned—onto the kitchen island.

two things that would usually earn him a word of warning, or at the very least a stern glare. but you don’t so much as bat an eye.

red flag number one.

“got dinner.” he tells you, gesturing to the little animal—dead on the counter.

he expects you to jump up and wax poetic about the importance of food hygiene and a sterile cooking environment.

you do nothing. “thank you, baby.”

daryl grunts. “uh-huh,” his thumbnail finds its way between his teeth, nibbled and gnawed, then he flicks his hair from his eyes. “whatcha do t’day?”

“not a lot.” you stretch your hoodie sleeves over your hands, then prop your cheek against your hand, conveniently shielding your face with your palm. “same old, really. did you and aaron find any survivors?”

“nah,” he frowns, fingers picking at the calluses on his hands. “just this lil’ guy.” he juts his chin at the rabbit, not that you’re looking at him to take notice.

you’re always so eager to welcome him home, hear about his time beyond the walls whilst you prepare supper, then tell him all about your day once he’s done.

but not tonight. that there is red flag number two.

“gonna tell me what’s up?” he asks, voice low. thin, even. like he’s afraid to hear your answer.

“i’m just tired.” you lie, pretending to scrub your eyes—just another excuse to conceal your injuries, something that doesn’t go amiss.

he sees everything, especially when it comes to you.

“i think i’ll head up to bed after i’ve made your dinner, i barely got a wink of sleep last night.”

you were fast asleep when he got up this morning. out cold, dead to the world as you snored softly with a faint smile on your face.

because even in sleep’s embrace, you’re happy. always happy.

the light of the group, the heart and soul that glues them together.

if you’d had a restless night, it would’ve woken him. daryl’s a light sleeper, but not you.

you’re lying.

and there goes red flag number three.

“ain’t gonna eat with me?” he asks, circling the kitchen until he’s in front of you.

you look away.

“i ate lunch pretty late, my own stupid fault.” you look down at your book, pretending to read.

he takes note that you’re on the first page, the one where the author pays tribute or dedicates the novel to a loved one. you never read those, you always skip to the first chapter like everyone else. no one reads the prologues—he never understood why authors bother to write them.

daryl clears his throat, chest tight. you shrink into yourself when he sits atop the coffee table, hands clasped. “hey,” he tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse of your face. “look at me.”

you refuse, finally turning the page of your book. you skim over the words, not absorbing a single one of them.

“baby.” his hand, tanned and weathered, flattens over your page. “need ya to look at me.”

you blink, then ghost a finger over his knuckles—scarred, dry. you trace down to his wrist, then his forearm. he catches you with his other hand, holding yours within it. he gives it one squeeze, then circles his thumb over the back of it.

he taps it once, twice, thrice.

“i’ll sit here ‘til ya do.” he takes your book and places it on the table beside him. “then we’ll both go hungry ‘n sleepless.” he grips your other hand, comforting.

then he twists them to face palm-up and lifts your wrists to the light, the unmistakable markings of fingers that weren’t his revealing themselves in all their morbid glory. “fuck’s all this?”

his voice is low and gritty. lethal.

it’s not what he says, it’s the way he says it.

“daryl. . .”

“who?” he asks, lower. you almost don’t hear him.

you open your mouth, then close it again. each word that manages to surpass a thought dies on your tongue.

he goes stiller than stone.

“i was testing some lipstick shades but they were all a bit too bright—didn’t suit my complexion. they obviously left a stain.” you try to free your wrists but he holds them tighter. “. . .they’ll wash off.”

you don’t wear make-up.

“c’mon, then.” he stands, pulling you up with him.

“daryl—”

you struggle against him as he drags you toward the kitchen sink.

“wash ‘em off.” he finally lets go of you to turn the tap on.

you freeze, staring at the flow of water like it’s your first day on earth.

a finger hooks under your chin, gentle in its guidance. you allow him to finally look at you, tears immediately gathering in the wells of your eyes.

his stare hardens, blue eyes flitting like he’s picturing every possible scenario or reconstructing a crime scene.

“do nothing.” you whisper, placing your hand over his heart. it hammers against your palm like its trying to punch itself free. “we need this.” you motion around you. “we earned this.”

he scuffs a knuckle over the swell of your cheek, then the purplish blotch that cups your eye.

you grimace, he scowls.

“got lipstick on yer cheek, did ya?”

“please,” you take his face in your hands. “i’m okay.”

“take it off.” he grumbles, eyes now pinned to your hoodie.

“what—?”

“fuckin’ take if off.” he repeats, dark. firm.

you shudder, a fat bile rising into your throat. you’re not afraid of him, but of what he’ll do when he sees.

“ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he softens his voice. “just need to see.”

you know he’d never hurt you.

you take the hoodie off.

he looks. like, really looks. gently, as though you might snap, he lifts your arms. your ribs are bruised, as is your neck.

“name.” he gruffs.

“no.” you refuse.

his eyes find yours, permeating. “name.”

you huff out, hugging your arms to your middle. “pete.”

his jaw ticks, shoulders rigid like a board.

“but don’t do anything, please, stay here with me.”

you expect him to smash a plate or send his fist through the wall, but he does neither of those things. he cups your elbow, his other hand finding rest stop at your shoulder. “go upstairs.” he nods toward the staircase, expression dead like he feels nothing at all. you know it’s a front; that thing he does when he doesn’t want to frighten you. “i’ll meet ya up there.”

“daryl—”

“i’ll meet ya up there.” he persists, pressing you ahead of him by the small of your back.

“what’re you going to do?” you ask, turning at the step.

he gazes down at you, unreadable. masked.

you’ve seen that look before—you don’t need to hear him say it.

you head upstairs.

only once he’s heard the door to your shared bedroom close does he charge for the front door, snatching his crossbow from the porch on his way.

the moon is high in the sky when you hear the front door open and close upon someone’s arrival.

or more-so, their return.

it’s even higher by the time you feel the mattress dip, a welcome warmth embracing you.

“where’ve you been?” you ask, sleepily.

“where’d ya think?” he murmurs, huddling against you.

you reach over to flip the bedside lamp on and you both groan—you when you sit up, and he when light floods the room.

his knuckles are skinned, dried blood crusted around his nails. you peer over at the corner where he likes to discard his clothes, even though the laundry basket is right there.

his shirt is soiled where brownish blood sprays it, and you spot some rips and tears that weren’t there before, like there was a bit of a scuffle.

“is he alive?”

your questions hangs in the air for a moment.

“barely.” he finally answers, arm slung lazily over your lap.

“how bad did you—”

“don’t matter.” he husks, eyes closed. “he ain’t gonna bother ya again, so don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“can he even walk? or talk? does he even remember who he is?” you don’t deny he deserved it, but if the monroes catch wind of this, you’ll be out on your asses.

“he can walk.” he tells you, thumb massaging your tummy. “go to sleep.”

you lay yourself back with a sigh, your face and torso still on fire. “did he say anything about it?”

“made him admit it first.” daryl shrugs a little, hand flat like a paper weight on your lower belly. “wanted to see if he was a man at all.”

“and?”

“beat it out’a him eventually, but if he was a man he wouldn’t’ve touched ya in the fuckin’ first place.” he goes tense against you, like he’d been trying to force that part from his memory.

“well, thank you for letting him live.” you place your hands over his, a lighthearted inflection to your tone.

“didn’t wanna, but he’s got a woman n’ kids at home—even if they’d be better off. ‘sides, it would’a been a mercy. he’s gotta live with what he did n’ what came for him after he did it.”

you hum, rolling your head to the side so you’re facing him. as if feeling your gaze, he opens one eye, droopy and tired. “what else does he have to live with?”

a small smirk teases the corner of his mouth—one of satisfaction. “few broken bones n’ a busted lip.”

“he’ll tell deanna and reg.” you warn softly, tucking a stray of shaggy hair from his face.

“nah, told him if he did i wouldn’t be so forgivin’ next time.” his breathing slows as you comb your fingers through his hair, nails scraping soothingly against his scalp. “he’s a doctor, ain’t he? he’ll be fine.”

“i guess.”

“want ya to go see maggie or carol first thing, get yerself checked up.” his hand slides to give your hip a gentle squeeze, then returns to splay over your front.

you boop his nose in return and that same eye peels open to glare at you. “i’m fine, my ribs aren’t broken. just sore.”

“don’t care.” he grouches, hand lifting to point a finger at your face. “and these.”

“just cuts,” you catch his finger, then try to pinch it between your teeth. he snatches it away with a dry chuckle. “they’ll heal.”

“woman, just fuckin’ do it.” he insists, his tone jestful but still deadly serious.

you snort. “oh, i’m convinced!”

“damn right ya are.”

a knock at the front door disrupts you.

“ignore ‘em.” daryl grumbles, leaning over you to switch the light off.

“i know y’all are awake!” you hear a voice call up.

you frown. “is that rick?”

“yep.” daryl reaches up to close the window, then flops back down.

you wince. “daryl, careful.”

“sorry.”

“saw your light go out!” rick knocks again.

“go let him in.” you give daryl a nudge. “it might be about pete.”

“exactly.” he gripes.

“i’ll just keep knockin’!”

“you know he will.” you nudge him harder this time. “tell him the truth, he’ll be on our side.”

then the jarring sound of a nasally snore fills the room. he never snores.

“i know you’re faking.” you shake him. “daryl.”

the ‘snoring’ gets louder.

you purse your lips, then throw the covers off and kick your legs over the side. “making your wounded wife answer the door in the middle of the night.” you tut, tying your robe as loosely as you can. “unbelievable.”

his face meets the wrath of your pillow when you toss it at him, then you pad across the room. “coming!”

The first time you wandered far enough from the farmhouse to find his camp, it wasn’t because you were looking for him or at least that’s what you told yourself as you followed the uneven path of trampled grass and faint boot prints that led away from the fences, the noise and the constant presence of people who always seemed to be watching, always expecting something from you that you weren’t entirely sure how to give.

You just needed quiet, the kind that didn’t feel heavy.

His little setup sat just far enough from the farm to feel separate, like it existed in its own small pocket of the world, untouched by the tension that clung to the Greene house, the barn and the unspoken things everyone pretended not to think about. 

You hovered at the edge of it for a moment, like you were trespassing, like the air itself might reject you if you stepped too far in but nothing happened, so eventually you did, lowering yourself carefully onto an overturned crate near his things, hands tucked into your sleeves as you let the quiet settle around you.

It didn’t take long before your attention drifted, it never did.

There was a small movement near the edge of one of his bags, something subtle and quick that most people would have missed entirely, but your eyes caught it immediately, sharpening with interest as you leaned forward. A beetle or at least something close to one, had crawled out from beneath the flap, its body catching the light in a way that made it almost iridescent despite the dullness of everything else around you.

You shifted closer carefully and reached out with practiced ease, fingers hovering for just a second before you caught it gently between them, lifting it up to eye level with the kind of quiet delight that only came from finding something small and fascinating in a world that had grown so relentlessly grim.

“You’re not from around here,” you murmured under your breath, turning your hand slightly so the light hit its back just right, revealing a pattern that made your eyes widen. “You’ve got a split elytra seam…that’s not right for this region, you’re either way off course or something dragged you here, which is actually more likely considering–”

“Better not be diggin’ in m’ stuff.”

You startled just enough to almost drop it, your head snapping up toward the sound of his voice as he stepped into view from between the trees, crossbow slung over his shoulder, a couple of squirrels hanging limp from his grip.

“Oh,” you said quickly, standing up in one fluid, slightly awkward motion as you hurried toward him, hand still held out in front of you like you were presenting something incredibly important. “No, I wasn’t digging, I was observing, there’s a difference, digging implies intent to disturb and I was actually being very careful, look…look at this.”

You stepped far too close without realizing it, lifting your hand right up near his face so he could see the insect properly, your voice picking up speed as your excitement took over.

“See the pattern on the shell? That’s not random, it looks like camouflage but it’s actually more like disruptive coloration, it breaks up the outline so predators can’t track the shape properly and the split here means it’s either a regional mutation or it migrated, which doesn’t make sense unless there’s been some kind of environmental shift, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me because everything’s been weird since–”

Daryl wasn’t looking at the insect, he was looking at you. Not in a confused way, not even in an annoyed one, just…watching, like he was trying to figure out how you worked, how someone could talk that much about something that small with that much focus and not seem to notice anything else around them.

You kept going anyway.

“–and the legs are slightly longer than average, which could mean it adapted to sand instead of soil, so it might actually be coastal, which means it probably came from closer to the river or–”

“Think it’ll taste good with some squirrel jerky?”

You froze. Your mouth fell open slightly as you pulled your hand back like he’d just insulted something deeply personal, eyes snapping to his face with genuine offense.

“You can’t eat it,” you said, horrified, your voice dropping like he’d just suggested something unforgivable. “It’s not even…there’s barely any nutritional value and also that’s not the point, the point is it’s interesting, you don’t just eat things because they exist, that’s–no, that’s–no, you’re not eating it.”

He huffed something that might have been a quiet laugh as he stepped past you, setting the squirrels down near his camp with ease.

“Ya gotta stop hidin’ out ‘ere,” he said after a moment, not looking at you as he crouched down and reached for his knife. “Ain’t what this place’s for.”

You blinked, still clutching the insect loosely in your hand before carefully setting it down near the edge of the camp where it could disappear back into the grass.

“Why not?” you asked, following him over and lowering yourself to sit beside him without really thinking about it. “You do it.”

He didn’t answer that, instead he just started working, fingers steady as he began gutting the squirrels, the motion efficient and familiar in a way that made it clear he’d done this more times than he could count.

You watched for a minute, then another and for once, you didn’t say anything.

The quiet stretched differently this time, noticeable enough that it pulled his attention after a while, his hands slowing just slightly before he glanced up at you.

“Ain’t got nothin’ to say ‘bout the squirrels today?” he asked, almost like he expected it.

That caught you off guard more than anything else had.

Your head tilted a little as you looked at him, something shifting behind your eyes as you realized what that meant, that he had already started to expect your voice filling the space, your strange little observations threading into his world whether he had asked for them or not.

So instead of answering, you leaned just a little closer and without really thinking about it, reached out and poked at his side lightly, fingers brushing against him in a quick, clumsy attempt at a tickle.

Daryl went completely still. He tensed up so fast it was almost impressive, his hand tightening around the knife as his head dipped slightly, eyes flicking down to where your hand had made contact before lifting slowly back to your face.

You immediately pulled back like you’d touched something hot.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, awkwardness crashing over you all at once as you tucked your hands into your lap. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“How’d ya like gettin’ tickled while holdin’ a knife?” he asked, voice flat but not entirely serious, just enough edge to make the point.

“If you wanna touch me just say that,” you replied automatically, the words slipping out without any filter, your gaze still fixed somewhere near his shoulder instead of his face.

Silence hit the space between you like something physical but your brain only caught up a minute later. Your eyes lifted to see he was staring at you, not exactly confused or annoyed, he was just…staring.

“Oh,” you said faintly, realization flooding in all at once as your face went warm, your body reacting before your mind could catch up as you scrambled to your feet a little too fast, nearly tripping over your own balance. “I’m good, I’m okay, I’m just…I’m gonna go–”

You pointed vaguely in the direction of the farm, like that explained anything at all.

“Yeah,” he muttered, looking back down at his hands. “You do tha’.”

“I’ll just…come back later,” you added, already taking a few steps backward.

“Please don’t.” He mumbled but didn’t sound like he meant it.

The road after the farm had a way of stretching time into something shapeless with days bleeding into one another beneath a sky that never quite felt safe anymore, the quiet was no longer the comforting kind but the kind that pressed in too close, filled with distant groans and unfamiliar sounds that kept everyone just a little too alert to ever fully rest. Somewhere in that slow unraveling of routine, you had slipped into something that resembled a pattern with Daryl, the way certain things become inevitable when two people keep ending up in the same place at the same time long enough for it to stop feeling like coincidence.

He no longer tried to avoid you anymore which was new.

He didn’t seek you out either, not in any obvious way but when it came time to head out beyond the group for hunting or scavenging, his eyes would flick in your direction more often than not and you had learned to recognize that as an invitation even if he never said it out loud. You didn’t crowd him, didn’t reach for him the way you might have with someone else, didn’t forget the way he tensed at sudden touch or how his space seemed to be something he guarded without meaning to. So you adjusted, the same way you adjusted to everything.

A few days ago, he’d caught his forearm on a rusted section of fencing while climbing through, the tear not deep enough to slow him down but just inconvenient enough to make everything involving his dominant hand more difficult than he would ever admit. He had wrapped it himself, sloppily and then ignored it the way he ignored most things that didn’t immediately threaten his survival.

That afternoon you had both drifted farther from camp than usual, following the faint promise of movement through the trees that had eventually led you to a narrow river cutting through the landscape, its surface broken by slow ripples and the occasional flash of something moving beneath. The air there was cooler, damp with the smell of water and moss and for a little while it felt almost like the world had softened again.

You crouched near the edge without hesitation, your attention immediately caught by something clinging to a rock just beneath the surface, your head tilting as your focus narrowed completely.

You murmured softly, leaning forward just enough for your shadow to ripple across the surface, your eyes following the quick, silver movement beneath the water. “That’s a carp…or at least close enough, you can tell by the way it moves, see how it stays low and kind of glides instead of darting? That means it’s conserving energy, probably because the current here isn’t strong enough to force it to fight and also because they’re bottom feeders so they don’t really need to rush anything, they just sort of…exist and sift through things, which is actually impressive in its own way because they can survive in water that would kill most other fish.”

You shifted slightly, tracking another flicker of movement, your voice picking up just a little as you kept going. “They’ve got these little barbels near their mouths too, like whiskers, for sensing food in murky water, which means even if everything gets stirred up they’re still fine, they just keep going like nothing changed…it’s why they’ve survived basically everywhere people have introduced them, even when they weren’t supposed to be there in the first place…”

Your voice kept going, soft but steady, threading through the quiet as you followed the line of thought wherever it led, barely aware of anything beyond the small creature you were analyzing and the way the light shifted across the water until you noticed the silence behind you.

It made you pause mid-sentence, your head turning slightly as your brow furrowed, that strange awareness you had when something in your environment shifted just enough to feel wrong settling in your chest.

You turned fully then, expecting to see him standing right behind you, watching the trees or the path or anything that might move.

Instead, he was sitting a few steps back, shoulders slightly hunched, his attention fixed on his own arm as he struggled with the bandage wrapped around his forearm, fingers clumsy in a way that didn’t match the rest of him, the fabric half-loosened and slipping where he couldn’t quite secure it properly with one hand.

You watched for a second then you stood, brushing your hands lightly against your jeans before walking over, your steps slower this time like you were approaching something that might startle if you moved too quickly.

You didn’t touch him. Instead, you lowered yourself down in front of him and held your hands out, palms open, offering rather than taking, your eyes flicking briefly to his face before settling somewhere safer, somewhere less direct.

He hesitated only for a moment before he shifted his arm toward you which was all the permission you needed.

You took his forearm gently, guiding it into your lap with careful hands, your fingers light against his skin as you started unwrapping the old bandage, the fabric damp and slightly stiff where it had been tied too tightly. You worked slowly, methodically like you did everything else, your focus narrowing again but not as completely as before, aware of him in a way that felt different now, closer somehow.

His gaze stayed on you which you always could feel but still, you didn’t look up.

Lately, it lingered long enough that it became something you couldn’t ignore, the weight of it settling into the space between your shoulders as you reached for a clean strip of cloth and began wrapping it carefully around his arm, your fingers brushing against his skin in brief movements that never lingered longer than necessary.

“Y’ain’t gon’ keep talkin’?” he asked suddenly, his rough voice quieter than usual.

You blinked, your hands pausing for half a second before continuing. “About what?”

“Tha’ thing,” he muttered, shifting slightly where he sat. “In the water.”

You shook your head faintly, tying the bandage a little tighter than before but still careful. “It was stupid. You don’t care about invasive freshwater species.”

He exhaled through his nose, something almost like impatience slipping through. “Better than listenin’ t’ nothin’ but crickets an’ whatever the hell’s makin’ tha’ noise at night.”

Your head tilted. “What noise?”

He glanced toward the trees, then back at you. “Tha’…chirpin’ thing, high pitched ‘n comes in waves. Like–” he tried to imitate it, the sound rough and off in a way that made your lips twitch immediately.

A quiet laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, your shoulders shaking slightly as you ducked your head.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, a hint of something defensive creeping into his tone.

“That’s not what it sounds like,” you said, trying to compose yourself as you adjusted the bandage again, smoothing it down with your fingers. “You’re mixing two different species together, that’s why it sounds wrong.”

You inhaled softly, then recreated the sound properly, the pitch and rhythm precise in a way that made it unmistakable once heard correctly, your voice soft but accurate as it echoed faintly against the water nearby.

“That’s a tree cricket,” you explained, glancing up at him briefly before looking back down at your hands. “They’re temperature dependent, so the rate of the chirps actually changes based on how warm it is, which means if you count them you can technically estimate the temperature outside, not that it matters much now but it’s still interesting because it means they’re basically tiny living thermometers and–”

You kept going, explaining how their wings worked, how the sound was produced by rubbing specific parts together, how they used it to attract mates and how different species had slightly different patterns that could be identified if you listened closely enough.

All the while your hands moved steadily, finishing the bandage with a neat knot that held far better than the one he’d managed before, your fingers brushing lightly against his wrist as you checked the tightness without thinking.

His skin felt warm, warmer than it should have or maybe you were just noticing it more.

Daryl didn’t say anything for a while, he just watched and listened and you didn’t realize, not as you kept talking in that quiet way that filled the space between you, that the mistake he’d made earlier hadn’t really been a mistake at all.

Somewhere between the road and the prison, between shared silences and half-finished conversations, things had shifted without either of you naming it, the sharp edges of awkwardness wearing down into something steadier, until being near him no longer felt like stepping into unfamiliar territory but like returning to something you hadn’t realized you’d been building all along.

The dim light of a lantern flickered across the administrative office in the prison, casting soft shadows on the makeshift bed of blankets and pillows you'd scavenged for your date night. It was one of those rare evenings, the world outside the fences forgotten for a moment. You lay on your side, propped up on an elbow, gazing at Daryl as he reclined on his back, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You'd just finished making love, the kind that left you both breathless and sated, your bodies still humming with the afterglow.

Daryl's low and gravelly voice filled the space between you, talking about nothing too heavy, just the little things he'd noticed around the prison yard. “Saw a couple squirrels messin’ around by the fence earlier,” he muttered, voice a little uneven like he was choosing something simple on purpose, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the ceiling instead of you, like he knew exactly what kind of look you were giving him and couldn’t quite handle it head-on.

You could feel the warmth of his skin under your fingertips as you traced lazy patterns up and down his naked chest, feeling the faint scars and the steady beat of his heart. He didn’t say anything about the way you kept touching him, didn’t flinch or pull away like he might have once and if anything he leaned into it without realizing, his body giving him away in small, unconscious ways that felt more honest than anything he could’ve said out loud.

You smiled, unable to help yourself, your eyes full of the love you felt for him. “You know they can turn their ankles almost all the way around?” you murmured softly, your voice slipping into that familiar rhythm before you could stop it, your fingers still moving absentmindedly over his skin. “That’s why they can run down trees headfirst like that without breaking their necks, which honestly feels like something that shouldn’t work but does anyway and I think about that more than I probably should.”

He glanced at you then, a small twitch at the corner of his mouth like he was amused by your random fact. 

“Yeah?” he mumbled, something softer slipping under the usual roughness in his voice, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite let himself, his gaze flicking toward you for half a second before dropping again, his shoulders shifting just slightly like he didn’t know what to do with the way you were looking at him.

Your hand continued its gentle exploration, sliding lower over the planes of his abdomen, until your fingers wrapped around his cock. It was still semi-soft from your earlier round, warm and heavy in your palm. You started pumping slowly, a light rhythm that made him go quiet, his words trailing off into a sharp inhale. A shiver ran through him, his body tensing then relaxing as you stroked him.

“This okay?” you asked quietly, your voice softer now, hand stilling just slightly like you were ready to pull away the second he needed you to. “You're still sensitive?” 

He shook his head, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, his breath hitching.

“Daryl, am I hurting you?”

“Only if you stop.” he said, like the words had to push past something to get out.

The words sent a thrill through you and you leaned in, shifting closer so your lips could meet in a deep, lingering kiss. Your hand sped up just a fraction, fingers tightening enough to draw out his pleasure, feeling him harden fully in your grip, thick and pulsing against your skin. Daryl's breaths came in breathy whimpers against your mouth, soft sounds he couldn't hold back. They were vulnerable, needy and utterly intimate. His shyness showed in the way he trembled but he didn't pull away.

You took your time, savoring the slow build, your thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock gently. You teased the slit there, pressing lightly, feeling the bead of pre-cum slick your touch as you spread it down his length. Each pass made him twitch in your hand, his hips shifting subtly, chasing the sensation without demanding it. 

“Fuck, bug,” he murmured against your lips, voice breaking into a quiet whine as you dragged your thumb over that spot again, slower this time, drawing out the friction. His body arched just a little, muscles coiling under your caress and you could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his cock throbbed harder with every teasing stroke.

One of his hands wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you flush against him, rough fingers digging into your skin with a mix of restraint and desperation. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, hot breaths fanning your skin, muffled whimpers escaping as you kept up the rhythm…pump, tease, circle…letting the pleasure uncoil gradually. His free hand clutched at the blanket beneath him, knuckles whitening, while you whispered encouragements into his skin, your own arousal stirring at the sounds he made.

You varied the pressure, lightening your grip to glide just your thumb along the underside, tracing the vein that pulsed there, before wrapping fully around him again, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. He shuddered against you, a low, breathy moan vibrating through your shoulder, his shyness giving way to the need you'd awakened.

You kept the pace slow and your hand moving in smooth, unhurried strokes that built the tension coiling in his body. His cock was fully hard now, slick with pre-cum that made every glide easier, hotter. You could feel him swelling thicker in your palm, the head flushing deeper pink as you teased it again with your thumb, circling the sensitive ridge before dipping into the slit to spread the wetness down. Daryl's breaths grew ragged, coming in short, desperate puffs against your neck, his body tensing with each pass of your fingers. His hips bucked subtly, instinctively seeking more and you matched the rhythm, pumping firmer, faster, drawing out those soft, whimpering sounds that made your own core ache with desire.

He was close, you could tell by the way his thighs trembled, the way his free hand fisted the blanket so tightly the fabric bunched under his knuckles. His cock twitched hard in your grip, the vein along the underside throbbing visibly now and you imagined the pressure building inside him, ready to spill. Just as you thought he might tip over the edge, his other hand released the blanket and wrapped around your waist, fingers digging into your hip with surprising strength.

“Closer,” he rasped, voice thick while pulling you up and over him in broken motion.

You shifted quickly, straddling his hips so the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance. You sank onto him slowly, feeling the stretch as he filled you inch by inch, walls clenching around his length. The sensation was immediate and intense, his thickness pressing deep as the heat of him pulsated inside you. Just as you bottomed out, settling fully against him, Daryl's body arched, a guttural whimper escaping his lips as he came.

He sat up abruptly, hands sliding up to cup the back of your head as his fingers tangled in your hair. He held you there, foreheads touching, as waves of pleasure crashed through him. You felt every throb of his cock buried deep while strong, rhythmic pulses made your inner muscles flutter in response, each spurt of his release warm and flooding, coating you from the inside. The way he jerked inside you was intimate and overwhelming, the slick heat spreading as he emptied himself, his heavy breaths mingling with yours in shaky exhales. Soft whimpers punctuated the air, his body shaking against yours while he rode it out, clinging to you like you were his anchor.

if on one hand you’re experienced, he’s a bit more at ease. albeit insecure, but carl would be as much in this situation regardless. you’d take it slow with him, kissing all over his body and showing him where to touch you.

you two would probably try riding first in this case. you can take control and watch him unravel beneath you. though, he wouldn’t know where to put his hands, and you’d have to guide him through everything.

while if you’re both in the same boat, he’s a little more nervous, but excited to learn with you. adapting to each others bodies and having each other be your only experiences made his head spin.

either way he’s quite shy, with everything else he’s so sure. survival, defense, scavenging, you name it. but not knowing what to do in such an intimate situation leaves him a little flustered.

speaking of intimate situations, he’d be a little wary about his eye as well.

you pull away from his lips, the both of you have already rid each other of your clothes. but one more thing remains that you’re itching to take off. your hand entangled in his hair goes to undo the bandage when his hand hurriedly comes over yours. “i don’t…” he trails off, his gaze avoiding yours. your hands rest on the back of his head.

“what’s wrong?” your voice softens from the lust-filled tone it was previously coated with. it makes his heart flutter and he takes a deep breath. habitually his hand comes up to his hair to cover the bandage once more.

his head slowly picks up a bit, just enough for him to look at you, “i don’t want to scare you.”

“you won’t scare me,” you whisper, fingers going to undo the bandage. you feel him tense up, but he moves his hand away. you slowly unravel it, and the more you do the more exposed he feels. the whole situation is nerve wracking, he doesn’t go around advertising his wound.

you’ve only seen it at the beginning, when aiding him with treatment. but he feels like with more time the worse it gets. the end of the world isn’t exactly the ideal situation for taking care of gunshot wounds. especially one that catches other’s attentions immediately. every time he looks in the mirror he feels weird at how it’s healed.

but to you, he’s as pretty as ever. you’ve adored this boy far too long, everything about him endears and entraps you entirely. when the bandage is gone you cup his face, smiling softly at the sight of your boy laid beneath you in his entirety.

your thumb gently, barely grazes over his right cheek as you speak. “you’re such a pretty boy.”

his pale cheeks flush a tint of pink at your words, hands awkwardly coming up to rest on your hips. he’s bad at this, it’s always been awkward to him. and learning to be the perfect boyfriend hasn’t been his main priority. he doesn’t know what to say in return. following your lead is typically what he chooses to do in this relationship. even if you’re new to this just like him.

“you’re.. such a pretty girl.”

he’d be a bit vocal. he’d be embarrassed by it, flustered at the noises forcing themselves out of him from your motions. but it just feels so good, you feel so good. and after all, these are relatively new feelings for him. as it’s doubtful he’d be taking matters into his own hands often, he’s always been too busy fighting for his life.

and no matter how many times he tries to keep them down, you beg him to let you hear. it’s almost just your voice that gets him. you know just how to talk to him like he wants, telling him what he wants to hear.

he’d really like being able to kiss and touch you everywhere. he enjoys the feeling of being the closest to you he can get. being inside you feels like he’s connected to you, and you feel so good around him it drives him crazy.

he didn’t expect to enjoy it this much, thinking it was some overhyped thing. but with you? you’re so perfect for him, and you look so pretty when you tell him how good he’s making you feel.

he loves when you praise him, and when you tell him what’s just right. if he even notices you get louder when he hits a certain spot, he tries to do it again. just to hear your pretty noises and to feel you squeeze around him again.

all in all it would be pretty sweet and gentle, he wants to learn for you and fuck you right <3

___

Daryl was more than happy when you finally moved into his house, though he’d rather drop dead than admit that to anybody.

You’d been together for a good while now, long enough that it didn’t make sense for you to still be sleeping in two different beds every night. But when you were the one to suggest moving in, Daryl just blinked at you like you’d spoken in another language. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it – he’d wanted that since the day you first stayed over and fell asleep on his chest – it just never crossed his mind as something he could ask for.

So yeah, when you said it, he’d just grunted out something like, “If ya want,” but he was over the damn moon inside. You. Here. All the time. No more waiting for visits. No more watching you walk away. Finally, he’d have you all to himself.

Or so he thought.

Because Dog apparently took the whole “moving in together” thing real personal.

The mutt was overjoyed – tail wagging, bouncing around, practically glued to your side from morning ‘til night. He’d follow you around like your personal shadow, soaking up every bit of affection you gave him. 

At first, Daryl thought it was cute. His two favorite things in the same place, getting along like they’d known each other forever. Made his chest feel full in a way he couldn’t really explain.

But then it got a little too much.

You’d kneel on the floor every morning, right in that same patch of sunlight near the kitchen window, cooing at Dog and giving him all the attention he didn’t deserve. You’d scratch behind his ears, kiss his big dumb head, let him lick your face, and laugh when he nudged at your hands like it still wasn’t enough.  

The worst of all was when you’d talk to him in that soft tone and call him good boy in that singsong voice that Daryl secretly wished you’d use on him too. 

And Dog, smug bastard that he was, soaked it all in – head in your lap, tongue lolling out. 

Daryl would say he wasn’t jealous of his own damn dog, but that’d be a lie. 

“Ya spoil him too much," he finally said one morning, watching from where he was sitting. 

You didn’t even look up, still kneeling by Dog, your fingers buried in his fur. “He deserves it.”

“Yeah, guess he does,” Daryl muttered, but it came out more bitter than he meant.

You smiled, not catching the tone, and ruffled Dog’s fur again. The dog flopped onto his back, and you obliged without hesitation, rubbing his belly like the damn mutt owned the place. Daryl had half a mind to say he found Dog, he’s the one who feeds him, he’s the one who keeps the fleas off his back, but that’d sound stupid. Worse than stupid.

So he just sat there, jaw tight, watching his dog – no, your dog now apparently – wag his tail like he was the luckiest bastard alive.

You glanced up once and caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He looked away too fast. It wasn’t that he didn’t love seeing you happy – hell, he’d do anything just to hear you laugh like that – but lately, it felt like Dog got that version of you more than he did. And he was irrationally pissed. 

___

Daryl woke up one night to find Dog sprawled across your side, taking up more space than any animal his size had a right to. You were curled around him like he was a damn teddy bear, hand resting lazily on his fur, and Daryl was half hanging off the edge of the bed, freezing.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled under his breath. Dog cracked one eye open and thumped his tail once against Daryl’s leg, like he was mocking him.

He reached out to push Dog off, but you shifted in your sleep and mumbled something sleepy.“Don’t move him, Daryl. He’s comfy.”

“Yeah, I’m real comfy too,” he whispered back, voice dripping with sarcasm.

But you were already back asleep, breathing even and peaceful.

Daryl watched your relaxed face for a while before huffing out a quiet laugh. He couldn’t stay mad. Not at you. And even if Dog was a pain in his ass sometimes, the mutt was also the reason you were so happy. 

Still didn’t mean he had to like it.

___

The next morning, Daryl must’ve been a little too obvious with his brooding because you seemed to catch on right after finishing your usual love-shower for Dog.

“Okay,” you said, leaning back against the counter, watching him like you were piecing something together. “What’s going on with you lately?”

“Nothin’.” Daryl didn’t even look up from his plate, just poked at his eggs like they’d done him wrong.

“You sure?” you pressed, tilting your head. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.” He finally glanced up at you for half a second before looking away again.

“Uh-huh.” You crossed your arms, a knowing smile creeping in. “You’ve been sulking for three days straight.” You gave him that little look – the one that said I know you’re being dumb but I’ll let you talk yourself out of it.

He stabbed at his food with his fork, jaw flexing. “Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

Daryl shrugged, shoulders tight. “‘Bout how ya like that dog more’n me.” He regretted saying it instantly. The words slipped out before his brain had a chance to stop them. He hadn’t planned on saying it out loud, hell, he’d been trying to wrestle that stupid thought down for days.

You blinked once before letting out one of those breathy laughs. “Daryl Dixon, are you jealous of Dog?”

“’Course not,” he muttered too fast, suddenly real interested in the fork in his hand.

You grinned, taking a step closer. “You totally are.”

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughing again as he shot you a scowl.

“Ain’t jealous of no damn dog,” he said after you finally stopped laughing, his ears turning red, wishing he could be anywhere else right now. 

“Mhm,” you teased, walking over to him, voice lowering. “So if I called you a good boy right now, you wouldn’t like that?”

Daryl groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Yer impossible.” 

You leaned in then to press a soft kiss on his cheek. It was enough to knock all the fight out of him. He felt his face heat instantly. “You love me,” you said, still smiling.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “That’s the problem.”

Dog barked once, tail wagging like crazy. You grinned at him. “Don’t worry, buddy, you’re still my favorite.”

Daryl shot the dog a look. “Yeah, we’ll see ‘bout that.”

___

Later that evening, Daryl sat slouched on the couch, Dog stretched out on the floor beside him. The mutt nudged Daryl’s hand with his nose, tail thumping lazily against the rug. Daryl sighed but gave in, running his rough fingers through the dog’s fur. 

“Ya ain’t bad, ya know that?” he muttered. “Just don’t go stealin’ all my attention next time.” Dog gave a low woof, tongue lolling out like he understood every word. “Yeah, yeah,” Daryl huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. 

When the front door creaked open, Daryl looked up from where he sat, Dog sprawled at his feet. You stepped inside, light from the doorway spilling in behind you, your face lit up instantly when you spotted them.

“Aw, look at you two,” you said with a teasing lilt. “Finally getting along.”

Daryl grunted, shifting slightly as you dropped onto the couch beside him, your thigh brushing his. You reached down to scratch Dog’s ears, voice softening. “Who’s a good boy,” you murmured, all sweet smiles, before glancing up at Daryl with that look.

“You still mad at me?”

He wasn’t mad, not really, but hell if he was gonna admit that right away, so he just shrugged and looked away. “Ain’t mad.”

“Jealous then?” you nudged his shoulder with your own. He didn’t answer, which was answer enough. You smiled softly, leaning your head on his shoulder. “You know there’s enough of me to go around, right?”

“Don’t seem like it,” he answered, though his voice was quieter now.

You laughed under your breath, lifting your head just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Daryl didn’t respond, just gave you a halfhearted scowl that probably would’ve looked a lot meaner if his damn heart wasn’t doing that jumpy thing it always did when you looked at him like that. 

Then you went and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, and it made him go all fidgety. He could face walkers, storms, and all kinds of hell, but you being affectionate always threw him off.

He tried to play it cool, tried to act like it didn’t get to him, but then your hand was suddenly in his hair, fingers slipping through the mess of it. And just like that, all that effort went right out the damn window.

“See?” you murmured, voice soft and teasing, nails gently scratching his scalp the exact way that made his eyes feel heavy. “You get pets too.”

“Stop,” he grumbled, though it came out weak, more breath than sound. His head tilted toward your touch before he could stop it, traitorous thing that it was.

You giggled. “You’re worse than Dog.”

“’M not,” he mumbled, but his words slurred from how relaxed he’d gotten. His eyes fluttered half-shut, shoulders sinking deeper into the couch. He didn’t even realize he was leaning into your hand until you stopped.

When you did, he let out a small huff, barely audible, but you laughed, and he couldn’t help the tiny twitch of his mouth in return.

“C’mere,” you said softly, tugging on his arm.

He hesitated for a second, some part of him always unsure if he deserved moments like this, but he went anyway. Always did. He shifted closer, letting you tug him down until you both slid sideways onto the couch, the old cushions dipping under your combined weight. 

You ended up on your back, half tucked into the corner while Daryl hovered over you for a moment, bracing a hand beside your head before lowering himself down with a quiet grunt.

Your legs tangled up easily, his thigh slotting between yours, his arm winding beneath your neck to pull you closer until his chest was flush against you. He fit there naturally, like he’d done it a thousand times even if he still acted unsure every damn time.

You brushed a thumb over his jaw, the faint scruff rasping under your touch. “Comfy?” you teased.

He hummed low, almost a growl, and buried his face against your shoulder. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Your fingers found their way back into his hair, lazy and soft, tracing slow patterns that made him melt further against you. One of his hands found your waist, thumb rubbing absent circles there, breathing you in.

Dog gave a little grumble from the floor, tail thudding once like he was claiming jealousy too. Daryl cracked one eye open just long enough to mutter, “Jealous?”

You chuckled, wrapping an arm around his middle and sinking closer. “Now you’re just projecting.”

Daryl snorted quietly through his nose, shaking his head. He let out a slow breath, the last bit of tension draining out of him as he pressed a small kiss to your hair, before resting his head back down against your chest.

That was when he figured that maybe sharing your attention wasn’t so bad after all. Not when you still ended up right here, tucked against him, where he wanted you the most. 

___

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Daryl was either afraid of being too forward or he didn’t realize what you were asking. Either way, this meant that you had to give him a push. Inhaling deeply, you gestured at his lap and expectantly raised an eyebrow.

“Your lap.”

“My lap?”

Realizing that you weren’t just teasing him, the tips of Daryl’s ears flushed pink and he readjusted. He could sense his best friend’s eyes on him, and he could tell that Rick wanted to laugh. Your boyfriend glared at the other man before sitting back on the couch. He cleared his throat and tried to sound confident.

“Okay. Take a seat.”

Your cheeks were equally flushed when you nodded and sat down. Since you were wearing shorts, his denim jeans were rough beneath your bare thighs and it felt good. You were careful not to squish him and you got comfortable. Daryl’s confidence was slowly growing, and he wrapped a strong arm around your waist to hold you steady. The tension bled from your body, and you leaned into his touch. His chest was solid under your back.

Rick opened his mouth to tease both of you, but that was quickly met with a sharp elbow to the ribs from Michonne. She knew how long it had taken for Daryl to become comfortable with any form of PDA. Her man was not about to interfere with that. Rick let out a sharp huff when his girlfriend’s bone collided with his side. He went to protest, but halted when he saw the seriousness on her face. He held up his hands in surrender and focused on the screen.

As the movie continued playing, Daryl’s rough, calloused thumb rubbed circles on your midsection. You subconsciously pushed against his hand and felt the way his breathing had hitched. Your own hand had been tracing patterns on his skin, and his touch-starved ass could not get enough. At this point, his eyes weren’t even on the screen and his head was resting on your shoulder.

The rest of the group was periodically glancing in your direction and their reactions ranged from being intrigued to being amused. Your free hand had wandered to his head and you softly rubbed his scalp. To his horror, Daryl let out a soft groan. His face went from being a light pink to beet red, and he buried his face against the side of your neck. God, he was humiliating himself.

You smiled a little at his noise and kept messing with his scalp. Daryl wasn’t making any effort to stop you. If anything, he encouraged it by sighing and shifting. You kept this up for a few minutes and that’s when you noticed the look that Michonne was giving you. Pulling a face of confusion, she gestured at Daryl and you looked down to see that his breathing was even. He’d fallen asleep.

There was zero chance of you moving, now. You spent the rest of the evening trapped under your sleeping boyfriend. Not a single part of you minded, though. It filled you with a rush of pride that he’d felt safe enough to drift off in front of everyone.

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