#twd hershel

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Daryl hearing you screech his name in excitement used to send a shot of adrenaline up his spine, years of looking over his shoulder making him jump to the worst. But now, things were about as perfect as they could get. He didn’t need much more than you, Dog, and the home you shared.

“What’re you yellin’ about?” Daryl mutters as he walks into the living room, still drying his damp hair from the shower. He’d never admit you were the reason he felt safe enough to use hot water and real soap every once and a while.

“Thought you drowned trying to do the dishes.”

You roll your eyes at his remark.

“Look..”

You showed him what had caused your excitement, a Metallica vinyl in the bin you’d picked up on a run. Most of the vinyls were scratched or warped from the heat, but this one looked usable. He takes it in his hands skeptically, turning it over.

“You sure s’not busted?”

“Have some optimism.”

You take it gently, placing it on the turntable. The needle slowly lowers, the sound of The Four Horseman crackling to life.

“We are old as shit..” You murmur, reminiscing on the memories of playing the same album in your childhood bedroom.

Daryl rarely laughs, but he does pull that stupid half smile that makes your head spin as he rubs Dog’s ears.

“You ain’t old, sweetheart.”

“I’m going to get to those dishes..” You stand, caught in the doorway by Daryl’s lean arm.

“What’s your rush?” He murmurs, the riffs emanating from the turntable seeming like the perfect background noise to his lips on your neck.

“The kitchen is disgusting..” You try to remind him, but his other arm circles your waist, securing you to his chest.

“This ain’t the four seasons, don’t gotta clean all the time..” His thumb traces the elastic of your bra, and you gently separate yourself.

“Okay, okay.. five minutes, and then.. Daryl.”

He’d walked behind you, rubbing your neck gently.

“Hm?”

“Stop..” You murmured half-heartedly.

He gives you a squeeze before relenting, stepping back to pull on his vest.

“Alright.. i’ll be outside..”

The thought of him working on his motorcycle nearly makes you turn your back on your responsibilities, but you start on the dishes, the faint music from the living room and Dog keeping you company.

Just as you’re nearly done, you drop your washcloth, and Dog bends down to sniff and lick it.

“No!” You scold softly, kneeling to quickly shield him from ingesting more of the soap. “Dog, place.”

As he trots obediently to his blanket in the living room, you hear a noise from inside the cabinet you’re kneeling beside. Suspecting some kind of vermin, you retrieve a knife and kneel again, listening. You couldn’t make out what it was, but it didn’t sound small.

Taking a sharp breath, you quickly open the cabinet door, only to be sprayed in the face by the sink water escaping from a loose valve. A small noise of surprise leaves you as you shield your face, water soaking through your clothes.

“Daryl!”

You hear the door open seconds later, followed by his voice.

“You’re gonna wear my name out, girl-"

He stops in his tracks as he sees the predicament you’re in, water spraying you relentlessly, Dog having abandoned his blanket to come lick the water from your face incessantly. 

Daryl laughed—he really laughed, supporting himself on the wall.

“How the hell-"

“Daryl!” You exclaim, though his amusement made you fight a laugh yourself.

“Idiot..” He shakes his head, still grinning as he leans down and tightens the valve. “You are soaked..”

“Really? I didn’t notice.” You huff, still fighting off Dog’s excited licking.

Daryl takes his towel from earlier off the counter, wrapping it around your shoulders.

“Guess you needed a shower too..”

“Alright, Dixon..” You throw the towel, taking the sink faucet and aiming it at him.

“Hey! The hell’s the matter with you!” He tries to dodge the water, crouching behind the counter.

“I think you missed a spot in the shower!”

The song on the vinyl was now Dyer’s Eve as you laughed at the sight of your boyfriend feebly blocking your onslaught of water. He darts up beside you, wrestling you for the faucet, at which you squeal and object, only to be sprayed again.

“No!” You laugh uncontrollably, water absolutely everywhere, the cabinets, the floors, on Dog, and the both of you. You stop his attacks the only way you can think of, walking right up to him and kissing him deeply.

He turns off the faucet, his body nearly limp with surprise. He takes your face in his hands, one traveling through your now wet hair before you separate for breath.

“Made a mess. You’re stupid..” He mutters, and to anyone else, it would be mean. But you know his ‘Daryl-speak’ well enough to know that he might as well have told you he’d die for you.

“So’re you..” You kiss him again, and he allows himself to be pressed against the counter, his hands on your sides. A few of the dishes clatter to the side as he flips your positions, placing you on the countertop. Your skin feels warm despite the water covering both of you as he eases off your damp shorts.

“This okay?”

“Yes..”

You tug at his shirt.

“Only if you want to..” You murmur.

He pants for a moment before pulling off the shirt with a small grunt, his scars now visible. Your lips meet his again, hoping to comfort him. He absorbs your soft moans into his own lips when his hands rub at your inner thighs, low noises crawling from his chest at the feeling of you.

“Shit..” He mutters, unabashedly dropping to his knees, his face level with your hips.

“You want it, sweetheart?”

I mean, she had just witnessed her father get brutally murdered and then got separated from her sister, and the way she chose to cope with it was by looking for alcohol to make up for experiences she felt she missed out on as a kid.

She roped Daryl into playing Never Have I Ever and linked it to watching her friends play it, but the oldest she could’ve been would be 16, and by the timeline, barely even getting to start her junior year of high school since the outbreak started in late August.

And I really do mean she roped him into it. He didn’t want to play and she straight up manipulated him into it by starting with something innocent; never using a crossbow to show him the game wasn’t so bad and then jumped to pushing him to talk about his own trauma; doing something he regretted while drunk and whether or not he’s been in jail, and meanwhile Daryl here saying he’s never left Georgia or been on vacation on his turns.

And like, she’s wasn’t trying to get him to open up for his sake, she was using him to process her trauma about her father, since Hershel was an alcoholic and she figured Daryl was the same or close enough, and she did it at his expense. And if that’s not emotional immaturity I don’t know what is.