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juuuulez · 8 months

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📰 | part five: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes x Saviour! Reader, slow burn, enemies to lovers, loosely following canon, allusions to drugs (pills), implied mental illness, gun violence sorta, FINALLY references to Romeo and Juliet.

summary: Carl hijacks some trucks, and finds himself wound up at the Sanctuary. You decide to take pity on him, but he has other plans.

Okay FINALLY this is done! Back to teenagers who hate eachother, and typical threats/arguing. Definitely leaning more into the feels though… next chapter is already written, so I’ll publish it tomorrow!

The ride home went as it always did: long and boring.

At the half hour mark, you were already sick of Simon’s whistling. But it was better than riding with any other sub-par follower, who would likely subject you to weird comments or suggestions.

So, you fell asleep. The constant movement helped aid you into a somewhat peaceful rest, one you’d been craving for a long time. All this new tension just gave you ten times more responsibilities, and though you told your father you could handle it, the toll was starting to show.

That was, until you were rudely awakened.

Gunshots, shouting. Everyone was quick to jump out, investigate the problem.

No, no. Not gunshots. Machine gun. Dear, God.

Likely a fault of your own ruthless design, you didn’t actually carry a gun. Instead you clutched the metal baseball bat harshly between your fingers, shoving past the other Saviours to inspect what exactly has happened.

Should you be shocked, or scared? Frightened, or ready to put him in his place?

Because Carl stared directly at you. The machine gun was propped over your shoulder, the culprit to the few bodies now lying at your feet. His one eye looked down the sight, trained on you. Ready, waiting.

Was he stupid? Or.. smart?

Even though this appeared to be a colossal mistake, you felt an ounce of respect for the action, for attempting to take charge rather than spew around empty threats. Nonetheless, you didn’t dare move.

“Holy shit!” Negan was already poking fun at a situation that wasn’t amusing in the slightest. Usually, his presence would provide you some semblance of comfort, but right now, you only felt increasingly uneasy.

He continued to tease and prod at Carl, comments about how he looked badass with that machine gun. Sure, it may be true, but amongst the conversation Carl didn’t let his scope move from where you were standing.

“Stop it.” You hiss to Negan, voice lowered into a slight whisper, though you don’t deny that Carl can still hear it.

Your father turns to you, that trademark grin still on his face, not prepared to let up. “Oh, he ain’t gonna hurt you, darlin’.” He promises, but you shoot him a look, a silent conveyance that says not now.

“Go get this shit inside, why don’t you?” Negan instead suggests, giving you an out. There’s a moment before you move, not exactly hesitation, just weighing whether or not Carl intends to let you go this easily.

Luckily, he does, and you scurry back towards the Sanctuary to deal with the contents of the trucks.

This cannot be real.

Somebody was going to die, you could feel it.

You doubt it would be Carl, you couldn’t imagine Negan doing that. Maybe Rick was finally in for it. Or maybe another poor follower, killed simply to get across a message.

Whatever happened, you didn’t really want to be there for it, not now. Not today.

Surely you deserved just one day off? One seemingly peaceful day. Just a moment to breathe, because this lifestyle was certainly not suited for a teenage girl. If you didn’t receive a moment of salvation soon, you’d explode, and it sure won’t be pretty.

So, you sorted the rest of the materials gained from Hilltop.. and by sorted, you told other people where to put them. You made sure that Dwight could go collect the bodies, to which he reluctantly agreed, not without a snide comment.

Ice Queen.

That’s what he called you, and you hated it.

“Whatever you say, Ice Queen.”

At least it was better than the demeaning princess you’d sometimes get, which tasted foul within the mouth of anybody but your father. Or girl, woman, as if you had no identity at all.

It didn’t matter anyways.

There was no more avoiding it, you’d better face the music.

You absentmindedly chewed on your bottom lip, finally pushing down the handle to Negan’s office, letting the large wooden door swing open. Please, God, don’t let there be blood.

Thankfully, everybody was in one piece.

Sure, Carl looked dejected where he was sitting on the couch, his hat and bandage gone, staring at the ground. Negan still held Lucille, though it didn’t appear threatening, instead simply dangling at his side.

“Just who I wanted to see!” Negan announces your presence, ushering you closer into the room. He stands behind you, placing both gloved hands on your shoulders, letting you tower over Carl. It’s obvious that he quite enjoys the power dynamic.

“Now, I’ve got a pretty huge goddamn mess to clean up,” He begins, “Crying mothers to console, and what not. So, doll, why don’t you escort this little shit down to the prison, let him sit pretty in a cell until we head up to Alexandria?”

You clench your jaw, internally rolling your eyes at the idea of travelling again. But of course, you had stakes in this scenario, you had to contribute.

“Sure,” You agree, and choose to wholly not acknowledge Carl, turning to give Negan a small smile before making your way to the door again, “Radio me when you’re ready.”

As you trudge down the hallway, with Carl following suite a few steps behind, he comes to the realisation that something is up.

The big bad wolf is off her game.

If anything, this is his chance to strike. Sure, maybe the whole truck-hijacking plan didn’t work out, but this could be a golden opportunity.

Maybe the real way to break down a man’s defences was through his daughter.

Three corners, and one flight of stairs upwards. Carl can’t help but wonder where you’re taking him, if not the prison cells. This certainly doesn’t look like prison cells. Only one door sits along the corridor, painted the same monotonous grey colour as the walls, sans a shiny gold handle with a lock on it.

You push open the door with a brazen sigh, clearly somewhat relieved to be away from the conflict that followed the inner-workings of the Sanctuary. Still partially ignoring Carl, you opt to take your jacket off, letting it fall onto the back of a chair.

This must be your bedroom.

It’s sizeable, much larger than any rooms back at Alexandria. A queen bed sits adjacent to the doorway, drawers pushed against the wall with rows and rows of photographs and other little trinkets. It looks… strangely girly, which feels unsettling. Pink sheets, pink pillows. The walls have been painted a soft eggshell white. It juxtaposes your entire personality.

Fortunately, you’ve finally decided to acknowledge Carl.

“Can’t be fucked walking down to the cells,” You justify, fiddling with something on the desk, looking rather serious about it. “Just sit somewhere. Don’t touch anything.”

But Carl has already started to explore, particularly interested in the various frames along your dresser. Maybe something could help guide him in the right direction, any tidbit of information that will signal on how to take you down.

Two stand out to him, one of a young woman who’s smiling at the camera, another of a small infant. Mother and child.

He chooses to ignore that for now, not wanting to dwell on the implications this brought to the table. Another photo, larger, contained what appeared to be a girls baseball team.

Looking closer, he can make out two faces amongst the crowd. God, this is making him feel sick.

So he abandons this venture, taking another peak backwards to ensure that you’re still occupied. Which you are, albeit now speaking into a small radio, to a voice he cannot recognise. But you list off numbers in a frustrated tone, to which he decides must be something routine and insignificant.

Now, Carl pokes around your bedside table. The top is clean, aside from a lamp and a singular copy of a play he hasn’t read. Romeo and Juliet. Who knew you were into that stuff?

Quietly as possible, he opens the top drawer, to reveal a stash of what appears to be chocolates. Most of them are in little shiny wrappers, and he wonders where you acquired such a large amount of them. Stealing from other communities, he spitefully chalks it up to.

The second drawer rattles as he slides it open, causing Carl to hold his breath, sparing a sideways glance to confirm that you’re still working. If anything, your temper only seems to rise the longer this conversation goes on for. Still, he peaks into the drawer, finding the source of the rattling noise to be plastic, orange bottles.

Jesus.

Not caring to read their labels, or plague his mind with anything regarding the suspicious pills, Carl quickly closes the drawer in order to move onto the next one, and the bottom of the wooden dresser.

And it contained the jackpot he was looking for.

A seemingly untouched, shiny handgun.

Just sitting there, shut away. For emergencies, he deducted. Well, if this didn’t count as an emergency, than he didn’t know what did.

So Carl let’s the weight of the handgun fill his palm, letting his fingers slide across the cool metal. He flicks the safety off, intending to check the chamber before you’re already turning around, the radio still held to your mouth. He manages to raise the weapon quick enough, before you have time to react.

You appear to be less of a trained soldier, and more of a deer in headlights.

“Give me a minute.” You mutter into the radio, and even when the voice on the other side continues to talk, you switch it off.

Silence fills the space between you. Carl stands next to your drawer, on the other side of the queen bed, with you slowly approaching, stepping away from the desk.

“Stop moving.” He commands, keeping the gun trained steady on your figure, not wanting to risk any unsuspected plays.

You obey, jaw clenched. Even with the tension between the two of you, for whatever reason, you don’t look Carl in the eye. Your gaze is trained somewhere on his forehead, he can tell, and it causes something else to bubble inside of him.

Is it respect? A twinge of gratefulness, that you are choosing not to inspect his open wound in a slightly vulnerable moment, without his bandage. Or is he angry? Because you’re better than this. Above pity.

“So, what?” You begin talking, tone slow and calculated, contrasting how pent up you’d sounded over the radio. “Gonna shoot me?”

Carl tries not to let his emotions become evident on his face, aside from that unconscious tick of his jaw. “Haven’t decided yet.”

It’s painfully similar to when you’d met, back at the Satellite station. Where your people had been murdered. No, assassinated.

24 in their sleep.

Mostly men, some women. No children.

Could have been one child, had you been asleep. If you were, would Carl have killed you, too?

“Well, you should do it.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

You seem deadly serious, yet Carl can’t help but assume you’re taunting him, underestimating how much he wants this. Like you’re trying to push him to the edge, string him out, then return unscathed.

Not anymore.

Carl squares his shoulders, like a bird of prey, glaring down at his victim. But you don’t move, and so he sucks in a breath, and finally does it. All it took was one tiny squeeze of the trigger, and he’s almost tempted to close his eye, not wanting to see the consequences of his rage.

Nothing happens.

There’s a tiny click from the gun, but nothing ejects. He lowers it, staring at the grey metal before regaining his senses, clicking the safety back on and opening the chamber.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You’re already talking, yelling, finally approaching Carl, where you snatch the empty gun from his hand and throw it back down on the dresser.

This time it’s his turn to avoid your gaze.

“Hey!” You persevere, and as Carl tries to turn away, you’re swiftly reaching up to grasp his face in your hand, cold fingers pressing into the plush skin of his cheeks. This time, you don’t shy away from looking directly at him, glaring another hole into his blue eye.

“I could’a locked you up, and I didn’t, dickwad!” You yell at him, all that frustration resurfacing now that the little facade has dropped. Carl doesn’t even try to squirm from your harsh grip. “And you repay me by tryna’ shoot me? Not only that, but you think I’m stupid enough to keep a loaded gun, in an unlocked drawer?”

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled, words muffled by your hand grasping his face. For once, he actually sounds genuinely guilty, but you only scoff at the weak admission.

At least you’re looking at him again.

It appears that you’re about to yell at him again, another round of scolding, something about him being ignorant or illogical, but then the abandoned radio is going off again, and Carl certainly recognises this voice.

Negan.

“Truck’s ready, doll.”

You swear again, loudly and uncaring of the somewhat frightening outburst, and Carl is realising how much he’s fucked up. Even at your lowest, you are always one step ahead. There’s no such thing as being off your game, not when your entire life consists of this back-and-forth, maintaining control over so many people.

He’s just some over confident teenager, you’re… you.

You say something into the radio, but he’s zoned out, until you pick up the bat once more and are addressing him again.

“Do I need to handcuff you, or what?” You sneer, and though it comes across as a snide remark, it proves to be a genuine question with how your hand rests above another set of drawers.

Carl shakes his head, still feeling a little shameful, but your persistent stare indicates this will not suffice. “No.” He finally mumbles.

You roll your eyes at the act of submission, clipping the radio into your belt and already making a beeline for the door again. This time, you leave the jacket behind, and Carl catches a glimpse of the way your forearms flex under the iron-grip you have on the bat.

Pay attention.

#carl grimes x reader #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #carl grimes #negan smith x reader #twd x you #carl grimes x you #negan smith #the walking dead

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

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Us and Them.

Daryl Dixon x F Reader.

Tags: Not SFW, follow up to Hierarchy of Needs, takes place from Daryl's POV. Simping o'clock. Some typical TWD horror elements. Word count: 11.5k.

It takes a great deal to crack Daryl’s focus.

The life he’s led up until this point necessitated the fact. To ensure he’d hit his mark or continue tracking the elusive fauna hiding in the thickets, he needed to block the rest of the world out and hone in on his objective. This tendency bled into the other aspects of his day-to-day existence as well. It’s made him notoriously reliable, a reality he doesn’t take pride in, for he’s just doing what he thinks anyone should do. Shaking this cornerstone of his identity is no easy task.

Unless you’re thrown into the mix, that is.

Then it’s as if every functioning brain cell he has decides to jump ship in favor of seeking you out, no matter how detrimental it may be to him. Truth be told, he can’t even bring himself to mind half the time. You’re a distraction he’d hold the door open for. That being said, as much as he’d love to entertain thoughts of you 24/7, it’s an unrealistic dream. There’s work to be done and he can’t take up residence in la-la land. He’ll be forcibly evicted most of the time, should he not leave of his own volition.

His present predicament does well to remind him of this.

“You with me, Daryl?”

Rick’s voice is a scythe cutting through the overgrown verdure of his mind. Daryl grunts, probably agreeing to something he should’ve been paying closer attention to. It’s too late for him to play it off, he can tell by Rick’s expression alone. He’s giving that raised eyebrow, head tilted look you once theorized to be the byproduct of being a sheriff for years. Officer Friendly’s changed a lot since they first met, but that look has remained reliably consistent.

“That so? Mind telling me what I just said then?” Rick challenges.

Daryl doesn’t even bother to entertain the charade. He knows when to cut his losses. “Sorry. Wasn’t listening.”

“Mhm,” Rick nods his head in the direction Daryl’s been staring. “Let me guess. It got anything to do with our social butterfly over there?”

Daryl doesn’t know why Rick’s asking when he likely already knows the answer to the question. Indeed, Daryl’s been keeping an eye on you while Rick discussed various happenings. You were reading Frankenstein beneath a gazebo for a whopping five minutes before an interloper made himself known. One of Deanna’s sons — Daryl can barely tell them apart, they leave so little of an impression — decided to strike up a conversation with you. The complete and utter disregard for your personal time has him fuming. You’ve been so busy shadowing Deanna that you’ve barely had a moment’s respite, you deserve to read your damn book in peace.

He knows you’ve been working yourself to the bone. Alexandria is important to you, you’ve been doing everything possible to guarantee a future for your tight-knit group here. It helps that Deanna’s taken a shine to you; the opportunities this granted have been paramount. You’re slowly winning over the skeptical residents and explaining away any errant behavior from your group. Whatever tale you're spinning, he figures it must be working. He can at least walk around without being gawked at. Regardless, you confided to him that there's still much to do. Tensions are brewing faster than you can reconcile them.

“Hardly see ‘er no more,” Daryl scoffs. “Yuppies are takin’ up all her damn time.”

Rick gives a thoughtful hum. “It’s good, what she’s doing. Building up trust. Might help us if things are headed the way I think they are.”

What was no doubt intended to lift Daryl’s spirits does the opposite, plunging them down into a deeper depth. He feels he’s deceiving you somehow by not mentioning Rick and Carol’s ‘backup plan’ should the Alexandria inhabitants prove beyond help. He also knows you loathe feeling used — a vulnerable confession owing to a drink too many — and that’s what this feels like. Using the good graces you’ve painstakingly established for an ulterior motive.

Daryl keeps quiet. Fortunately, Rick is quick to catch on and changes the subject.

“You know,” he starts, looking away from you to focus on Daryl, “I’ve noticed something’s different between you two. Ever since the night of that welcoming party.”

Daryl assumes a poker face. He knew he should expect this line of questioning at some point, because things did change between you, in a way that exceeded his wildest dreams. Still, the way Rick’s sizing him up makes him feel like a teenager being greeted by your dad at the front door before your first date. He doesn’t know how to deal with this shit. The only person close to Daryl in terms of their protectiveness over you is Rick. Is this some type of test? That can’t be right; Rick’s been trying to convince him to shoot his shot with you since the prison. He probably just wants to know everything’s fine. Ever the worrier, holding the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“She, uh,” Daryl focuses on his scuffed boots, before finally managing to look Rick in the eye. “She knows.”

Rick’s countenance betrays his disbelief. “You told her?”

Well, it’d be more accurate to say you told him by kissing him silly and putting his many doubts to rest, but he isn’t about to go around announcing that. He’ll hold this near and dear to his heart.

“Yeah.”

“And?” Rick presses, borderline impatient for the information Daryl’s so stingy on handing over. “What’d she say?”

Daryl can’t stop his lips from quirking into a closed-mouth smile. “Feels the same.”

Unlike Daryl, Rick doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “What’d I tell you, huh? That’s— that’s great. I’m happy for you. For both of you. It’s about time you both stopped dancing around things.”

Daryl wants to grumble over Rick giving him a hard time, but he can’t bring himself to, because the man’s right. While it may not have been love back at the quarry, even then he thought you were the prettiest damn woman he’d ever had the blessing to lay eyes on. His attachment to you only grew from there. By his estimation, that’d place it somewhere around two years of having the hots for you without ever making a serious move. While he doesn’t regret the time dedicated to deepening your friendship, it would’ve saved him a lot of grief if he knew you reciprocated his affections. He’d lost track of the nights spent tossing and turning, contemplating just how out of his league you are.

“While we’re on the subject, Glenn’s got some condoms on him, should you need any.”

Daryl coughs into his hand to hide the wicked blush rising to his cheeks. “The hell, man?”

“Just sayin’,” Rick puts his hands up in defense. “It’s best to be proactive. Sometimes you look at the girl like you’re ready to pounce.”

He fights back a groan at the new ammunition Rick has to tease him with. It is good knowledge to have, though, so he makes a note of it. You had only slept together once on that fateful night roughly two weeks ago. Daryl was mistaken in thinking getting a taste of you would calm the raging flames of desire that burn him from the inside out. If anything, it’s as if they’ve been doused with gasoline. Every little thing you do nearly drives him mad with need. When you chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, bend over to grab something, or make those cute little noises when you stretch, the list goes on and on. You’re making it a damn challenge to think with his head and not his dick.

How can he not, when he’s experienced how exhilarating it is to become one with the person he loves most? The sights and sounds of that night play on a loop in his mind constantly. The teasing banter, the taste of chocolate on your lips, the mind-numbing pleasure that exceeds anything he’d felt in his life… it’s got to be a special kind of torture to know he can have that with you, if he only he could get you alone. He swears every force in the universe is working against him. You’re living in a house packed like sardines, your schedules don’t line up (he’s an early riser, you love ‘your beauty sleep’), and you’ve been busy as a bee.

In your benevolence, you’ve treated him to some fleeting kisses and hugs, which, while he treasures those more than the air in his lungs, can’t satisfy the excruciating need he has for your body. He has to stop himself from undressing you with his eyes the few times of day you’re around. You’re just so gorgeous, so exuberant, lighting up the room in the way only you can and leaving a cold emptiness inside him when you’re gone.

He used to harp on lovesick fools for gushing over their ‘other half’, but now he gets it, he truly does. Going without you for any length of time is a unique agony that twists his guts into a knot.

Glancing back over your way, his blood freezes over at the sight he’s greeted with.

The prick had the audacity to put his hand on your lower back while Daryl was preoccupied. His eye twitches and his nostrils flare, hands balling into fists by his side. Rick senses the change in demeanor and follows Daryl’s line of sight to identify the reason, instantly piecing together the problem. Right before Daryl can charge over and rip the asshole’s slimy hand off you, Rick steps in, motioning for him to slow down.

“Hey, hey, look at me—”

“He’s fuckin’ touching her,” Daryl seethes, barely able to hear anything over the sound of his heart thumping in his ears. “She’s uncomfortable, I’m gonna—”

This time, it’s Rick who interrupts him. “I get it, I really do, but we can’t afford to go makin’ a scene over something like this. [First] wouldn’t want that. You know she wouldn’t. So let’s take a moment and calm down.”

“The hell do you know ‘bout what she wants?” Daryl challenges, his voice raising enough to attract some nearby attention. He juts his shoulder out of the way when Rick tries to lay his hand on it. “We both know why you’re letting ‘er play nice.”

Rick’s eyebrows furrow, hurt at the insinuation. “Daryl…”

He turns on his heel and storms off.

Rick calls out to him a few more times, but he makes a point of ignoring him, along with the stares his outburst garnered. A quiet, reasonable voice whispers to him that he’s blowing things out of proportion. This sensible counsel is overpowered by his Dixon blood yelling otherwise. He’s always been quick to default to anger, it’s an emotion he can make the most sense of when everything’s confusing. Rage is all-consuming and familiar. It gives him an easy target to release his pent-up negative emotions.

There’s just too much for him to work through. The gnawing insecurity, that in this stable environment, you could do so much better than him and he wouldn't have the slightest clue how to stop it. He’s not a smooth talker, can’t excuse confidence in spades. Hell, he couldn’t even confess to you first, you had to come to him. Who in their right mind would want a man like that? A man like him?

His jaw feels like it could snap from how hard he’s grinding his teeth together.

When he gets back to the group’s shared residence, he slings his crossbow into place and makes for Alexandria’s gates. He’s got to get away from here before he pulls an even dumber stunt he’ll surely regret later. The lone guard stationed there looks about ready to give him a difficult time until he sees the grave expression on Daryl’s face. That’s enough for him to wordlessly grant passage to the outside world.

Daryl opts for using his knife to take out the walkers prowling past the entrance. Adrenaline pumps throughout his body as the blade breaches a skull, then another, the bodies sagging to the ground with a satisfying thump. He cleans the gore off his knife and sets out for the woods, grateful to leave the oppressive community he’ll never fully fit into behind him.

Out here, he’s in his element. Weaving in and out of paths he’s already started to memorize, hearing the coos of mourning doves and shrill chirps of cardinals. He isn’t meant to fraternize with some hoity-toity folks who still think carrying a gun around inside the walls is excessive. His previous anger simmers down into frustration with each step he takes. In his haste, he hadn’t grabbed that many arrows. He knows he shouldn’t be out here for long.

However, the alternative is just as undesirable. He’ll man up and give Rick the apology he’s owed, but there’s no doubt his stunt today hurt what you’ve been trying to build. The folks wearing their polo shirts and khakis will probably go back to staring at him like he’s some sort of bogeyman come to life. He scoffs quietly to himself at the thought, bending over to inspect some fresh-looking tracks in the dirt. A deer must’ve come through here not long ago. Snagging a catch like that would do wonders for lifting his dampened mood. It’s tangible proof that he belongs, that he isn’t some freak like his brother would have him believe.

It’s strange to care about what he’s gone his entire life ignoring. When you have a reputation like the Dixon’s did in the town he grew up in, ostracization was to be expected. He’d lost count of the times he’d have to bail Merle’s ass out of the county jail only for the process to start back up a few months down the line. They might as well have kept a parking spot with his name written on it, as often as he stopped by the place. The stares, the whispers. They followed him everywhere he went. He learned to stop caring, he didn’t really have any better alternatives.

He thinks of you — how quick you are to fit in — how wide the chasm is that separates you. It’s been a while since he’s had to grapple with these misgivings, the farm must’ve been the last time. Daryl knows it’s shameful, but he likes when he’s the one providing for you. Not so he could lord it over you, he wouldn’t dream of that. It’s more so how it justifies him being in your orbit. Solidifies his place by your side.

No one else can take it if it’s carved out in his shape.

The sun begins its lull in the sky. Shades of brilliant amber and gold trickle in through the interstices of the trees overhead, cascading like embers. Daryl mulls over what you might be doing now as he gulps down water from his canteen. Are you having dinner with Reg and Deanna? Or are you back at home, encouraging Judith to eat her veggies and trying to convince Carl there are more things to read than comics? Have you noticed his absence? Or are you too preoccupied to realize he’s gone?

His heart plummets down to his stomach.

Daryl crouches over, inspecting some flowers that have been chewed down to the stem. It’s still glistening with saliva. A deer’s doing, no doubt. This paired with the tracks he’s been following promises that he’s getting closer. Any other day, personal qualms would be the last thing on his mind when he’s about to land a deer, but you’re an apparition that won’t stop haunting him. He misses you. He sees you every day, yet it isn’t enough. He misses hearing your lame jokes that you laugh at (and he laughs at too, occasionally), the weird thoughts that occupy your pretty little head (seriously, who ponders over the origin of the phrase ‘elephant in the room’?), arguing over if Back in Black or The Dark Side of the Moon is the better album (he caught you humming Time to Judith once, trying to indoctrinate her early, no doubt).

He misses you so badly it makes him physically ache.

The crackling of foliage ahead temporarily releases him from his bitter rumination.

He fastens his crossbow into place, mindful of his every step. He makes his way through a clearing. It’s the scent he notices first, the miasma of rot. Then there’s the sound of flies buzzing and wet, vicious squelching. Ripping and tearing. Daryl knows what he’s destined to see before he even lays eyes on it. A group of voracious walkers gorge themselves upon the fallen deer, too preoccupied with devouring the viscera to notice his presence. Rigor mortis hadn’t even set in yet, he’d just barely missed his window.

It’s one of those days, he supposes.

The trek back to Alexandria is noticeably devoid of thought. He gladly welcomes the reprieve, wanting nothing more than for his head to hit the pillow so he can sleep today’s events off. Alexandria’s walls loom in front of him soon enough. He calls over to be let back in. Without delay, the gate creaks to the side, revealing the last figure he expected to be greeted with upon his return.

You.

You stand a few paces ahead, relief visible on your features when you establish eye contact. You’re wearing a yellow gingham blouse, white denim jeans, and those sneakers from what he’d consider the best day of his life. Your hair that you’ve been complaining is too long is tied up in a high ponytail, revealing that neck he longs to smother in kisses again. You’re so fucking radiant it should be illegal. Intelligent thought flies out the window, though luckily for him, you almost never run out of things to say.

“Are you alright?” Is what you decide upon, your voice sweeter than candy. He’d eat it up if he could.

He nods, his body recalling how to do basic motor functions after a sizable delay. You secure the gate behind you, muttering some gratitude to the guard Daryl scowled into submission earlier, then jog to catch up with him. He swears he could distinguish the sounds of your footsteps in his sleep. As much as he’d love to, he doesn’t look at you, choosing to fixate on the road ahead. After the events of the day, he doesn't trust himself not to pull anything stupid.

“Daryl, hello hello,” you say with a singsong lilt, “You do notice me, right? I’m not that short.”

“Tired, s’all,” he murmurs.

“Have you not been sleeping well?”

He shrugs. “Guess not.”

There’s a beat of silence. Unable to bear it, he turns toward you, immediately noting the uncharacteristic frown on your features. A deep pang resonates inside him at the sight. He knows he’s worrying you, causing extra strife you most certainly don’t deserve to deal with, but he can’t think straight. The culmination of two weeks’ worth of navigating foreign feelings he’s never experienced before is taking a toll on him. You mentioned having an ex-boyfriend to Maggie in the past — a notion he’s hardly surprised by, considering you got him of all people falling head over heels — so this must be familiar territory for you.

“When I asked if you were fine earlier, I didn’t just mean physically,” you nudge him playfully with your elbow, although your expression is serious. “Is something up?”

“Jesus, I’m fine, woman,” Daryl huffs. The tone he takes has you pursing your lips. He no longer hears your footsteps struggling to keep up, you must’ve stopped. He does too. Turning himself to face you is no easy task, yet he somehow manages. What remains of the sunset basks your features in a gentle glow. He can make out each fleck of color in your iris’, finding the distinct splash of color to be his favorite. You have every right to be annoyed with him, you should be, honestly — and still, there are no traces of irritation. That alone melts his heart.

You’re just looking at him, trying to piece together what’s brought him to this point. You never assume the worst of him, you never have. Instead, you choose to carefully comb through the information available to understand what he barely understands himself. This is one of your strengths he’s always admired.

When he once asked you why you gave others the benefit of the doubt, you compared it to his tracking process.

“There’s more going on than what’s visible at first glance, right?” You reasoned. “You have to stop, slow down. Take time to inspect things a little closer. If you don’t, you risk missing what’s truly important.”

Waves of guilt crash over him like the roaring ocean upon the shore. You’re so good — the epitome of everything worth preserving in this decaying world.

“... ‘m sorry,” Daryl swallows thickly. “Just… bad day, is all.”

Your visage softens. “Hey, it’s okay.”

He flinches. You’re far too quick to forgive.

“Nah, it ain’t. I shouldn’t take it out on ya.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” You offer, still refusing to hold Daryl’s shortcomings over his head. “I, um, actually had something I wanted to show you. It’s somewhere quiet. It’d just be us there.”

He parts his lips, ready to reinforce the fact you should be upset with him, when he sees your smile. This is the kind you’ve only ever graced him with. There’s this innate understanding in your eyes, a compassion to the curve of your lips. A look of pure love. He’s committed every facet of you he can to memory, he knows no one else is the recipient of this specific tenderness. It’s reserved solely for him.

There’s a gravitational pull around you that draws him close and refuses to let him go.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Positive.”

You hold your hand out.

He hesitates, wondering if he deserves to take it.

When he does, the way your smile grows tells him he made the right choice.

It’s him following you now. There’s a pep in your step, he can feel the excitement radiating off of you. A few Alexandrians he hasn’t bothered learning the names of yet give a wave upon spotting you, an act you gladly reciprocate. You haven’t the slightest ounce of shame about the rugged man trailing behind you. An insecure part of him that stubbornly refuses to die suggested that as you integrate into the community, you might leave him behind. Find a man that fits in here rather than sticking out like a sore thumb as he does.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The guilt returns, slithering its tendrils around his person and preparing to bite down hard. He’s been weaving falsehoods about you because of his own problems. You aren’t that type of person. He needs to get out of his own head and accept that maybe, just maybe, this’ll be his shot at happiness. The concept is so surreal that his body has been rejecting it like it were a foreign invader. He doesn’t want to fall prey to his natural tendencies anymore, he has to fight it.

He imagines it’ll be a slow and tedious process, uprooting the thorny vines he’s grown to protect himself. You’re worth the effort, reckons. You always have been.

Suburbia surrounds you on both sides. This must be another residential area of Alexandria, one that is vacant from what he can tell. You pause in front of one of the homes, nestled toward the end of the street. It’s the picture-perfect representation of the upper-middle-class ideal. A two-story high house styled like the others, with beige siding and a light gray roof. After letting him take it in for a second, you pull a set of keys from your back pocket, then grin.

“I bought us a house,” you twirl the jingling keys on your pointer finger. “My credit wasn’t the best, and we’ll probably have to do a reverse mortgage in a decade, but it’s ours.”

Daryl squints, trying to deduce how much of what you’re saying is in jest.

“I’ve been working with Deanna to get our group more settled in, since this looks permanent. We finished ironing out the details today, and, uh, yeah. We get a house all for ourselves.”

Your voice grows smaller toward the end of your sentence, almost tentative. You’re gauging him just as much as he is you.

“Ya wanna,” he takes a moment to find the right words, “Ya wanna live with me?”

You shrink into yourself. “I do. O-Only if you want to, of course! If this is weird, or, I’m uh, being too forward, then just— oof!”

You’re never given the chance to finish your sheepish ramblings, for he lifts you in the air, spinning you once then wrapping you in a tight embrace. You give him a breathless laugh and return his affection in kind. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing in the familiar scent of cocoa butter and shea. In any other circumstance, he’d shy away from such a bold display in public, but he’s too damn ecstatic to care. Let anyone who happens by watch. See for themselves that you’re his and he’d sooner keel over than let you go.

“I take it that’s a yes, then?” You hum as he carefully puts you down, treating you like you were made of glass.

“Yeah,” he reassures. He huffs in amusement at the stars that are practically glittering in your eyes. “Guess that means the others’ll know ‘bout us.”

You’re quick to fall back into your usual demeanor, now that you know he wasn’t put off. “Are you embarrassed of me, Mr. Dixon?”

He rolls his eyes at your theatrics, replying lightheartedly, “Stop.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure the others already know,” you say. “Well, some of them, at least. Women have a sixth sense for these things.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I mostly plead the fifth. Rosita and Maggie keep smirking at me though. I think we developed some sort of witch coven-level bond while out on the road.”

He lets out a ‘pfft’ at the phraseology that’s so distinctly you. He’s always loved hearing you talk, he swears you could make an instruction manual on how to set up a dresser entertaining. Aside from how unfairly pretty you are, your mannerisms are what caught his eye. You have this way of creating a comfortable atmosphere. Back at the quarry, you stubbornly worked to peel back his layers, one at a time. You somehow knew what conversations to broach and which to steer clear of. Before he knew what was happening, you became his favorite person to spend time with, and he actively sought you out; ignoring Merle’s disparaging remarks along the way.

The rest is history, as they say.

You both walk up to the porch, taking in every last detail. The spacious front yard, bushes that Daryl makes a mental note to trim later, and the little stone pathway which leads up to the steps. A soft breeze passes through, encouraging the rustle of towering tree branches. The scent of daisies and honeysuckle wafts in the cool evening air and he deeply inhales nature’s aromatic perfume. You trace the porch’s white pillar with your fingertips, seemingly entranced, disbelief written over your features.

“From a prison cell to this,” you shake your head. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”

“Nah. You ain’t.”

You point at the closed garage. “You can park your bike there, turn it into a workshop or something.”

Next, the empty garden.

“And— and we can plant carrots, peas, zucchini… maybe find a blueberry bush. Flowers too. Oh, I love hydrangeas, they can be tricky though. We should also plant a fruit tree. What about apple? Yeah, let’s do that. The kids’ll love it. Apple pie, apple cider… did you know Carl’s never had apple cider? How is that even possible?”

There’s a glossy tint to your eyes as you ramble on, so taken by the idea of a future that you don’t know what to do with yourself. He has to fight against a lump threatening to form in his throat. Daryl hugs you from behind, holding you against him as if you’d disappear like sand through his fingers should he let go. You feel so good in his arms. So right.

“We have to make this work, Daryl,” your voice is tight. “We have to. No matter what.”

This serious declaration takes him back weeks prior, to the day your fates became permanently intertwined. You’ve been pushing yourself to fulfill what you said then and now. He’s sure you’d much rather spend time with your group, your family, but you’ve been building the groundwork for a future. The very same groundwork he’s been undermining by plotting outside the walls with Rick and Carol, well-intentioned as it may be.

“I gotta tell ya something,” he murmurs, placing a chaste kiss atop your head. Your hair smells heavenly. “Has to do with earlier.”

After feeling you nod, he continues, albeit hesitantly.

“Me, Rick n’ Carol have been talking. ‘Bout Alexandria. What we should do here. They’re thinkin’ we might hafta take over, if worse comes to worst. These people… they’re weak. Don’t know a damn thing ‘bout what’s happenin’ outside them walls.”

He loosens his grip as you twist around to face him. Once again, he braces himself for heavy rebuke; a confirmation that you’ll be as upset as he imagined upon learning about this. You place both your hands on the railing behind you while looking up, your head tilting to the side.

“I already knew about that.”

Daryl knits his eyebrows together, incredulous. “You— what?”

“Not the specifics, maybe, but I got the gist of things,” you confirm. This further reinforces his belief that you’re perceptive to a freaky degree. “I mean… I get where you guys are coming from. What we’ve been through… what we’ve seen… God… I never let myself think about it for long. I can’t. I push that shit down as deep as it’ll go. Lock it up and throw away the key.”

You sigh and give him a weary smile that tugs on his heartstrings. “I’m not going to say that you’re in the wrong, because honestly, I haven’t the faintest clue. I wish I did, but I don’t. All I know is that it doesn’t hurt to try. What’s that adage Rick is so fond of…? Ah, yes, let’s ‘see what we see’. If you do, and still think they’re a lost cause, then… I’ll trust your judgment. I always have. Always will, too. There’s no one I trust more in this world than you, Daryl. Not even myself.”

You’ve stolen the air from his lungs and words from his mouth, it’s like he’s been sucker-punched. He tries and fails to string together a coherent sentence. It shouldn’t be too difficult, the assembly of vowels and consonants, yet every word in the English language slips his mind. He’s long since held the belief that you’re an angel incarnate — you might as well be, given your beauty — but thinking that way is ultimately doing you a disservice.

You’re scared, you’re confused, you’re human. Blood pumps through your heart, not ichor.

Daryl takes your pretty face into his hands, wishing he could smooth away the lines of worry. “I’ll try. Promise.”

You kiss his inner palm. “That’s all I could ask for.”

“What you said… ‘bout not trustin’ yourself…” he trails off, almost wincing at hearing the words spoken aloud again, “You should. Trust yourself, I mean. You're smart. Crafty. Made some damn good calls I never woulda thought to.”

“Are you buttering me up, Daryl?” You teasingly suggest. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me.”

He grunts. There you go with your tendency to keep things light-hearted when they get uncomfortably personal again.

“... Really, though, thank you,” the inflection of your voice reverts back to sincere in record time. You almost give him whiplash with the ease in which you shift moods. “We probably should’ve had this talk sooner, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout that. I wanted… wanted to surprise you, and I got so swept up in that, I missed what’s really important.”

Daryl feels his lips twitching into a smile at your subconscious elision — Carol once pointed out that you sometimes talk like him, and vice versa. She said you guys hang out together so often, it’s to be expected. He’s picked up your favorite idioms and rubbed off his tendency to curse on you, even if you don’t do it anywhere near as often as him. To think that two years ago, his preppy princess went from having the cleanest mouth around to dropping expletives without batting an eyelash.

“‘S fine. Still don’t think ya did anything wrong.”

“You’re a bit biased, don’t you think?”

“Mm. Maybe.”

You laugh at his candidness. “It just occurred to me that all our best conversations happen on porches. Is that why you lived out on the porch for our first few days here?”

“Nah. Had to keep ya safe,” Daryl runs the pad of his thumb over your cheekbones. “Can’t let anything happen to ya, butterfly.”

You preen at the personal touch to your infamous nickname, evidently liking it as much as he does. “I told you, I’m more of a caterpillar for the time being.”

He snorts. “Coulda fooled me.”

“Hm… a cocoon, then? Agree to disagree?”

“Ain’t calling ya a fuckin’ cocoon, woman.”

“Oh, but if it’s your voice saying it, I’ll get all hot and bothered,” you lean forward, pressing the swell of your chest against his. He swears he can feel his blood rushing south. “You could make anything sound good. Even… hm… let me think… the word foible.”

Daryl scrunches up his nose. “The hell? That’s a word?”

“Sure is. It might be the only one that hasn’t found its way into Eugene’s impressive lexicon yet.”

“You couldn’t pay me ‘nough to say that.”

“It’s a good thing the economy is in shambles then,” you wink. Then you stifle a laugh with your hand. “Huh. I really need to get better at flirting. I’m rusty… way out of practice. Mind helping me out with that, Dixon? If not, Maggie’s gonna get stuck dealing with the brunt of it.”

The look he gives has you showing your palms in surrender. “I told you! It’s witch coven level stuff between us now. I’m waiting with bated breath for someone to suggest a blood oath.”

“Don’t need no practice, all ya do is flirt with me, damn vixen.”

He pinches your cheek, content to see how they’ve filled back out after two weeks of eating regularly.

“Took you long enough to notice.”

You guide his hands to your hips and he’s more than happy to place them there. Next, you secure your arms around his neck, then start swaying side to side. Everything about you is so magnetic. God, that expression is nearly lethal. You’re gazing up at him through lidded eyes, worrying your lower lip beneath your teeth. He feels his cock twitching to life. You barely need to do a damn thing and he’s ready to fall to the ground and worship you.

Daryl has to fight off a debauched noise as you stand on your tiptoes, your tongue poking out to coat your lips in an enticing sheen. He feels your hot breath fan against his face and tightens his grip on you to keep himself steady. You pause, content to stay where you are, so close to where he wants you yet cruelly far away. You breathe in one another’s air for a few, agonizing seconds, your noses touching. Then you’re moving again. Right when he thinks he’s going to be treated to your taste, frustration boils within when you kiss the corner of his mouth instead. He could take whatever he wants from you — his immense strength speaks to that — yet there’s something so undeniably charming about letting you think you’re in control.

He figures he can play along a while longer.

“Do me a favor, sweetheart,” you whisper, the huskiness of your voice causing goosebumps to erupt all over his skin, “Grab what’s in my back left pocket.”

Curious, he does just that. His fingers come into contact with a plastic serrated edge. He knows what it is before he even pulls it out.

“This time, I can’t say I didn’t plan things in advance,” you take pride in admitting.

He frowns. “Just have these on you?”

Despite knowing it’s entirely unreasonable, he can’t suppress a sting of jealousy. He silently hopes you haven’t been carrying these things around for long. Not if you wanted to use them with someone else.

“Mhm. I had some at the farm, then the prison,” if you notice how his expression darkens, you don’t mention it. “There’s this guy who caught my eye, you see, a very handsome one. I’ve wanted him to have his way with me for ages. Couldn’t work up the courage to admit that for the life of me, though. Until very recently.”

He mentally sighs at the reassurance no one’s gotten to touch you while he was stuck silently yearning from afar. There were a few panic-inducing moments that drove him crazier than he’d ever admit, due largely in part to your friendly personality. You’re touchy-feely with those you care about. While he reaped the benefits of this, it’s a double-edged sword. You hug your friends, fall asleep on their shoulder, and dote over them at every chance. He once mistakenly snapped one of his arrows in half when he saw you run and jump to embrace Rick.

Daryl knew it was wrong to feel possessive over a grown woman who he wasn’t in a romantic relationship with, yet his heart refused to listen to his brain. People were drawn in by your wit and charm, there wasn’t much to do about it. It wasn’t like he could station himself by your side every waking hour to scare off any asshole who thought they had a shot at you.

… He has considered the idea, though.

“That right?” He asks, maintaining eye contact while his hands go to give your ass a squeeze. He’s never felt the most confident when it came to flirting, yet you make him feel wanted, like you’re into him as much as he’s into you.

“Right as rain,” you give him those doe eyes that make him weak in the knees. “It made me have to settle for the next best thing.”

Daryl’s entirely under your spell and he wouldn’t want it any other way. “What’d that be, princess?”

He bites back a knowing smirk at the way you shiver, your eyes glazing over with lust. Learning your little thing for hearing him call you princess was a piece of knowledge he fully intended on making good use of.

“My hands,” you murmur. He knew what you were implying, but hearing you say it out loud almost makes him lose his fucking mind. “I’d think about how strong he was, how good he’d make me feel. I was always scheming, y’know. Wearing short shorts, low cut shirts. Think it may have caught his attention?”

Oh, so that’s how it was, huh? He’d always get caught between feeling grateful for seeing so much of you and possessive when he realized everyone else got the same privilege. A few men and women back at the prison let their eyes linger far longer than he would’ve preferred. He’d spend balmy nights tucked away on his lonesome, wrestling his belt and pants down so he could relieve himself to the thought of you. Guilt would rear its head when he saw you the next day, running over to excitedly greet him, oblivious to how he objectified you in his mind hours prior.

It comes as a mild relief to know that was what you intended.

“Don’t needta think. Know for a fact it did.”

You pout, upping his urge to kiss you by a hundred percent. “Are you sure? He hasn’t tried to touch me lately. It’s starting to hurt my feelings.”

“Hard to touch a woman who ain’t there,” Daryl huffs, indignant.

“Well, I’m here now,” you reassure. “Maybe you should make the best of it, hm?”

You don’t need to tell him twice.

He snatches the keys and wastes no time unlocking the front door, motioning for you to go in first. He enters immediately after. The lock is redone in anticipation of what’ll come next, you’ll both be needing your privacy. Daryl loves your little group, would die for them in a heartbeat, but he’s been waiting what feels like eons to get you alone again. He’s surprised with the amount of self-control he’s exercising, the urge to rip your clothes off and take you against the closest available surface is overwhelming. You bring out this animalistic side to him he never knew existed.

You start making your way upstairs after leaving your shoes by the door. From this angle, he’s treated to a lovely angle of your hips and shapely ass. His nerves are set aflame by the mere thought of seeing you bare again. He damn near sprints to catch up with you, not caring to hide his desperation in the slightest. He scoops you up bridal style along the way — he really might have a thing for manhandling you, although he’s never rough — the ease in which he can maneuver your body just feels right. Satisfies what little ego he has when it comes to romantic endeavors.

“I never have to use my legs when you’re around,” you giggle.

“That’s the goal.”

In more ways than one, he hopes.

Daryl brings you into the first bedroom he sees. You’re gently laid down atop the plush comforter, while he gets to work ridding himself of his clothes. The condom from earlier is placed on the bed’s edge. He pulls his angel wing vest over his head, kicks off his boots, then his jeans. The weight of your gaze on him is tangible, you look at him as if he were a piece of art. He’s unsure if he should feel embarrassed or prideful by your unabashed staring. A blush dusts his cheeks when he catches you rubbing your thighs together, causing him to lean toward the former.

He freezes when he gets to his black button-up shirt. The last time you were intimate, it was dark enough that he didn’t feel entirely exposed. As much as he loves seeing you painted in warm hues of orange and red, that means he’ll be fully visible too. Every inch of his body and its testament to a life of hardships. You’d seen the scars on his back when tending to his injuries back on the farm, yet you didn’t dare to make a comment. The way he flinched and shrunk away told you everything you needed to know.

Sensing his hesitation, you stand to your feet and approach him. Your fingers settle on the top button, though you make no movement past that. He can practically hear the cogs turning in your head.

“If you don’t want—”

“I do,” he cuts you off, knowing what you intend to say. “I trust ya. Just…”

“Just…?”

He shrugs, the tips of his ears burning. “Want ya to like what ya see.”

“Oh, darling,” you croon, the unexpected pet name makes his blush infinitely stronger, “Maggie used to call me out for drooling over you when you wore those sleeveless shirts. Made me wish I had a pair of opera glasses. You’re handsome. Unbelievably so.”

He doesn’t know what to say, caught in a swirl of embarrassment and delight over the praise you wholeheartedly offer.

You undo the first button, then stop, looking up to check with him again. When he nods, you keep going, revealing the skin that closely hugs his defined muscles. You don’t recoil in disgust or give him pity-filled glances when spotting his scars, instead, you look mesmerized. He can hear your breathing pick up and see the way your pupils dilate.

Daryl thought he was too old to get butterflies in his stomach, but there’s nothing you’re better at than revealing parts of himself he didn’t know existed.

You smooth your palms over his pecs. “I really am going to start drooling.”

He huffs and shrugs off his shirt, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. “Lay your ass back down, girl.”

You give a dorky double thumbs up and do just that.

He joins you not long after, both his arms caging you against the bed.

Daryl nods toward your still-clothed body and quirks his head to the side.

“What? You don’t wanna be the one to undress me? I’m sure you’ve thought about it.” You provoke. His hands almost start trembling from the sheer excitement the prospect stirs up in him. You’re such a coquettish little thing, playing dirty whenever you’re presented with the choice. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it, though. You know how to rile him up.

“Once or twice,” he replies, nimble fingers finding the hem of your shirt and lifting. You raise an eyebrow, challenging his purposefully low estimation. He gives a throaty chuckle, soothing your ire by kissing you on the forehead. “A day.”

You look pleased with the revelation. “There. Much better.”

He greedily takes in every inch of skin that’s revealed to him as he lifts your shirt. Heaven itself couldn’t compare to the beauty that is your body, he almost forgets how to breathe when he sees the start of your chest. His heartbeat rises in a crescendo as he slowly pulls the fabric upward. Finally, he gets an unobstructed view of your tits, wrapped up nice and pretty in a black bra. He wets his lips and bites back a groan. His large, calloused hands immediately set to work on kneading the supple flesh. There’s nothing he loves the feel of more.

“Ya really did plan this,” Daryl has to stop himself from rutting against the bed like an animal, the desperation you instill in him is unreal. “Wanted to drive me fuckin’ crazy, huh?”

“Maybe a little.”

He pinches your nipples then, earning a gasp so lovely from you that a guttural growl leaves his throat. He’s just as obsessed with your voice as you are with his. There’s a sweetness to it that tickles his ears just right. Whether you’re laughing, moaning, or simply saying his name in that way only you can, there’s this lilt that has him hooked. Nicotine be damned, you’re an addiction that surpasses all else.

His fingers make their way to your back, undoing the clasp of your bra. “A little, hm?”

You nod after a moment’s hesitation.

“Ya never were a good liar,” Daryl muses. He’s always found this positively adorable about you. Once he taught you the rules of poker and you joined in on some game nights, it became clear that wasn’t your area of expertise. You’d squirm in your seat, glare or beam at your cards, your intentions practically announced for the whole world by your transparent body language. He’d lost count of the number of times he had to bite back a smile when watching you.

He wraps his mouth around your nipple, alternating between suckling and licking it with his tongue. If given the chance, he’d sit here and do this for ages.

“Is that— mm— a bad thing?”

He pulls back from his important task long enough to reply, “Nah. Love that ‘bout ya.”

While he contents himself by playing with your tits, you grow adorably impatient, wriggling in an attempt to get some friction where you want it most. He grabs your hips and holds you still to stop your indulgence, eliciting an irritated huff from you. He hadn’t anticipated this brattier side of you, but there’s something about it that gets him going. Electricity crackles between you, filling the atmosphere with thick tension.

“There somethin’ you want, girl?” He teases, attention flittering between the coat of his saliva on your chest and the depraved curve of your countenance. He can feel precum leaking from his tip when you try to grind on him again, your frustration fucking delicious.

Your eyes widen when he pulls away, much to his amusement. “Asked ya a question, butterfly. You best be answerin’ it.”

“What do you think I want, Daryl?” The little whine you accentuate your words with works wonders on him.

He shrugs, playing ignorant. “Dunno. A nap, maybe. Ya act all pissy if ya don’t get your eight hours.”

“I told you, my beauty sleep is important,” you huff, directing a halfhearted glare his way. He exhales sharply, betraying his bemusement. You’re about as intimidating as a bunny rabbit to him. “Admittedly, while the prospect of a nap is tempting, I’d rather you fuck me until my brain is scrambled.”

This vulgar side of you is a damn treat he’ll never tire of devouring.

“That so, princess?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Take them pants off then.”

You oblige without protest. You hook your thumb on the waistband, maintaining smoldering eye contact as you drag it down oh so slowly. He palms at his hardened length while you put on your little show, the throb of his cock close to constant. His eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets when he spots your panties. They’re the same shade of black as your bra, the fabric next to scant, hugging your curves tightly. He can see the outline of your folds against it, your wetness seeping through. His tongue slips out to moisten his lips when he remembers how amazing you tasted. He’s brought back to the blissful experience, the softness of your thighs around his face, how you wriggled and squirmed so delightfully for him…

“My eyes are up here, Mister,” you hum. Normally, he’d have a clever remark ready to match you, but he’s completely at a loss. You’ve rendered him speechless.

You were wearing this all day, just for his viewing pleasure?

Maybe there is a God after all — some higher power has got to be smiling down on him. You could make a zealot out of the most impious man.

By the time he manages to break from his reverie, your pants have been tossed aside. It’s you who approaches first, crawling over to where he sits still as a statue, looking up at him through your eyelashes. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, completely and utterly smitten by you. Your breath hitches in your throat when you notice the prominent outline of his cock against his boxers. If that visceral reaction does something for his ego, he’ll never admit it.

You settle onto his lap like it’s where you belong most — he’d argue until he was blue that it is — both of you releasing a content noise at finally having contact where you want it most. Your lips are on his in a feverish kiss. His hands start at the dimples on your back, then move down, cupping your ass and encouraging you to grind against him. You use his shoulders as leverage to better control your movements. He groans when your fingernails dig into his flesh, and you take the opportunity to sneak your tongue into his mouth, getting drunk on the taste of one another. Today, you taste like lemonade. The tart flavor is best when sampled from you.

His mouth smothers your whimpers and soft moans of his name. When you pull back, he’s initially disappointed, until he realizes this grants him the perfect view of each twist of your face. You appear hazy with pleasure, your bare chest heaving and glossy lips parted. There’s a telltale tensing in your thighs that catches him off guard.

“You gettin’ off on this?” Daryl asks, his voice heady with lust. “Grindin’ on me, making all them sweet lil noises?”

“Yes,” you whimper, your shame long forgotten. Not that you ever have much when it comes to him.

This is better than anything he’d concocted in his wildest fantasies. You wanting him as much as he wants you, chasing after your high without reservation. He faithfully does his part to help you along. He follows the rhythm you set, his eyes never leaving your face, deriving unmatched satisfaction from knowing he’s the reason you’re like this. It’s him who knows how to fire you up and cool you down, him who you’re humping against like depravity is your natural element.

You’re gripping him tighter, nails digging deep. He savors the slight ache, intending to wear your marks like a badge of honor.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice raspy. “C’mon. Show me how good ya feel. Wanna see it.”

You’re nothing if not obedient, once in a blue moon.

You come undone, throwing your head back, your eyes squeezed shut as you savor your release. He fixates upon the muscles of your neck, on display like a canvas ready to receive his designs. His lips hover over your racing pulse, the stubble of his beard against your skin prompting a fit of giggles. He mouths at your skin, humming low in appreciation at the saltiness coating it. You sure do get yourself all worked up over him. Knowing that does things for him, stokes the flames of an already raging fire.

“God, I’m obsessed with you, Daryl Dixon,” you confess, moving your head aside so he can have better access to your neck. “You’re all I think about. We’re just— we were made for one another, weren’t we? You’re my best friend, my — I don’t know — does boyfriend sound kinda silly at this point, or is it just me?”

Love blooms in his chest, temporarily overpowering his lust. Or perhaps the two are mixing to form an entirely new color. “I’ll be whatever ya like, so long as I get to see that again.”

“Even my…?” You cut yourself off, and he pulls back, finding himself unable to read your countenance. That’s an exceedingly rare occurrence.

“Your…?” He prompts, the both of you whispering like you’re exchanging precious secrets.

“No, it’s—” you suck in a deep breath and shake your head. “Ahem. Too soon for that.”

You try to distract him by pawing at his waistband. It is a clever move on your part, but he musters up the willpower to stop thinking with his dick for a few seconds.

“Nah. Ya ain’t doin’ that. Finish the damn sentence, woman.”

This is a rabbit hole he wants to explore. His intuition offers a suggestion that’d fill in the blank, yet he shrugs it off, scoffing internally. There’s no way you possibly meant that, his brain just isn’t working properly. No, a pretty thing like you couldn’t possibly want to marry an asshole redneck like him—

“Marriage is off the table until we at least go on one date. Your treat. I’m ordering appetizers and a dessert, too.”

Only you would essentially propose to him while throwing in a joke for good measure. Yeah, that’s the love of his life alright. A hot mess. Heavy emphasis on hot. Somewhat lighter emphasis on mess.

“... Orgasm felt that good, huh?”

You swat at his chest. “Shut up, I’m sleep deprived and not thinking clearly.”

Daryl notices that you’re looking everywhere but at his face, embarrassment prominent. He props himself up some so that you’re able to pull his boxers off, his dick springing out of its restraints. There are about a million things he wants to say to you, some teasing, some entirely genuine, but when you wrap your soft hands around the base of his cock, he blanks. He pants your name as you start pumping him. Pearls of cum are quick to coat his length, making the process even easier for you.

You bend forward, your tongue licking up everything that oozes from his flushed tip. Then your mouth starts taking him in. The warm wetness feels divine and he keens. The noise surprises you both, encouraging you to keep going. You hollow out your cheeks, then start sucking, all the while jerking off what isn’t in your mouth yet. Caving into instinct, his hands fly to either side of your head. He helps ease you up and down his length.

Daryl wonders if he’s dreaming — he doesn’t want to pinch himself to find out, just in case that’d wake him up.

The fact a girl as stunning as you is sucking his dick with unbridled enthusiasm simply doesn’t compute. His peak is growing more and more imminent. The tightness of your mouth, how you’re moaning against him like you’re the one being pleasured; it’s too much in the best of ways. He was already worked up to a frenzy after witnessing you come from grinding on him.

Briefly, he entertains the thought of what it’d be like if he released his load in your mouth. He’d make sure you swallowed every last drop. Knowing you, however, you’d probably do so without his prompting, swallowing while looking him straight in the eye. You know what you do to him. That you have him wrapped around your pretty little finger. You know it and love it, maybe almost as much as he does.

Daryl utilizes every last ounce of self-control in his body and pulls you off his weeping cock.

A trail of saliva connects your lips to his tip, a sight he intends to burn into his memory forever.

“Hey, I was enjoying myself,” you complain with an exaggerated sigh.

“Me too.”

He reaches over to grab the condom from earlier. Ripping into it with his teeth, he rolls the plastic over his sensitive cock. Once it’s on, his hands go to your shoulder, gently pushing so that you’ll lay down for him. You pique his interest by shaking your head. You must have plans of your own, for you reclaim your spot on his lap. He’s plenty content to accommodate this apparent desire of yours and leans back.

You line him up with one hand and tenderly cup his cheek with the other.

Slowly, you sink down onto him, lulling your head back while you do so. He helps hold your hips in place so you can adjust to him at your pace. Instinct begs him to rut up into your accommodating warmth, but he values your comfort more than his own carnality. Your eyelashes flutter shut whereas he keeps himself trained on you. When you’re halfway down, he kisses your inner wrist, grateful for the pulse beneath your skin.

“You’re takin’ me in well,” he praises. If there were ever a man capable of penning hymns dedicated to you, it’d be him. “Just like that. Nice n’ easy.”

A high-pitched whine leaves your lips when he’s fully inside you.

“That’s it, good girl.”

You reopen your eyes, granting him the sight of what’s become his favorite color ever since he met you.

“You’re spoiling me with all these compliments.”

Your hands run over his jaw, then the tensing tendons of his neck, finally settling on his sun-kissed shoulders.

“Ya deserve it,” Daryl murmurs. “Beautiful woman.”

Dizzying pleasure thrums throughout him when your walls clench, his words hitting your sweet spot. Sweat coats both your bodies in a light sheen. You rotate your hips, allowing him to stretch you out, the slight friction far from enough yet tantalizing nonetheless. Finally, after what feels like an excruciating wait, you lift yourself off him and come back down. The decadent pleasure builds and builds with each repeat of the motion. He’s close, painfully so, but letting you take what you want from him is given top priority. The sinful sounds pouring from your lips with increasing urgency hint that you might not last long either.

Calloused fingers work to rub messy circles against your clit. This added layer of stimulation has you moaning incoherently near his ear, half-legible sentiments tumbling out.

“Feels so good,” you whimper, almost delirious. “I wanna be yours. Please.”

You’re growing increasingly erratic as your second high looms on the horizon. The telltale tensing of your muscles has him picking up momentum. One hand guides you up and down his cock, the other pleasuring you where you need it most. Your declaration envelops him, making him feel impossibly warmer. How you vacillate between uttering the naughtiest and sweetest things is a mystery to him he won’t bother solving. All he knows is that his adoration for you won’t ever stop growing, no; this is where a new chapter of it begins.

“You are. Always ‘ave been.”

Daryl knew it couldn’t have just been his imagination, the once-in-a-lifetime connection that formed soon after your paths crossed. It strung you both together. Whenever one wandered too far from the other, the rope would go taut, forcing you to stumble back where you belonged.

Your walls tighten around him and you snap, back arching, pressing those perfect tits against his chest.

He grunts at the sensation of you coming on his cock, thrusting upward to meet your stuttering hips. He loses himself in the aroma of sex and you. You go partially limp when you’ve come down from your high, which allows him to maneuver your body with greater ease. The release he denied himself minutes prior threatens to consume him once again. How could it not, when he got to witness your blissed-out face, hear the sounds of your gratification?

Daryl’s hands latch into the soft flesh of your waist hard. He slams into you a few more times, the sound of skin slapping skin reverberating throughout the room. His cum spurts out into the condom’s plastic confines, filling you with his warmth. He faintly registers that you’re lavishing his neck in sloppy kisses as he basks in his high.

Both your chests heave as you pant, greedily taking in the air you willingly deprived yourselves of during the act.

Your shaky fingers comb through the mess that is his bangs. Daryl lets you do as you please, too busy admiring every inch of your face to care about anything else. You press a chaste kiss against his forehead, then his nose, and finally, his awaiting lips. He chases after yours when you pull away, an action that makes you laugh. He huffs at the return of your brattiness. When he sees how wide you’re smiling, however, it becomes difficult for him to maintain his disgruntled facade. Your joy is contagious.

“Plannin’ on stayin’ there all night?” He nods at the junction where your bodies remain connected. His cock has gone soft and you’ve made no sign of getting off him yet, not that he’s complaining. He knows you’re real fussy about cleanliness (a concept that eludes his understanding, since it’s the damn apocalypse), so he’s pleasantly surprised you haven’t run off to wipe yourself down.

“Would you be opposed if I said yes?”

“‘Course not.”

However much you’d both love to live in this little slice of reality, you know it isn’t meant to last. People will come looking if you’re both gone too long. He sighs when you climb off him, already missing the feeling of being inside you. You both get to work on making yourselves presentable, you more so than him. You smooth out the wrinkles in your clothes and fight with your hair while he perches himself on the side of the bed, lost in thought.

“Did ya mean it?” Daryl breaks the silence.

“Hm?” You glance over your shoulder, blinking rapidly. “Mean what?”

He fights the urge to roll his eyes at you for acting innocent; you’re too smart to not know what he’s talking about.

Although, when he struggles to get the two-syllable word out himself, he can sympathize with your efforts.

“... Marriage,” he drawls, heat flooding across his face. He feels better when he sees you’re similarly embarrassed. You pad quietly against the hardwood floor (he’s always marveled over how silent your footsteps are, perfect for joining him on hunts), and sit beside him. Your arms come to wrap around his bicep. Taking a deep breath, you rest your head on his shoulder, as you’ve done multiple times prior. On the road especially.

He pulls you in closer and lays his head against yours.

“It kinda feels like we already are,” you admit. He can hear the fond smile in your voice. “You’re my home. The person I depend on most, someone I can’t do without.”

Your grip on him tightens. “However much life ahead of me I have… I want to spend it with you. If that’s alright.”

Daryl feels so light he thinks he might be floating.

There’s an underlying melancholy — the uncertainty which comes as a consequence to the world you now inhabit — yet you never let that stay the focus. You always find ways to plant seeds of tentative hope in what appears to be corrupt soil. Maybe it’s for the reason you said earlier, that you can’t let yourself dwell on the bad in fear of what it’d reduce you to, but he can’t bring himself to mind should that be the case.

What matters is that you shine bright to illuminate him when he thinks darkness is all he’ll ever know.

“‘If that’s alright’?” He repeats, incredulous. “I ain’t ever lettin’ ya go, butterfly.”

You relax, knowing Daryl’s nothing if not a man of his word.

“You’d really wanna be my husband?”

He looks at you like you have three heads. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ why the hell you wanna be my wife?”

“Because I have good taste. Also, I’m secretly aiming for your assets. We’re not getting a prenup just for that reason alone.”

Daryl snorts and shakes his head. Assets, this woman says. As if he had any in this world or the last.

“Fine by me,” he kisses your temple. “You know I’d give ya anything ya asked for.”

“... Even your crossbow?”

“Last I recall, ya could only hold it for ‘bout ten minutes ‘fore complainin’ your ‘muscles were shriveling up.’”

“You make it look so easy!” You complain, lightly hitting him on the chest. He smirks at the roundabout compliment. Your fingers linger, splaying out and making their way over to where his heart steadily beats. “Hm… can I have this, then?”

“Already do.”

He’s certain you’re well aware of the fact. After all, you are his freakishly perceptive woman.

Regardless, no matter how many times you may ask, he’ll gladly remind you, each and every time.

Ah, the things you do for the ones you love.

“We should probably head back to HQ before Rick sends a search party out for us, huh?”

Daryl’s muscles go taut at the mention of Rick. You wriggle free from beneath his arm so you can examine his face, inquisitive as ever.

“Didn’t part on the best terms with ‘im,” Daryl reveals. He takes another moment to collect his thoughts. “Kinda what started this whole thing today. Saw that Monroe kid touchin’ ya, it got me all riled up. Was aboutta make a scene til Rick stepped in. He said… said ya wouldn’t ‘ave wanted that. Thought ‘bout how he was letting ya cozy up to the folks ‘ere, knowin’ full well he planned on usin’ it to his advantage. I dunno. Made me see red.”

Your eyes hold an indescribable softness for him. “Thank you.”

“For what? Makin’ an ass of myself?” He scoffs.

“Always having my best interest in mind,” your way of wording things always sounds better. “It’s okay, though. Like I said earlier, I get why Rick’s doing what he’s doing, even if I don’t fully agree. Ultimately, we’re all on the same team.”

Daryl shakes his head. “... You’re too forgivin’, butterfly.”

You shrug. “Hafta be with family. Holding onto things never does any good in the long run. Which is why I’m sure it’ll be fine, once you talk with him.”

He doubts he’ll have a lengthy heart-to-heart like whatever you’re envisioning, but he keeps the thought to himself.

“Let’s get going, okay?” You stand and start pulling on his hands. He gets up with some reluctance, not entirely willing to leave this little world where just you and him exist. “Carol made this delicious lemonade, it’s to die for. Metaphorically.”

He gives a crooked grin. “Yeah, I know.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

Daryl tugs you back to him in a mess of surprised exclamations and tumbling limbs. He secures you on his lap, fully intending to savor you a little while longer. It doesn’t take you long to relax. Not when he’s the one touching you.

“Ya already gave me a taste.”

#i'm totally normal about him i swear #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #reader insert #not sfw #my stuff

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