Summary: After five years, you spend the summer at your dad’s best friend, Beau's, cabin. After something happens in the forest, the two of you realize there’s more tension than you thought, and one of you has to act on it.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, age-gap, dbf!beau arlen smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (m! receiving), gagging, making out, drunk sex, lots of praise + dirty talk, sexual tension, teasing, angst, making beau arlen hard with your foot (don't ask), mentions of death and alcohol, reader is 21+, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert.
wc: 9.6k | : i feel like i owe it to the beau arlen fans who made my fic viral on tiktok... almost 10k words for u freaks. enjoy <3
The trees hang high above, an arch over the long dirt driveway, a never-ending trail leading to the small cabin secluded in the woods, backing onto a beautiful lake.
You remember the year before you went off to college; running around the backyard, laughing, holding sparklers, your family around you. It hasn’t been the same since your mom passed away–most summers you spent tucked away in your room, reading and writing, distancing yourself from everyone around you; your dad’s biggest heartbreak of them all.
You’re sitting in his truck, his tires chugging along the gravel, and he turns to look at you. Your head is against the window, staring out the glass, watching the familiar mailboxes pass by, and you know it won't be the same this year, even though Beau promised you over the phone it would be.
“Honey, you can’t sulk the entire time,” your dad mumbles to you, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over to pat your knee. “Actin’ like this is only goin’ to make it worse, you know that,” he drawls, and you sigh, rolling your eyes.
“You really expect this to be the same? Without mom?” you shoot, glaring at him, and he clenches his jaw.
“No, I don’t,” he shakes his head, huffing out a breath. “But I also know she wouldn’t want you actin’ like this either,” he tells you, looking at you from the corner of his eye, and you know it’s true.
Full of life she was, a smile bright enough to cast away rainy days, and a voice loud enough to send you into your room crying–a complicated relationship you had with her. Two personalities that clashed, and you still found yourself mourning her, every single damn day of your life, even when there were days you were face down in your pillow, wondering why she treated you that way. You swallow the grief when your dad parks the car.
You look up from your lap, not even realizing that a few tears have run down your cheek, and you immediately wipe them away, hiding the evidence. You step out of the truck, slinging a backpack over your shoulder, and there he wanders out of his cabin, an unmistakable smile curled at his cheeks: Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend.
“Took you long enough,” Beau immediately jokes, his boots crunching on the gravel, and he looks at you, his retired Sheriff instincts immediately picking up on the mood shift, the way you look away when he tries to make eye contact.
“Yeah… yeah, we forgot your place is in tha’ middle of nowhere,” your dad jokes back, walking around to the truck bed, pulling out the few duffel bags for your three-week-long vacation.
“Better than the city, huh,” Beau quips, and you’re awkwardly standing there as he approaches you. You look down at your sneakers, swallowing hard as he steps into your shadow.
“Kid,” he mumbles quietly to you, already knowing the impact your mother’s death had on you. “Can show ya’ your room, finally get one to yourself this year,” he tells you, tilting his head to the side.
You were used to most vacations: having to share with your cousins or Beau’s relatives, squished in a shitty twin bed, resorting to the couch in the living room, where Beau would wake you up earlier than you wanted to. It was nice having the place to yourself, but the weight of your mother is what holds you down.
“Okay,” you breathe out and look up at him; he’s already staring down at you; those green eyes, his hair a little longer than when you last saw him, his beard needing a little maintenance, but he’s smiling, and you crack the tiniest one. You somehow manage.
“I got her,” Beau calls to your dad, and it’s a relief for him. Dealing with you and the grief has been a burden that he carries too.
Beau carefully takes your bag from you, removing only the physical weight from your shoulders, and leads you into the wood cabin. It’s tinier than you remember; a small kitchenette, an even smaller living room, and three bedrooms, a bathroom, and the longest damn dock you’ve seen in your life.
“Here, darlin’,” he mumbles, stopping in front of the large door and swiftly opening it. “All yours this year,” he grins, and you step inside–yep, still smells like musk and a signature Beau scent you only ever smell when he gives you his jacket around the campfires.
“A lot bigger when I’m not sharing it with three other people,” you joke, and he’s smiling, placing your bags on the bed. “Thanks, Beau,” you say, and turn around to see him loitering by the doorway now.
“Ain’t a problem,” he shakes his head, scratching his jawline. “Can even take my room if it’s not big enough for ya’,” he teases, knowing the bed is big enough for you.
“It’s okay… I’m okay,” you reassure, and he sighs, seeing a completely different girl than when he last saw you.
“Okay, sweetheart,” he mumbles, and he knows to leave you alone, even if you don’t want to be alone, not at all.
Beau disappears from the doorway, and you wander over to the temporary dresser, carefully putting your clothes for the trip: your bathing suit, you’re sure you won’t wear, and other articles you mindlessly put away, knowing your head was elsewhere. You sigh and look out of the window.
You see Beau with your dad in the driveway, the two of them smiling, bags slung over their shoulders, and your jaw clenches. You wonder how both of them are so unaffected by your mother’s death. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath; that’s what your therapist started to tell you to do, and you’re pretty sure it's the dumbest thing you’ve been told. You wish a deep breath took away the grief, but it only smothered you.
Two knocks on the door snap your head back, and Beau stands there, rubbing his jaw, and gestures behind you when you look.
“C’mon, kid, rowboat ride?” he asks, and your lips part at the offer–you just got there, and all you want to do is curl up in the bed, and drown in the sheets, and close your eyes. You nod.
You shut the drawer and pass by Beau at the door, and he lightly pats your back as you stand in front of him. You remember the cabin like the back of your hand, and you find your way to the back door, and he’s watching you carefully; your hair cut differently, the way you carry yourself differently, everything different, and he squeezes his hands into fists.
The two of you head down to the shoreline where the old boat sits, and you smile at just the sight of it. Some of your fondest memories were on that old thing. You remember drifting out accidentally with your cousin, screaming and crying for help, just for Beau to come on another one and scold the living daylights out of both of you. You were just sixteen.
“You remember this thing?” Beau asks, watching your eyes graze over it. “Taught you how to steer, damn disaster,” he tells you, and you laugh, remembering that moment too.
“Yeah, I remember that,” you nod, sucking in a breath, and he smiles.
“You kept thinkin’ the thing was gonna flip, and I was tellin’ you it wouldn’t. Started cryin’, beggin’ me to take you back to shore,” he reminisces, and you’re smiling for the first time in a minute. “Took you to the lil’ island over there, and you said it was the best thing ever.”
“It was,” you nod, looking over at him. “Tons of those… really cute birds,” you vividly remember; you were with those things, always whining, wanting to see them again, and Beau gave every time.
“Birdie,” he says softly, and your cheeks grow warm. “Called you that for the rest of the trip, and you kept complainin’ about it,” he tells you, and you nod, remembering that, too.
“Thought it sounded so silly.” You raise your eyebrows, still thinking it does.
“You still think so, birdie?” Beau teases, and you shoot him a fake glare, and you see his tongue just behind his teeth. He sighs, gesturing to the boat.
You silently follow the order and head towards the wooden boat, awkwardly balancing when you step inside, and he watches, bending slowly to push you into the cold water. He follows behind, jumping in just as it begins to float. You laugh at the way it sways, and he sits directly across from you.
“Bringin’ you back?” Beau asks, his strong arms reaching for the paddles.
“Kinda,” you shrug, and he’s doing all the work, giving firm pushes to send you both out into the centre of the vast lake.
He grunts quietly with each push, and you look up at him; his head turned, looking behind him as you two leave shore, and his hair is blowing in the wind slightly, his jawline sharp, and you suddenly become aware of the way your knees are touching; his denim jeans against your bare legs, and you shift.
Beau sighs when the two of you are finally out in the open, but deep into the lake. He adjusts the plaid shirt over a white one, pats his thighs, and looks at you.
“Tell me, sweetheart, what’cha been up to,” he asks, tipping his head forward as he briefly adjusts his shaggy hair, pushing it back. He looks back at you, and he grins.
“Nothing, just… I don’t know, reading,” you shake your head, knowing just how boring your life had been lately. It was embarrassing, and you didn’t want to tell him how you spent your days.
“Readin’ is great,” Beau praises, nodding as he wets his lips. “Keeps you smart,” he quips, and you grin, enjoying the way he always seemed to make everything better, even if it came out all wrong and sad.
“Yeah,” you mumble, looking down into your lap, and he follows your gaze, lightly nudging your knee with his, and you look back up at him.
“You holdin’ up?” he shifts the conversation, and you hold your breath.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, not wanting to unpack the effects of your mother’s death right now, on a boat, in the middle of a lake.
“You always been an honest girl,” you drawls out, almost like he’s saying that you aren’t being one right now. He’d be right.
“I am being honest, Beau,” you shoot back, and he ticks his jaw, seeing that attitude you never had slipping out, and he has the urge to patch every hole it seeps from.
“I believe ya’, darlin’,” Beau nods, running his tongue along his teeth as he looks around the lake, squinting. “Jus’ don’t want you hidin’ stuff from me.”
“I don’t,” you say flatly, sighing heavily as you look past him and at the shore.
“Ain’t say you were,” he counters, and that shuts you up–not the words, but the look in his green eyes, and you curl into yourself, shifting on the wooden boat.
A silence settles between you, just the distant sound of birds when they pass over the water, and a gloomy sky settling above the two of you–most days were like this at the cabin; rainy and cloudy. You swallow hard.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble in defeat, and he blinks, dismissing your apologies with a hand.
“Get outta here, kid,” Beau laughs, and you look at him, confused. “Don’t have to apologize for nothin’, I wasn’t tryin’ to make you feel bad,” he tells you, and you bite your lip.
“I know, but I still do,” you tell him, slumping forward a little, and he follows the gesture, leaning forward too, resting his elbows on his thighs.
He taps his fingers against your bare knees in front of him, looking up at you, and you feel goosebumps prickling on your skin, and he can, too.
“No apologies startin’ now, okay?” Beau tells you, his palm settling fully over your bare knee as he rubs a bruise. “Don’t wanna hear a lick of nothin’ from you,” he grins, and you do too.
“Okay,” you nod, and he pats your knee, leaning back away from you and reaching for the paddles. “I won’t say anything.”
He sighs. “Can tell it’s gonna rain in jus’ a few seconds,” he shakes his head. “Busllhit weather this year,” he grumbles out, but you can still feel the warmth he left behind, and you press your knee around his. He barely notices.
You watch as he carefully rows the two of you back to the shore, and you feel the drizzle picking up. You tilt your head back, looking up at the sky. The dark clouds hang heavy, and he’s going as fast as he can, and you can’t help but giggle a little. It’s the first time that sound has left your mouth in months, and he’s grinning, but he’s also scrunching his face when the rain comes down heavier.
You laugh louder and lift your hands when it suddenly pours, and Beau is cursing to himself, laughing too, and his hair is getting damp, and his shirt is sticking to him, and you hate that’s what you notice right now.
The minute the boat hits the dock, he’s scrambling out and grabbing your hand to help you off, but he does something that immediately makes you scream when you’re on land: he lifts you just a bit, keeping your feet off the ground. You’re laughing louder now, and he has you in his big arms, strong and all muscle.
Beau’s moving quickly along the wet grass, and you’re practically screaming, the both of you getting soaked in the rain. He’s purposely holding off going inside, letting your hair get completely wet, your clothes soaked through–he’s always been like this, and you’re realizing how much you missed it, missed him.
He still has you in his arms as he steps into the cabin, and he’s dragging you to your bedroom. You’re still laughing louder than ever, squirming in his strong arms, and you have no idea where your dad is right now. He’d cuss out Beau and throw him out of his own place if he saw what it looked like.
He tosses you onto your own bed, right onto your back, and you squeal, knowing just how wet your sheets and blankets are about to be. He doesn’t stop there; he nudges his way through your legs, and you’re suddenly growing warm, and he reaches down, cold hands reaching out to tickle at your waist. He used to do this when you were smaller, but something has shifted now, and you can tell he notices, too.
Your head tips back as you groan out, your wet body withering against the blankets, and Beau is leaning over you, drenched himself, and the droplets from his longer hair drip onto you. You’re laughing still, but it’s strained as he grabs at your waist and hips.
“Jesus, you’re still ticklish, sweetheart,” he jokes, but when he looks up, he immediately has to clear his throat; your eyes closed, lips parted, neck back. He reaches down and grabs at your bare thigh, stopping you from moving around.
“Beau, come on,” you shake your head, your mouth hanging open as you writher around. “I can’t take it,” you whine, gasping for air, the laughs still trying to escape you as he tickles your body.
He has to take a step back when he hears that, his mind reeling; you whining his name, saying you can’t take it. It’s suddenly not just tickling, and he knows that; he knew that the minute something in his body told him to grab at your thigh.
You sit up when he finally stops, your hair drenched, your shirt too, sticking to your body in ways that make his eyes trail down, and you notice it, too. You’re panting, out of breath from the way he was forcing those laughs right out of you. Beau rubs the side of his jaw, shaking his head–not at you, at himself.
“Rain came outta nowhere,” he says casually, and you can only smile, feeling the odd tension.
The both of you feel oddly lucky when your dad comes in now instead of moments earlier, knocking on the door that’s already swung open; his best friend, his daughter on her bed. He doesn’t make a face, but he looks to Beau and clears his throat.
“Looks like we can’t barbecue tonight,” your dad says, and you just sit there, trying to act like you still can’t feel Beau’s hands on your waist, hips, and thigh. “Shame the weather is so bad,” he shrugs, and Beau nods.
“Don’t worry, got other stuff that don’t need barbecuin’,” Beau reassures and pats your dad on the shoulder. “Gonna get changed, n’ then I can show ya,” he tells the other man, and he pats his upper back.
You watch the two disappear from the bedroom, and you sit there damp and cold, but an undeniable warmth settles in the centre of your stomach, one you hadn’t felt in a long time. The warmth settles there, but dips in between your thighs, and you can’t help it; Beau was in between your damn legs, grabbing your thighs, his hair resembling a sweaty man who had just fucked you for hours. You cringe at the thought and physically shake your head.
When you emerge from your bedroom just a few hours later, you find Beau in the kitchen, your dad in the small living room, drinking a beer and watching the television with the worst signal ever. Constant flickering and skipping, buffering and pausing, and you hear your dad’s groan each time the game stops on a part he was ‘just watching’.
You shamelessly let your eyes rake over Beau; now just wearing a plain shirt and sweatpants, not his usual cowboy-esque attire you remember him always wearing. It’s casual, and there’s something in you that churns.
“Hey, darlin,” Beau drawls when you wander into the kitchen, hair and pjs dry. “Didn’t come out for dinner,” he mentions, and you shrug, looking over at your dad, who must’ve told him not to pry when you choose not to do things–even eating dinner.
“Got distracted; I was reading,” you explain, wandering towards the counter, standing beside Beau, and he’s cracking open beers.
“Want one, kid?” he offers, and you immediately shake your head, never liking the bitter taste.
“Don’t tempt her,” your dad jokes from the living room, glancing over the back of the chair, and you roll your eyes.
“Ain’t temptin’ her,” Beau shakes his head, holding the two beers, and nodding for you to join him on the couch.
You follow behind him and glance around the small space. Your dad is resting in the only chair, and the only thing left is an oddly small couch. Beau sits down on it with a groan, and you pause, and he gestures with two fingers, patting the side beside him.
Hesitantly, you sit beside him, and the couch sinks further under your weight, an odd pressure point causing the centre to sink, your shoulder pressing right into his, your body basically nestled against him. He knows it would be inappropriate to put his arm around your shoulders, but it would be the perfect time to do so. He holds back and just glances at you.
To make it less awkward, Beau tries draping a blanket around the two of you instead, but it only makes it worse, and the minute the knitted garment covers your bodies, it’s like another level of secrecy is thrown in: the secrecy of what’s going underneath, the warmth building, your dad oblivious. You suck in a breath, looking at the sports game.
Beau’s one hand holds his beer, which he takes occasional sips from, and you watch his lips each time they wrap around the bottle, and you wonder when you became so perverted. You feel the light brush beneath the blanket, and it’s his pinky finger sticking out, poking the side of your bare thigh.
You turn your head to look at him; he’s watching the game, and you feel his hips shift beneath the blanket. You shift, too, and he’s just letting his pinky run over your bare skin, a gentle, constant touch.
“Geez,” your dad suddenly groans out, and you feel Beau’s hand pause on your leg, his finger coming to a stop. “I don’t think I can be watchin’ this anymore,” he jokes, shaking his head. “Team keeps losin’, it’s hell!”
Beau laughs at your dad’s complaint, flashing his white grin at him, and he doesn’t have a clue as to what’s happening so subtly beneath the blanket. He’s just worried about his team losing, so much so that he begins to stand up, shaking his head.
“Can’t watch,” your dad laughs, and Beau looks up at him, shrugging. “Need to head to bed anyway, drove for too long,” he mumbles, turning to look at you. He begins walking over, and you clear your throat, shifting.
“Night, honey,” your dad mumbles, leaning down and kissing your forehead, and you’re just praying he doesn't decide to lean down and rip off the blanket.
“Goodnight, Dad,” you say softly, and grin up at him, swallowing hard, still feeling that pinky finger moving against your bare leg.
Your dad disappears from the living room and walks into his bedroom, the door quietly shutting, leaving you and Beau alone in the living room. It’s quiet, only the sports game playing, and the soft rain still carrying on from earlier. He slides his hand from your thigh and settles it around your shoulders, squeezing gently. You’re in the clear.
“You enjoyin’ yourself so far?” Beau asks, turning to look at you, and you nod.
“Mhm, it’s nice here,” you tell him, and he slowly lifts his hand, brushing your hair out of your face. He notices the blush flooding your face, your lashes batting.
“Good, m’glad,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb across the tip of your nose briefly. “Can take you to do all sorts’a things tomorrow,” he smiles, wetting his lips.
“What about the forest?” you prompt, your eyes looking into his; green and sharp.
“The forest?” he repeats, biting his lip and nodding. “Can take ya’ to the forest,” he agrees.
“It’s pretty there, and I remember they had those wildflowers last time, really… really liked it,” you grin, and Beau would do just about anything to keep that look on your face; innocent, maybe happy.
“First thing we’ll do tomorrow,” Beau promises with a firm nod, his hand cupping the side of your neck, rubbing the pulse point. “Might wanna head t’sleep now,” he suggests, nodding to your bedroom.
You don’t want to sleep; you want to stay here with him on the couch, where he’s talking to you like a human, and not as ‘the girl whose mom just died’. You hesitantly nod, knowing he knows best.
“Atta girl,” Beau mumbles as you stand up from the couch and he pats the back of your thigh as you pass by him. “See you in the mornin’, sunshine,” he smiles, and you nod again, disappearing back into your small bedroom.
The bedroom is dark, and your mind is swimming; the absolute worst thoughts you can conjure up suddenly slip in through the cracks, and you toss and turn. It’s your mother; her crying, asking you why this had to happen to her, why your relationship with her had to be so poor, yet her death was one of the worst things that happened to you—you thought the nightmares would stop when you left home, but they seemed only to grow worse.
You sit up in a sweat, panting, your chest heaving and the bedroom black. The crickets buzz outside, and the television no longer lingers in the background. It’s late, and you don’t know how long you’ve been sleeping, but your drowsy mind has you standing up and wandering out of bed.
The cabin is hard to see in, and you wander towards another bedroom door, footsteps quiet against the wooden panels, and you slowly grip the handle, turning the knob. You look around the room, sighing quietly to yourself, embarrassed as ever.
“Dad,” you mumble softly, shutting the door behind you, knowing this ritual: climbing into bed with him, cuddling him, and him playing with your hair and letting you cry. It’s been happening since your mother was in the hospital.
You walk towards the bed, quietly moving along, until you’re standing at the edge. You blink in the darkness, reaching out when he doesn’t respond, nudging his shoulder—firm and muscular, and your eyes widen the second you realize it. It’s too late to slip out.
“Sweetheart?” A soft voice drawls out, and it’s not your dad’s; it’s Beau’s, and it’s groggy and low, sleep-riddled, and you stand there frozen.
“Baby… what? What’s wrong?” He grumbles, sitting up slightly, rubbing his eyes, peeking at you in the dark room. “Your daddy okay?” He asks,
“Yeah—” you mumble, shaking your head and looking over your shoulder. “Everything… yeah, he’s fine.”
“What’s wrong, then?” He whispers, wondering why the hell you just stumbled into his bedroom at three in the morning if nothing is wrong.
“Just—I can’t sleep,” you excuse yourself, and Beau furrows his brow, wondering why you didn’t walk into your dad’s room instead.
“Hm,” he groans, nodding, squeezing his eyes shut before opening them and waving a hand. “C’mere.”
You freeze when he suggests you climb into bed with him, but you do anyway; slowly but surely, climbing in beside him. The wooden frame groans, and you feel your body completely still when you lie down beneath the covers. He doesn’t hesitate to let his warm arm drift over your waist, his palm flat against your stomach, a soft anchor amidst the chaos in your brain.
Your eyes close and you exhale, feeling Beau’s warm, firm body against yours from behind. His breath against the back of your neck, slow puffs as he breathes steadily, and you’re more focused on forgetting the nightmares that keep you awake. They slip out of your head when his thumb moves across your abdomen, a gentle brush to soothe you, and you shift.
“Easy,” he murmurs when you squirm, and he presses his nose into your hair. “Relax f’me,” he adds, calming you down and trying to make you forget the uneasy feeling the nightmare left behind.
When the sunlight drools in through the curtains, you stir awake, groaning as you roll over. The bed is empty, Beau missing, and you assume that he’s already left for something–maybe driving into the small town to grab stuff, or maybe helping your dad with something. But you’re not sure how he’d explain his daughter sleeping there, in his bed.
The cabin is just as quiet when you step out of the bedroom, and you rub your eyes, looking around. Breakfast isn’t made, but the two men are already on the long dock, resting in two lawn chairs, fishing rods held in their laps. You blink and carefully open the screened door, walking down barefoot to them, and Beau notices you first.
“Look who woke up,” Beau teases, and your dad turns to glance over his shoulder at you; still sleepy, your hair a mess, and your pjs flimsy and loose.
“Hey, honey,” your dad drawls out, waving you over. “Beau was tellin’ me about last night–sleepwalkin’ into his room, forcin’ the poor guy to sleep on the couch,” he laughs, and Beau is looking at the lake, knowing he can’t face your dad when he lies.
“Yeah… got confused when I got up to go to the bathroom,” you shrug, taking steps across the wooden panels. “Didn’t even notice until I just woke up,” you tell your dad, and he grins.
Beau is still looking out at the lake, at the way it glistens in the sun, at some fish jumping out of the water, and at the occasional bird swooping in for a hasty landing. You look to Beau, and that’s right when he looks at you, too.
“Said I was gonna take her out,” Beau says to your dad, nodding towards you. “The forest.”
You nod a little when your dad looks at you for clarification, and he smiles, patting his leg. He just wants you to be happy on this trip, and if that means going into the forest with Beau and giving up prime fishing time, then he’s okay with it.
“You two have fun,” your dad nods, and Beau is already standing up, groaning. “And wear bug spray, honey,” your dad points, and you smile, looking to Beau.
Beau follows you back to the cabin, stepping inside when you do, following you towards your bedroom. He leans on the wall beside the door, patiently waiting for you to finish getting ready. You step out in shorts and a t-shirt, nothing special, and he grins, patting your shoulder.
“All ready?” he asks, clicking his tongue.
“Mhm,” you tell him, already slipping on your sneakers in your bedroom, and the two of you are off.
The walk to the forest is short, just a small distance from his cabin, and the two of you begin following a familiar trail. You remember wandering it just years ago, looking for wild berries and pretty flowers, and you’d pluck each one, giggling when Beau praised you for your find. And now you’re walking it, completely quiet.
Beau has his hands in his jeans pockets, trailing slightly behind you as you make your way through the dense trees. He stops, and you notice when you hear the gravel stop moving. You look behind him, and he’s just standing there.
“What?” you ask softly, tilting your head to the side.
“Remember that game,” he drawls out smoothly, and your eyes rake over his body. “M’would chase you n’ your cousin through this damn forest, n’ you’d be cryin’ and screamin’, mostly laughin’,” he tells you, and he starts walking again.
“I remember,” you say, specifically recounting the adrenaline rush of hiding between trees, trying not to get caught by Beau. You almost did it every day.
“Want a headstart?” Beau quips, quirking his brows, and your lips part.
“You… want to do that?” you ask in disbelief, laughing as you look around. “Not as fast as I was before,” you shake your head, and he’s chuckling.
“And you think I am?” he counters, wetting his lips. “C’mon, sunshine, I’ll count to ten,” he pulls his hand out and gestures.
“But–” you mumble, and he’s already starting to count down.
You don’t hesitate to turn on your heel, immediately taking off down the dark trail, and you’re trying your hardest not to laugh. You look behind you, and you see him turned around, rocking his feet, waiting until he reaches one to find you somewhere.
A large tree trunk calls out to you, and you immediately duck behind it. It feels familiar, like this was a hiding spot you picked when you were fifteen, playing the same game with multiple players. This was just a game of cat and mouse this time; no one else was on Beau’s radar except for you.
You clasp your hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh when you hear him calling your name. It takes you right back to the last few summers; you look over your shoulder, peeking, and your eyes widen the minute you realize he’s actually right there.
You let out a loud laugh, and Beau grins, instantly moving closer to you. Your hiding spot is given up, and he walks over, standing in front of you, acting like he doesn’t see you sitting down, huddled.
“There ya’ are,” Beau drawls out when he crouches down before you, and your back is against the tree, and you bite your lip, shaking your head.
“Not even fair,” you mumble, your knees pulled up to your chest. “I haven’t played in years,” you protest, and he reaches out, brushing the tip of your nose again.
“I ain’t either,” he shakes his head, gazing at you. “Seems like you jus’ ain't the best, darlin’.”
You roll your eyes, leaning your head back against the stump, and he leans forward, getting onto his knees instead of crouching. He kneels before you, and you stare at him, blinking slowly.
Beau is slow with it, and your jaw goes slack the minute both of his hands are on your bare knees, parting them so he can move closer to you. You keep your eyes on him, his green ones heavy and dark, and you tilt your head, leaning closer to him, and he follows, a hand sliding down your thigh to your hip.
He kisses you, pushing you against the tree a bit more, the old oak groaning as your back presses harder against it. Your lips tangle in his, and he’s still a bit taller, even on his knees; your head is tipped back lightly, his large hand lifting to cradle your face. It’s slow and hungry, two mouths moving in the same rhythm, and he tastes as you expected.
Beau pulls back, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. It snaps back on his lip, and he licks it up, staring down at your flushed cheeks and blown-out eyes. He breathes more heavily, realizing he just crossed a boundary he is sure he can never set in place again, not after how blurred the lines are and how easily you gave in.
“Darlin’,” he groans, shaking his head, and your eyebrows lift.
“No… no, I liked it,” you whisper to him, nodding quickly, sitting up a bit more. “I liked it.”
It’s a high you haven’t felt in a long time; adrenaline coursing through you, knowing how wrong it was, how you shouldn’t be doing anything like that; making out with your dad’s best friend, and liking it, wanting more than just a kiss or a makeout session.
“Can’t do this, kid.” Beau shakes his head, pulling back a little. “Not fair to you,” he mumbles.
“What?” you ask, leaning closer to him. “No… no, no, I liked it,” you ramble again, swallowing hard as his eyes meet yours.
“Corruptin’ a lil’ thing like you ain't right,” he mumbles, his jaw clenching. “Too innocent, sweetheart, gonna make you into somethin’ you ain’t,” he tells you, and you bite your lip.
“I… I don’t care,” you shake your head, and his eyebrows at how needy you are suddenly, and he looks over his shoulder.
“You will,” Beau says plainly, his hand still cradling your jaw. “Ain’t supposed to be a man like me, doin’ things to you,” he says, and you can hear the conflicting emotions, the way they clash.
“Why not?” you ask, your voice almost a whine. “Beau… I haven’t felt things in so long, and… and I wan’t something,” you plead, and he lifts his hand away from your face, drying his sweaty forehead.
“Not from me, ya’ don’t,” he counters, sitting back on his haunches. “Known your daddy since high school, can’t be messin’ with his daughter, sunshine, not you,” he tells you.
“So… so if I wasn’t his daughter?” you ask, swallowing hard. “You’d… you know? You’d like me, want me?” you add on, and he’s scratching his jaw at his fucking wrong this is.
“Yeah,” Beau admits, and you feel your heart pumping faster and faster, a warmth blooming in your stomach.
“I wouldn’t tell him,” you whisper, and he shoots you a glare. “Wouldn’t tell him a thing.”
“Baby,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “That would eat ya’, inside n’ out,” he tells you, his hair falling out of place.
“It wouldn’t,” you promise, almost whining, as he starts to stand up.
“C’mon,” Beau mumbles, reaching down to help you out, and you begrudgingly take his hand, standing up to your full height.
“Now what?” you ask him as the two of you start walking down the trail. “I have to act like we didn’t almost make out?”
“Ain’t complicated,” he drawls, shaking his head and looking at you out of the side of his eye.
“It is,” you counter, staring at him as you walk, but he’s focused on getting the hell out of the forest instead.
“Not gonna talk about this, darlin’,” he shuts down the conversation, and you feel an emptiness settle in your chest–it was already there, but it’s gaping now, and Beau is unfazed by doing it to you.
The walk back to the cabin is awkward, and you have to act like you don’t taste Beau Arlen on your tongue, and that your shirt wasn’t hiking up, and that his hand was your hip, and that you weren’t willing to lie onto the grass and let him do whatever he wanted to you.
At lunch, it’s worse: the three of you are surrounding the kitchen table, and Beau is across from you, biting into the burger your dad had barbecued when the two of you disappeared into the woods to mess around. You pick around at your plate, barely eating a thing.
“Somethin’ wrong with it, honey?” your dad speaks up, chewing his food on one side of his mouth. “Can throw it on if it’s raw, or somethin’,” he offers, reaching for a glass of water.
Beau peeks up from his food, looking at you; his eyes focus on the way you bite your lip and shake your head, just refusing to eat it. He clears his throat, and you look up at him.
“Can take ya’ to the small store up the road, kid,” Beau offers, putting down his burger and dusting his hands. “Candy, that kinda’ stuff,” he tells you, and you grind your jaw, nodding.
“You don’t gotta do things like that for her,” your dad says, laughing through a mouthful of food, and you extend your foot, rubbing it against Beau’s ankle.
He almost chokes on his food he’s still chewing when you do that, and he laughs, shaking his head. “Anythin’ for that girl.”
Beau opens the door to his Rover when the two of you leave after lunch, and you climb into the passenger side. He pulls out of the gravel driveway, and it’s quiet between the two of you, both of you acting like there isn’t this sexual tension that has him adjusting his hips and you shifting in your seat.
“Do I have to wear a seatbelt?” you ask Beau, and he glances over at you, his hair messy from the cracked windows, one hand on the steering wheel.
“Not really,” he drawls out quietly, shaking his head. “Ain’t anyone on these roads, for miles, sweetheart.”
You unclip the buckle, and your shoes come off next, and he’s glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, wondering what you’re up to. He can hear the shuffling, and then your toes curling right into the bulge against his jeans.
“Jesus Christ, kid,” Beau groans when he looks over at you; your back against the door, your body completely turned, your sock-clad foot stretched across the centre and into his lap.
“What?” you ask quietly, purposely rubbing your foot against him, and he’s leaning over, gripping the steering wheel.
“Cut it out,” he grits through his teeth, feeling your foot moving against the bulge, and he’s shaking his, glaring at you.
You have a stupid grin on your face, and you press harder, feeling him getting harder. He’s breathing heavier, tipping his head back against the headrest, one hand coming down to grab your ankle. He doesn’t stop you; he just holds your foot there, letting it move.
“Not bein’ a good girl, not at all.” Beau shakes his head as the vehicle still moves along the road, and he’s about to pull over. He can’t focus.
“Why would I be anything for you?” you ask softly, biting your thumbnail. “Don’t even… won’t even touch me properly,” you mutter, and he’s growling in frustration and pleasure.
“Cause m’tellin’ you to,” he groans out again, his head tipping back as he tries to catch his breath. “Fuckin’, stop it, kid,” he shakes his head, looking down at your foot, and he’s panting.
You slowly pull your foot away and let its arch rest on the curve of his thigh. His hand slides up your ankle and rests against his shin, holding it there, his thumb indenting on your warm skin. He shoots you a look, and you have the tip of your thumb in your mouth.
You wish it were authentic, the way you’re acting, but you’re just coping, wanting attention, something from anyone–it’s Beau you want it from, anything you can get when you feel like you have nothing at all.
Beau groans when he pulls into the tiniest parking lot you’ve seen, and you sit up, looking out the window: the tiniest store, too, with barely anyone around. It was smallest town you’ve seen, and it’s all he ever knows.
“Look what you fuckin’ did,” he growls, nodding down to his lap, and you look; a hard line right there, bulging out of the denim, undeibaly hard, and he puts his hand over it, pushing down.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, shaking your head.
“Don’t give me that,” he shoots, glaring at you. “Touchin’ me with your foot like that? What? Gonna give me a hand job to make up for it?” he rolls his eyes, and you almost want to.
The two of you step out of the Rover, and you look over at Beau as he awkwardly loops his thumbs into his jeans, adjusting them, pulling them up, then tugging them down at his thighs. The material is incredibly uncomfortable right now, and he notices you staring.
You run ahead of him and enter the small-town store, immediately heading to the candy aisle, as Beau suggested. He’s walking behind, praying no one can tell that some girl almost gave him a fucking foot job while he was trying to drive. He almost came in his pants.
He gives a friendly wave to the older man working the counter, and he finds you in the aisle, your eyes wide at the display: gummies and chocolate, candy bars, everything you want.
“Pick somethin’,” he gestures to the rack, scratching the back of his neck, feeling himself throbbing, pressing against his boxers, and against his zipper.
“I’m looking,” you say softly, but end up grabbing a bag of gummy cherries, and Beau takes them quickly, not even bothering to ask if you want anything else. He just heads to the counter and tosses them onto it.
You stand behind him, watching his hands fish out some cash and drop it in front of the old guy, who comments on the candy choice. Beau looks back at you, and those innocent eyes stare right back at him.
After paying, the two of you head out of the small store, and Beau is holding the candy for you. He’s walking quicker than you’d like—it’s urgent, and you know why; you just made the poor guy hard as hell, and forced him into a store.
“Never doin’ anythin’ like that again,” he grumbles the second the passenger door shuts, and you slump in the seat, bringing one knee up, your foot on the leather. “Ya’ hear me? Ain’t doin’ things like that ever again.”
Beau’s voice is firm, and you’ve only heard it like that when he was shouting at one of your cousins again, yelling at your dad for forgetting to dock the boat that one time. And he was using it with you, all because you got him hard without release.
The car drives down the gravel road, and your eyes are out of the window, but it comes to a slow stop at the side, and you look to Beau; his eyes are narrowed, and he’s lifting his hips, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“What?” You say softly, looking at him with those confused eyes, and he’s undoing his belt, the buckles clicking.
“Ain’t get to do stuff like that without consequence, darlin’,” Beau shoots, and your eyes widen as you quickly realize what’s happening; his strong hands work the button on his pants, then the zipper.
“Beau—” you mumble, and he shakes his head, reaching over to press the small button to undo your seatbelt.
“C’mon, ain’t startin’ shit with me just to not finish,” he flashes you his green eyes, and you swallow hard.
“Never learned… that,” you gesture to the way his hand is slipping into the front of his jeans, and he groans when his hand touches himself. He’s harder than he’d like to be.
“Looks like you’re gonna learn today,” Beau quips, and you’re almost pouting, breathing heavier.
You slowly lean over the centre console, mimicking what your leg once did, and he has his hand in his jeans, carefully pulling himself out; your eyes widen at the sight, looking at his thick head throbbing, the veins pulsing, and there’s pre-cum on the tip–it was from the teasing, from your dumb foot egging him on. Now he’s aching, absolutely begging for you.
“C’mon, baby,” Beau mumbles, his drawl thicker now, reaching behind you, grabbing a fistful of your locks, and guiding your head down. “Pretty mouth of yours need to do somethin’ about this; you caused it, didn’t ya’?”
You whimper but nod, and your tongue sticks out, lapping up the cum that had already trickled out, and his head tips back against the headrest, a low groan slipping by him. His big hand is still running through your hair, almost as if he's petting you. It’s salty on your tongue.
“Atta girl,” he pats your head gently, feeling the way you focus on the tip. “Mhm… knowin’ jus’ where to start, yeah? Smart thing, you are,” he praises, swallowing hard.
You’re moving your mouth over the head, lapping, leaving saliva against him, and he’s in awe. Beau hadn’t experienced anything like this in a while–he mostly lived alone, drove into town occasionally, finding girls his age, and they mostly were married, not wanting to mess with a man like him. Ever since quitting being a sheriff, it’s been lonely as ever, and your mouth is keeping him company.
You slowly take more of him, and he moans, a deep sound coming out of the back of his throat. He already hits the back of your throat, a gentle poke, and you gag at the feeling. He’s twitching, already leaking down your throat, and his veins throb on your tongue. You lift your head and dive back down, a slow bob starting, and he’s guiding you with his own hand, holding your hair.
“Jus’ like that, sweet thing,” Beau breathes out, his eyes falling shut. “So good f’me, makin’ up for what’cha did,” he taunts, and you mumble something around him; your mouth is so full.
He pats your head again, his hips lifting in an urgent movement, and it hits the abc of your throat again. You choke, and he grins, his other hand lifting so he can briefly rub over his scruff.
“Barely takin’ me in,” he mumbles, and he groans when you go deeper. “Stuffin’ me in that lil’ mouth, makin’ me fit, perfect,” he praises some more, and your eyes are almost rolling back as saliva drips down your chin and onto his jeans.
Beau cums with little to no warning, and you know that’s a part of the punishment, making you take his load, and you immediately swallow back and lift your head. He’s panting along with you, gazing at the way your eyes are heavy, and tears brim your eyes from the sheer force of trying to fit him with your mouth.
His hand slides from your hair and to your face, wiping the mess with his thumb, and you blink slowly, mouth agape, still panting. He’s never seen you prettier.
Walking back into the cabin, you keep your head down, and your dad instantly greets you. He’s been working at the kitchen table since you two left, mindlessly reading the newspaper, a pen circling the crossword out of boredom, and you barely say a thing to him. You can’t face him, not right now.
Beau watches the back of your head dip into the bedroom, and the door shuts right behind you. He sighs, adjusts his belt, swallows, and looks at your dad, who is still sipping coffee despite the day growing later and later.
“Still on for that fishin’?” Beau asks your dad, and you can hear it from inside the bedroom. You hear the chair squeak, and your dad immediately stands up, eager to resume the usual marathon they do at the cabin.
You spend the rest of the night in your room, reading and writing in your diary, attempting to use the phone to call your best friend, desperately wanting to tell her about what happened: sucking off Beau, trying to get him off with your damn foot, making out with him in the woods. The line cut out every time, and you cursed being an eight-hour drive from home.
Beau and your dad have been fishing for hours, both drinking and laughing, and you can hear their conversation from the lake–the sounds bounce off the water and seem to climb right into your room, and your heart clenches at the sound of Beau’s voice and laugh: that drawl, that thick sound and accent. You’re on your bed, staring at the ceiling.
The door creaks open with a slow ease, and you sit up immediately, eyes wide, when you see Beau standing there, slightly drunk, leaning on the frame. He clicks his tongue and tilts his head, staring at your small form on the bed.
“Beau?” you say softly, looking around your room. “Where’s my dad?” you ask quietly, wondering how he had the guts to saunter into your room, his best friend feet away.
“Mmm… down at the lake… drunk as a skunk, darlin’,” Beau slurs out, and you realize he’s drunker than he’d like to be. You shift on the bed when he shuts the door behind him.
“Been thinkin’ bout you that whole time, baby,” he drawls out, his tongue lazy and his words sloppy. “Felt… so good, you know… jus’ wanted ya’ back, wanna be inside ya’,” he murmurs, and your jaw goes slack at his drunk admission.
“Beau, you’re so drunk,” you whisper to him, and the bed creaks the second his two knees deep onto it, and he’s crawling across it, finding you.
“M’know, sweetheart… makes stuff like this a lot easier,” he whispers to you, and doesn’t hesitate to kiss you.
You kiss back, tasting the whisky on his tongue, and the few cigarettes he must’ve smoked for fun down at the lake. He can taste the cherry gummies you’ve been eating, and he slides his tongue into your mouth. He’s sloppier, a lot sloppier now that he’s inebriated, and you moan into the kiss.
Beau nudges his way between your legs, parting them for you, putting you down onto your back, and he’s right on top of you. The bed, not used to holding two people, groans; it creaks louder, and you whimper when his hand is travelling up your thigh, and already down into your shorts.
“Wet f’me… Christ,” he groans as his lips find your neck, and his hand is just cupping your core, that warmth, that slick, all it takes is his rough thumb rubbing in circles to get you going. “Feelin’ good, ain't ya?” he asks, mouthing at your jaw.
Your head tips back, and you whine, nodding quickly, feeling the way he’s toying with your clit; a firm pressure with quick circles, tight ones that send you into a bliss-like state, just from his damn thumb. You’re basking in it, arching your back.
“Can stuff ya’ elsewhere…” he mumbles out, and he’s fumbling with his belt again, drunk hands struggling with the thick clasp, and he’s pulled back, his head hanging low. “Stuff… mmm… yeah, that… that tummy of yours,” he whispers, and your eyes widen at his filthy words.
Beau, already with his jeans hanging low, manages to pull his hardened cock out before you can even register that his other hand is also sliding down your flimsy shorts. You groan the second they’re discarded onto the cabin floor, and you squirm when his head nudges your entrance.
“Ah–” you gasp, reaching up to grab his shoulder. “You–you’re not gonna fit, Beau,” you whisper quickly to him, remembering just how big he was earlier, how your mouth could barely take him.
“Oh, sunshine,” Beau mumbles, his hand sliding down to tap your hip. “Your body, mmm? Knows what it’s doin’, will stretch, all f’me,” he slurs, and he slowly begins pushing in, and God, you feel it.
He’s thick, thicker than you remember, and you can feel your body trying to adjust to the sheer size, feeling like he’s about to fucking split you in half. His head tips back, and he lets out a heavy breath, holding your hip, the other one on your knee, keeping you spread open.
You whine louder, and he grins, feeling the way you adapt and clench, that sting something you’ve never felt before. He pushes all the way in, letting you feel it, that settles in your lower abdomen. His hand slides from your hip to over your stomach, pressing down.
“See… baby, makin’ me fit,” Beau taunts, his thumb rubbing your navel. “Takin’ me like a champ, yeah? Takin’ every inch I give ya’,” he groans, pulling out just a bit.
The faintest release washes over you when he pulls out slightly, but he slams back in just as quickly, sending your head back and a loud moan out of your mouth. He clicks his tongue in disapproval, your sound being much too loud for what you’re doing.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, and you can feel tears streaming down your cheeks, crying softly at the pain, and he notices, shaking his head.
“Oh, baby girl…” Beau then mutters, slinking down slowly, pressing deeper when he’s just trying to comfort you. “Let it out… bein’ good f’me, through the tears,” he coos, and kisses at your cheeks, still buried inside of you.
You didn’t expect it to be like this–it’s not his fault; he’s big and thick, and relentless, and your body is seizing up, reacting to the size difference. It still feels good, that pressure burning.
“My lil’ darlin’... cryin’ for me,” he whispers, kissing away your tears. “Cryin’ cause she can’t take me… but she is, so well,” he praises, kissing at your cheeks and over your nose.
The words are sweet, and the feeling is bitter, and he’s starting to thrust, moving back and forth.
You whine through the tears, and he covers your mouth with his to hide the side, but he pulls back and goes back to kiss your tears that don’t seem to stop coming. They’re warm and wet, and he’s thrusting, deeper and deeper.
“M’got you… m’here, got you,’ he reassures, kissing up to your temple, and then back down.
You groan and your back arches more, feeling him pushing and your clenching around him, squeezing, and he’s groaning now, hating how quickly he needs to cum.
“Gonna let me cum… all inside ya’? Feelin’ me for hours?” Beau whispers, your noses brushing his beard, scratching your face. “Gonna cum too, baby? On my cock, yeah?”
You whimper through the tears, nodding quickly, biting your lip at the consistent pressure, the way it’s building and twisting, and how aggressive his thrusts are becoming. It’s too much, for the both of you, way too much to handle. You tip your head back, and he captures your mouth the minute he knows you’re gonna cum.
It happens at the same time; you finish, and he does too, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths. Your release and his cum clash, but he still buries deep, ensuring none of it leaks out, wanting it to mix and keep you full and warm.
Beau rubs your stomach still, soothing that dull ache that’s only worse now that you’re absolutely stuffed, and he waits there, just letting the both of you pant, trying to register just how good it feels, how drunk he is, how drunk you are.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans into your neck, twitching inside of you when your body still clenches. “Mmm… feel me in there? All… warm, deep inside ya’…” he whispers, kissing your neck.
Your hand is on Beau’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly as you try to keep yourself calm, but he’s not pulling out; it’s like he refuses to. And your dad is so oblivious, drunk at the lake, and you are Beau, tucked away in the bedroom.
“Makin’ you feel good… so good, birdie,” Beau whispers, and your lips part, a flush going over your cheeks at the nickname.
Your face scrunches, and you whimper, and he’s kissing your neck, whispering, and whispering, lulling you both into a state you can’t explain. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain this, not to your diary, to your friends, nobody–this is a secret, and you know it is.
“My girl…” he whispers to you more, never pulling out, refusing to. “Promised ya’... you’d have a good summer, baby,” he tells you, and you nod, remembering that phone call days before leaving.
“Can make it even better, you know?” Beau whispers, nodding. “Makin’ this pretty body… feel good, all the time,” he adds, and you’re not sure if you can do this every day for the next three weeks.
I know I’ve said it some before and I’ll say it again: yes Daryl has a daddy kink. HOWEVER he is not the daddy. He moans for daddy while taking it like a good boy. Once he’s warmed up to it and gotten deep enough into subspace that, he’s daddy’s good puppy
a/n: back at it again with some trans daryl. wrote this one-handed for @themastergat0r because their brain is the bomb dot com. love ya with my entire dick, brother.
summary: daryl mentions offhandedly that he's scared he'll die a virgin. rick offers to help with that. so they fuck in an abandoned camper van.
oh, and rick doesn't warn him first about the monster cock he's packing.
tags: trans!Daryl(ftm), Rick has a massive cock, loss of virginity(Daryl), virginity kink(Rick), PWP, feminine anatomy terms(Daryl), bratting (Daryl), p in v sex, barebacking, primal play(chasing), belly bulge, creampie
wc: 9.6k
Despite the whole ending of the world thing, autumn still comes on time.
The leaves change like they always have, trees bleeding rust-red and amber while the world beneath them rots. Some mornings, the wind smells like woodsmoke and wet earth, and for a blink, it almost feels like before.
Kids waiting for school buses. Grocery stores with bins of pumpkins out front. People still alive enough to complain about the cold creeping in.
Getting wasted by bonfires was a particular favorite.
But now the roads stay empty, save for the occasional abandoned car gone skeletal from scavenging.
Same season. Same chill in the air to warn of winter coming. Same golden light pouring through shedding trees.
Just shining on a different world.
Rick and Daryl left on a run that afternoon, scattering leaves in the wake of the car. Now that the sun’s about two hours from set, they agree they should probably head back to the prison before nightfall.
They enter the last room in the home together for the final sweep. It’s a study. A real damn nice one too. Full sets of dusty encyclopedias, mahogany desk, ornate filigree and shit.
Daryl rolls his eyes.
Academics.
Daryl and Rick toss gestures at each other, nod, then go to work. Daryl scans the shelves, and Rick searches the desk. They rummage for a while, searching for anything useful.
Daryl just finds more and more encyclopedias, stuffy novels without sleeve covers, and like, four dictionaries the size of small children.
So honestly, whatever. They should just head back—
Rick gasps. Loud.
Daryl spins around, hand at the ready on his knife. Only to see him holding up two Playgirl magazines like he’s struck gold.
Daryl rolls his eyes for a second time, but that doesn’t stop him from snatching one from him to thumb through.
They perv out for a while, ogling their respective porn.
Dicks, dicks, and more dicks.
That’s all fine and dandy. Pictures don’t really do it for Daryl. He has a hard time taking corny porn like this seriously. All the posing and posturing—
Oh.
But, actually.
Daryl stops flipping. He stares down at the page as his pulse kicks up. It’s hard to deny that this one does rile him; because this model in particular bears a striking resemblance to the man standing across the room from him.
It surprises Daryl when words float out with a deep breath. “I don’t wanna die a virgin.”
…What?
Daryl can feel Rick’s eyes on him instantly. Always knows when he’s looking at him. Daryl feels it on the back of his neck like warm breath over cold skin.
“You know, I could help with that,” Rick provides.
Daryl’s heart leaps into his throat. He turns and squints at him, face alight like kindling. “Fuck you. Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
Rick heaves a loud and dramatic sigh. “Do you want me to take your virginity, or not?”
Now he’s just taken aback. “Fuck you.”
A breeze drifts in through the window that haloes Rick in gold. The curtains dance around behind him. Rick simply tosses his own magazine on the desk beside him and turns to look at Daryl straight on.
Mouth flattened out. Eyes locked on hard.
Daryl squirms a bit when he sees the flicker of muscles tightening in his jaw. Most folks mistake this expression for anger, like he’s two seconds from snapping a neck. But Daryl knows better.
This is when he’s being earnest.
Regardless, he still waits for Rick to laugh and admit his joke.
He waits some more.
Waits.
And waits.
Daryl scoffs. “Seriously, quit—”
“Answer me.”
It’s devastating, really, because Rick isn’t trying to charm him. He isn’t performing. The yearning sits too close to the surface for that, glowing through and burning like lanternlight under cloth.
The longer he waits, the more obvious it becomes that Rick’s potentially being serious.
“Man,” Daryl mumbles, one hand coming up to fidget with his crossbow strap, “don’t need a pity fuck if that’s what you’re doin’ right now.”
“Doesn't have shit to do with pity. So let me rephrase with your own words." Rick takes a slow step toward him. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Daryl's ears burn now, heart hammering against his ribs. Every instinct screams to say no and run, but Rick holds him in place with that fucking stare. The same one that always gets confessions in the end.
Daryl swallows the dryness in his throat. "Ain't—" His voice cracks. Clears his throat. Tries again. "Ain't built like them magazine guys."
"Didn't ask you to be."
“Rick—I’m—”
“Dixon,” Rick snaps, “just answer me before I get pissed.”
A pause. “You seriously want—?”
“Yes, dammit. I want to fuck you.”
Those words bounce around in Daryl's head. His teeth gnaw on the inside of his lower lip, hard.
This came out of nowhere, and it’s happening so fast. It feels like the room’s filling with water, which might explain that drowning sensation. Or maybe that’s why he feels so out of his depth.
Regardless, Daryl’s adrenaline is firing.
He’s had fantasies that start like this. With Rick cornering him and screwing him against the wall. Hands everywhere. Breath hot. Hand clamped around Daryl’s neck.
Fuck.
Stop.
Now’s a bad time to think about that.
Or maybe it isn’t?
“Daryl,” Rick presses.
Shit, even if it is a pity fuck, he’ll take it. He’ll take anything Rick gives him.
God.
Before Daryl can psych himself out any more, he nods. Just once, with a small and jerky dip of his chin.
That’s all Rick needs to start walking at Daryl with purpose, eyes locked on as he moves.
It’s stupid.
Dammit, they’ve fought side by side for months. Daryl’s seen pity on Rick’s face before. Like when Daryl pukes up bad water and bleeds through bandages. When he mourned the loss of his brother. When he comes back from hunts empty handed.
This isn't that.
Shit, this is an expression he's never seen before. Fury and desperation and infatuation all twisted up together.
Rick’s hand flashes out once he’s in front of him, grips Daryl by his chin, then his kiss lands like a punch.
Mm, Daryl’s first kiss, actually.
Daryl’s breath stutters out through his nose, his body locking up as Rick’s other hand snakes around him to grab his ass. Daryl’s mouth falls open with a gasp, and Rick deepens the kiss like he’s claiming the space he made there—
Fuck, that’s Rick’s tongue.
He’s seen Glenn and Maggie kiss hundreds of times, casual pecks in the prison yard, cutesy mouthing beside the fences.
Rick doesn’t kiss like that.
This is teeth and spit and eager hands shoving the crossbow strap off his shoulder like it’s the first piece of clothing to go.
Honestly, Rick kisses like he fights. All rage and no goddamn patience.
Daryl can’t keep up. Doesn’t know how to. Tries to follow Rick’s lead, but their noses bump and he can’t stop gasping and their teeth click every time he moves.
Daryl also doesn’t know if he’s supposed to push him or pull him or hug him. Or, apparently, just stand there like an idiot.
He’s still holding his goddamn magazine.
Daryl promptly drops it, but his hands still hover uselessly in the air.
Regardless of his nervous fumbling and inexperience, Rick licks into his mouth like he’s something divine. Daryl goes for a groan, but a whine comes out instead. He’d care more if he wasn’t stuck between his grasp and the shelf right behind him.
But then Rick fucking growls, all low and possessive, and Daryl’s knees wobble.
His hands finally move, fisting in the back of Rick’s shirt. The fabric wrinkles under his grip, and Rick doesn’t seem to give a shit. He just keeps kissing him as he shoves Daryl backward into the bookshelf.
A puff of dust rises around them when a few novels tip over—
Rick wedges his thigh between Daryl's legs and pushes up.
A moan climbs out of Daryl, and Rick groans as he swallows the sound. The muscles in his thigh flex as he presses up harder. Then he's just chuckling all self-satisfied and rubbing Daryl’s cunt with his knee.
God, Daryl’s already dizzy with it. He shudders and throbs under that perfect pressure, like his body’s already decided what his brain’s still too worried to admit.
He tears his mouth away from the kiss by whipping his head to the side. He sucks in a breath, then pants while Rick’s lips bite at his chin, his jaw, anywhere he can reach.
“Rick—” Daryl chokes out, but he doesn’t even know what he’s saying it for.
Stop? More?
Both?
There’s a strange fever blooming fast behind his ribs. Makes his stomach feel like it’s full of boiling water. It’s humiliating just how worked up he feels already.
Hell, Daryl doesn’t even think he’s ever felt this horny in his entire fucking life.
Rick kisses across his cheek, then down to his neck.
Damn, forget embarrassment, whatever the fuck Rick’s mouth is doing on his throat feels incredible. Rick grabs his hair and pulls his head to the side to attack his pulse.
It’s no secret that he’s already getting wet. Daryl knows, virginity disregarded, that Rick is good at this. He’s swept up in it, and all he really wants is to stand there and let Rick take him apart, piece by piece.
The house isn’t secure though. Missing doors and broken windows leave them too exposed.
They can’t risk a walker bite for some quick sex.
The thought is quickly forgotten when Rick wraps an arm around his waist and kisses him again.
Daryl finally starts to get the hang of kissing when Rick sweeps him up and away from the shelves. Daryl lets himself be backed up until his thighs are trapped against the edge of the desk.
God, then Daryl’s held and tilted backward overtop the surface of the desk. His spine meets cold mahogany just as Rick’s hand explores below the hem of his shirt.
Rick’s mouth takes a tour, kissing down his neck and along his collarbone.
Daryl wraps his legs around Rick unconsciously, rolls his hips against him when he sucks on his jugular.
Rick hums against his throat. “Got you that worked up already?” He grinds down between his thighs.
A shaky breath leaves Daryl when the hard line of his cock rubs against him. “You’re one to talk, jackass. I can feel your dick.”
Rick chuckles. “Oh, I don’t remember saying I wasn’t worked up.” His lips find Daryl’s neck again, kisses lingering, open-mouthed and slow.
Daryl acknowledges arousal pooling like honey in his stomach, and it’s just fucking humiliating all over again.
Rick groans against Daryl’s neck when he grinds around on his cock in helpless little circles. The pressure is right where he needs it most too.
“Desperate, hm?” Rick teases.
“Get bent.”
Rick grinds down into him this time, and he doesn’t stop moving. “That’s your job.”
It feels so good, dammit, but it only serves to remind Daryl of the compromised safety in the home.
Rick’s hands slide around his thighs, gripping tight as he hauls him even closer, until his cock presses tight and firm against his cunt.
Daryl’s head drops back with a moan and lands hard on the desk.
Then Rick stops altogether. Daryl doesn’t know when his eyes shut, but they flash open when the heat of Rick’s body retreats.
Daryl blinks at him, panting. “What’re y’doin’? Don’t stop—”
Oh.
Rick’s vertical, already working Daryl’s belt open.
Daryl stiffens, hands flying down to clutch his wrists. "Wait—fuck—jus’ wait a second—"
“Let go.” Rick whips his arms out of his grip and continues pulling leather from the buckle. "You’re rubbin’ all over me. Let’s just expedite the process.”
He gets the belt undone, and because Daryl's not sure he wants him to stop, his hands go slack when Rick moves to the button and pops it.
Daryl's pulse thrums in his throat, erratic and panicked. His shirt rides up when Rick’s calloused hands slide up over his ribs.
God. It’s too much.
"Seriously. Hold on—" Daryl chokes out.
“You were beggin’ just a second ago,” he murmurs, “now you’re all shy?”
Daryl knees him in the side. “Fuck—it ain’t that.”
"What is it, then?" His voice is all rough amusement and smoke. Rick’s thumbs hook into the waistband of Daryl’s jeans, pushing them down to the tops of his thighs. “Well?”
Daryl swallows hard, mouth opening and closing. Shit, he doesn’t even know. His fingers dig into the edge of the desk as Rick’s attention shifts down to where he’s got his jeans down, ready to keep going.
He leans forward and props himself over Daryl again.
"House ain’t secure," Daryl blurts out, hips trying to twitch away when Rick’s hand slides its way up the inside of his thigh.
Rick hums as he strokes a thumb so close to where he’s aching beneath his boxers. "And? I got a clear view and shot of the door."
“Nah, I don’t wanna risk—”
“Oh, don’t wuss out on me, Daryl.”
“I’m not! We could move to the car or something—”
“Car sex sucks. I refuse to deflower you in a Chrysler minivan.”
Daryl groans, head dropping to the desk as he deadpans at the ceiling. Rick’s thumb slides across the seam of him, feather-light and teasing.
Daryl jolts. "If a goddamn walker gets in here—"
“Aw,” Rick patronizes, “you don’t trust me to keep you safe?”
“Fuck you. I’m serious.”
"What’re they gonna do?" Rick’s grin is wicked. His thumb continues its taunt along the crease of Daryl’s thigh. "They gonna watch?"
Daryl flinches and a surprised moan flies out of him when Rick finds home, the pad of his thumb pressing right on his clit over his boxers.
Rick looks down at his hand in disbelief. “You’re already this wet?”
"Don’t," Daryl warns, hands coming up to cover his face. “Please don’t talk like that.”
"No?"
Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick’s hand takes a firm path lower, pressing against his entrance and sweeping side to side.
He can hear how slick he is, feels it.
“God, I can’t believe how wet you are.”
Daryl groans in embarrassment. "Quit mockin’ me and just do somethin’," he growls into his palms.
Rick hums. "You’re awful bossy for someone who’s worried about walkers getting in." His forefingers replace his thumb and rub him in wide, slow circles. "Thought we weren’t safe in here?"
Daryl’s face burns when his voice cracks on a moan. Everything Rick says or does just lands in his chest and travels straight south to his cunt. It’s starting to piss him off.
Made especially worse when Rick’s fingers press harder with a slow, torturous drag over his clit.
That’s what does it.
The embarrassment surges hot up his neck, flooding his face. He can’t even fucking breathe right, let alone pretend he’s got any control here.
"Shit—"
“Oh, somethin’ wrong?” Rick murmurs, all fake innocence. His fingers flex, rubbing harder. “Feelin’ needy?”
“Quit talkin’ like—”
“Hey, I’m serious. Don’t wuss out on me.”
“Dammit, I just said quit talkin’ like that—”
“Yeah? What happens if I don’t?”
Daryl’s frustration and embarrassment clashes with his arousal when Rick starts rubbing him with fervor. Until there’s too much energy trapped inside him.
Every instinct screams run.
But the longer he sits in that instinct, the more he realizes that he doesn’t necessarily want to run to get away.
Just wants to run to be caught.
He doesn’t understand it, and he definitely can’t make sense of it when he’s being touched just how he likes.
Daryl pants as he stares up at Rick, like he has all the answers. Rick just looks right back at him, flushed warm from the dim light bouncing in through the window. He’s shaking.
Daryl can’t shake the urge to run.
His fingers tighten around Rick’s shoulders.
Then he shoves him.
Hard.
Rick lets out a startled noise, then Daryl plants both boots against his chest and kicks off again with enough force to send him stumbling backward even farther.
The desk creaks when Daryl sits up and slides off the edge of the desk.
Adrenaline tears through him bright as lightning as he bolts for the hallway, buttoning his pants.
“The hell you think you’re goin’?” Rick starts. Daryl dashes past him with a quick, nervous laugh that feels too young coming out of him. “Oh, we’re playin’ games now?”
That tone sends a thrill down Daryl’s spine. He turns left down the hall, boots pounding the warped floorboards, more anxious laughter trying to climb up his throat.
He barely makes it four strides.
Rick catches the back of his vest and stops him with one hard yank.
Daryl’s laugh finally escapes him as he’s dragged backward, momentum breaking apart under him. Rick spins him and shoves him back into the wall.
The impact knocks a moan out of him.
Rick’s kissing him again before he can prepare for it.
Daryl’s hands fly up to grip Rick’s shoulders, who prepares for a shove again. He doesn’t though. Not yet, not when both of Rick’s hands slide around his waist, then down into his back pockets to grope and squeeze his ass possessively.
Daryl makes a sound he doesn’t recognize.
“You know, I never considered that you’d be a tease,” Rick mutters against his lips. “But then again, you’re always lookin’ for trouble.”
Rick gropes him again, then his mouth is everywhere.
Neck, collarbones, anywhere skin peeks through the collar of Daryl’s shirt. It’s overwhelming, the way his lips move from one patch of skin to the next, biting, sucking, marking.
Daryl’s head thumps back against the wall.
Rick starts yanking at his vest with an urgency that disarms him. Daryl lets him push it down until it falls behind his feet to the ground below.
Daryl’s chest heaves. “Shit, Rick—I’m—” He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. The whole articulating his thoughts thing still isn’t working in his favor.
Rick licks a hot stripe from his throat to his ear, then whispers, "You’re thinkin' too damn much."
Sure. He probably is, but it doesn’t help him to hear it out loud, at all.
Rick pulls Daryl’s hips forward with his grip on his ass, and all those racing thoughts scatter in the wind, because Daryl finds blissful friction on his thigh. Rick grinds right back against him.
Daryl’s fingers flex uselessly before deciding to come up and tangle in the curls at Rick’s nape. He tugs at it a bit and gets an encouraging groan of appreciation.
Rick starts thumbing open the buttons of Daryl’s shirt.
Fuck.
Run.
Daryl shoves hard at Rick’s chest, trying to get himself free, but Rick’s arm bands around his waist like a steel trap.
“Still wanna bolt, huh?” One hand snaps up and catches Daryl’s chin, forcing his face forward. “You really think you can outrun me?”
“Goddammit,” Daryl spits, twisting and bucking against him, but Rick just drives him into the wall hard with a shoulder and keeps going until this shirt hangs open.
Desire sparks hot beneath Daryl’s ribs. It only makes him thrash harder, pulse hammering loud enough to make everything sound muffled. He shoves again, this time with enough force to stagger Rick back half a step.
That’s all he needs.
Daryl shoves an elbow into his chest as he tears free. Rick tries to snatch his wrist, but Daryl’s able to get away in time. He turns around and gets low, backing up and waiting for Rick to come at him again.
“You’re really pissin’ me off,” Rick warns, sounding dangerous. “You want a chase? Is that it?”
“Yeah.”
Daryl spins and moves down the hall fast, breath sawing in and out of his chest. He turns the corner at the end with a middle finger held up. He turns again and sprints through the French doors into the dining room.
He tries to slam the door shut behind him, but his hand slips on the knob. The latch barely clicks before Rick’s already shoving through after him.
Daryl curses and rounds the dining table. He yanks a chair into Rick’s path, wood screeching across wood.
Rick vaults it cleanly without even slowing down.
Of fucking course he does.
Daryl sidles through the French doors and back into the hallway. Rick’s right behind him.
The hall ends in the kitchen, and it looks like a dead end at first glance. Then he spots the back door.
Daryl pivots hard, boots skidding across the tile as he tears toward it.
He only makes it halfway.
Rick crashes into him from behind with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. One hand slides around his waist to cinch tight around Daryl’s stomach. The other fists into his hair and jerks his head back.
Oh, fuck yes.
Heat flashes through him so fast it makes him shudder. He bites down hard on the sound clawing up his throat, it comes out gritted anyway.
“Listen to that,” Rick taunts. “Knew you’d like a little hair pulling.”
“Screw you,” Daryl grits.
Rick steers him by the head toward the kitchen island like he’s got him on a goddamn lead. Daryl staggers forward until the edge of the counter digs into his hips. Rick pins him to it from behind.
Rick yanks back on his hair again. He’s clearly looking for another reaction, and Daryl hates that he gives him one. He grunts as Rick bends him forward over the island.
Daryl almost doesn’t brace himself in time, palms smacking flat against the cold, dusty granite before he’s on his chest.
Rick tugs him back to get Daryl’s jeans open again. He forces them back down to mid-thigh again. He hooks his finger into the elastic of Daryl’s boxers. He doesn't pull, just keeps it there as he leans forward over him.
It's infuriating at this point.
"What's stoppin' ya, huh?" Daryl growls. "Take 'em off."
"Nothin's stoppin' me, Dixon. I just like this little game you’re playin’ with me." Rick takes a deep breath and presses forward against his ass.
Daryl whines, and he's immediately horrified by the sound of it.
Rick seems to like it though. "Damn," he laughs, “I really didn’t think you'd sound this pathetic."
“Eat shit.”
Rick yanks his head back again. “Watch it.”
The sharp sting races down his spine, landing with a shock in his gut, and fuck, that really shouldn’t feel so good. Shouldn’t make him moan like that. Shouldn’t give him that restless feeling in his hips.
But it does.
God, it does, and the realization punches through him like a bullet.
The shame should be worse. Should claw at him, make him shove Rick off and tell him to stop for real. But all he does is press back against him, grinding like he’s got no fucking pride left.
Rick’s hand glides up to his chest, rough fingers exploring the bare skin there, then they travel back down.
Down.
His hand isn’t stopping.
Oh. Please, fuck.
Glides over Daryl’s hipbone, then beneath the waistband of his boxers.
Daryl tenses, expecting him to finally touch him where he needs it, but his hand just continues its path, gliding straight down his leg. He grips Daryl’s thigh then slides his hand along the inside of it.
Teasing.
Torturing.
Daryl grumbles a quiet, "Asshole." He twists his hips, trying to get his touch where he needs it.
“Watch your fuckin’ mouth.”
Rick’s hand leaves his boxers to instead grind forward against him with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Rick grips his hip tightly, holding him still as he starts to rock against him. The way the rough denim of Rick’s jeans teases the heat between his thighs is maddening.
Daryl arches, tilting back to meet his rhythm. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
Daryl’s words dam up in his throat.
“I thought you said walkers were gonna get us.” Rick’s other hand slides up Daryl’s spine, fingers threading through his hair to yank on it again.
Daryl chokes when Rick grinds harder.
Rick goes on, “Seems like you forgot all about that.”
“Didn’t—”
“You just wanna get fucked right here on the counter, don’t you?”
“I don’t—”
“That’s a yes or no question.”
“Rick—”
“Uh-uh. Try again.”
Daryl’s fingers scrape dust off the granite as Rick’s grip in his hair tightens. “N-Not safe.”
“Still got somethin’ smart to say?” Rick murmurs. "Huh?"
"No."
"No, what?"
"I don't have—" Daryl gulps. "Don't have anythin’ smart to say."
"Glad to hear it." Rick hauls him away from the counter by his hair, turns him, then pushes him toward the back door. “Now run.”
Daryl yanks his pants back up over his hips. He shoulders the screen door open, emerging into the back yard.
The autumn chill hits him like a wall. Daryl blinks against the setting sun throwing Georgian gold across the overgrown yard. The air smells like spice and something sweet. If he squints enough at the memory, it reminds him of apple cider.
That comfort is fleeting though. The creak of the screen door behind him urges him to speed up. He breaks into a brisk jog on the patio, speeding up again when he hits the grass.
Rick's bootsteps are slow and predatory back there. It’s clear that he already knows who’s gonna win this game, and now he's just having fun with it.
Daryl glances over his shoulder. Rick follows him. He’s not running. Not yet. But he starts walking faster, gaze locked on Daryl like he’s a mark.
Daryl sees a pole barn and makes for it. He knows he’ll never outrun Rick. Knows his long legs and stubborn streak will close the gap sooner or later.
But, fuck, that just makes it better.
Daryl turns and cuts toward the vehicles just outside the pole barn. An old maple stands sentinel at the edge of the building. He ducks under a low-hanging limb, then his heart drops into his stomach.
Distantly, he hears Rick’s footfall quicken behind him. It lights a fire under his ass and he starts sprinting.
Rick does too.
No more playing. No more patience. Just the heavy thud of boots gaining ground, closer, closer, until Daryl can practically feel the heat of him at his back.
He only has enough time to run into a row of rusting cars and an old camper van.
And he's cornered himself yet again.
Daryl slows only for one second to reassess, but apparently that’s all the time Rick needs. His arms snake around his waist, yanking him backward into the solid wall of his chest.
Rick chuckles, breath coming quickly. “Doesn’t seem like you’re trying very hard to get away from me.”
Daryl grunts, twisting, but Rick’s grip is immovable, breath hot against Daryl’s neck as he navigates him toward a Mustang Fastback. With a rough shove, Rick tilts Daryl forward over the car’s hood until his palms flatten on metal, still warm from the afternoon sun.
Rick shoves Daryl’s jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh this time.
Oh, fuck, finally.
Rick smacks his ass so hard that Daryl knows a handprint is already welting on his skin.
Daryl’s barely finished reacting to it when Rick’s eager hand dives between his legs. He finds his clit with far too much finesse. Daryl’s legs snap together on instinct.
Rick tsks against the back of his neck. “None of that, now.” His boot nudges between Daryl’s feet, then kicks them apart. "Spread ‘em."
His legs obey, hips tilting forward into Rick’s touch when he finds his clit again.
"God, you're fuckin' soaked, Dixon."
Daryl grinds down against Rick’s hand, simply moving how it feels good. Clumsy and boneless, and Rick just keeps rubbing and rubbing. Daryl’s arms wobble, head dropping between his shoulders.
“Lower—”
“Oh, lower, huh?” Rick laughs. His hand follows his request, a single finger gliding through his folds before slipping right into his cunt. “This where you need it?”
With a long, affirmative moan, Daryl melts, collapsing forward onto the hood of the car.
Rick props himself over him and thrusts his index finger, slow and easy. That alone makes his knees tremble. When he adds a second and it glides in easily, they buckle.
Rick doesn’t let him fall, just grips him around his ribs and hauls him upright again, Daryl’s back pressed to his chest.
God.
“More—” Daryl cuts himself off with a gasp when Rick starts fingerfucking him with enthusiasm.
He doesn’t finish the thought. Can’t.
Won’t.
Ever.
Doesn’t need to.
He can’t think, not while Rick’s palm keeps bumping into his clit like that.
Then he’s pushing a third in, and now Daryl feels the stretch. His thighs tremble, then snap together. Rick catches them with his knees, forcing them back open. Daryl tries to resist doing it again, but his body moves before he can stop it, knees coming together.
“Did you forget what I said about pissing me off, Dixon?” Rick growls. His lips drag over the curve of his shoulder as he pulls Daryl’s shirt all the way off his arms. “Ever touched yourself like this?”
"Never that far insi—Fuck—"
"Mhm?" Rick hums. "Too chicken?"
"Go to hell."
"Damn, you got a mouth on you."
Daryl’s glad he has his legs pinned now. They really wouldn’t keep him vertical otherwise.
And before long, Daryl’s world narrows to the filthy, wet sound of Rick’s fingers fucking into him. His hips writhe, chasing the pressure, but Rick’s grip around his waist keeps him still, forcing him to take it exactly how he gives it.
It’s too much—the stretch, the burn, the way Rick’s free hand fists in his hair again and yanks his head back to look at his expression.
“Yeah, there he is,” Rick murmurs. His fingers curl inside, rubbing against something that makes Daryl whine like a fucking dog. “That’s it, c’mon. Lemme hear ya.”
Rick's hand pistons between his thighs. The rough smack of his palm meeting Daryl's clit sends him to a planet all its own.
Oh.
Wait, shit. Oh.
Daryl pants rough and ragged as he feels the familiar build. “Rick.”
“Mhm?”
“Think’m gonna—”
“Oh, not yet you aren’t.”
Rick wrenches him up by the hair. He guides him toward the camper van and Daryl stumbles around as he goes, jeans low around his thighs.
When Daryl hears the clink of a belt behind him, for a dizzying second, he thinks, at long last, Rick’s going to get his cock out and fuck him.
He hears a clink again, but it’s not Rick’s belt.
It’s his holster.
Rick steers Daryl’s head toward the camper door.
The cold muzzle of Rick’s revolver presses against the back of his skull, fleeting, before sliding away to point past his shoulder. The barrel gleams in the fading light as he aims it toward the door of the camper van.
“Open it,” Rick murmurs.
Daryl obeys without thought, hinges groaning as he swings it wide. Dust motes swirl in the dim interior.
No groans, no shuffling. Just stale air carrying the warm scent of sunbaked leather.
Rick’s gun vanishes from his periphery with a smooth click of the hammer, holstered before Daryl can blink.
Rick shoves him forward, and Daryl stumbles. The toe of his boot catches on the doorframe, and he goes down.
Daryl goes down chest-first with a grunt, ribs bouncing off linoleum. He crawls to the couch to regain some dignity, but Rick denies him of that.
Just as he makes it to the cushions, Rick drags him backward by the ankle. Daryl hisses when the skin of his stomach squeaks and skids along the floor.
Daryl twists, kicking at him with his free foot. Rick dodges and hauls him even closer. Daryl's fingers dig into the rug by the sink in vain as he’s pulled and flipped over.
Daryl starts panicking once he’s turned onto his back.
Rick pins Daryl’s leg down, his boot laces snapping under impatient tugs. Rick wrenches the first one off and tosses it behind him into the grass. The second boot follows, and his socks are gone just as fast.
Rick’s fingers hook into the waistband of Daryl’s jeans and boxers with no ceremony. One rough pull drags them down and off.
Daryl’s breath hitches. The cold autumn air hits his bare ass, his cunt, the backs of his thighs, but it’s the hungry look in Rick’s eyes that makes him shiver.
Daryl feels like he blinks. Then Rick’s naked.
All of him—
Oh.
Daryl’s breath halts and dissolves into his chest.
Rick’s cock juts out from his hips, veins snaking along his shaft to the tip,, flushed angry red. It looks like it belongs in one of those magazines they found earlier. The kind Daryl scoffed at for being unrealistic.
Well, here it is.
“Ain’t no way,” Daryl rasps. “You tryna kill me?”
Rick exhales through his nose, amused. He shuts the camper door behind him and takes a step toward the couch and sits down onto it. He slouches back, fist closing around his cock and holding it up just for show.
Rick pats his thigh and crooks a finger at him. “C’mere.”
He stays right where he is on the floor. "Nah."
Rick’s all cool nonchalance. “I'll make it fit.”
Daryl blinks. “You’ll make it fit?”
“Yeah. Now get over here before I start dragging you around again.” He spreads his legs wider on the couch, stroking his cock lazily. "You think I’m playin’ around?"
Daryl must hesitate a second too long, because Rick’s patience snaps. He sits up quick, hand shooting down to keep his promise. Daryl concedes. “Okay, fine. Damn.”
He climbs up onto Rick’s lap.
Slowly.
Fuck, he’s so nervous. He has no idea what to do or how to do it.
“There you go,” Rick murmurs. His hands slide around to the back of his thighs, coaxing him forward until he’s straddling him.
Feeling Rick’s hands gliding around on his bare skin just reminds him how unbelievably out of his depth he is. Not to mention how fucking sensitive he is.
Rick pushes down on his legs. “Lower. Yeah, like that.” He slouches even more as he readjusts his cock to lay flat on his stomach, then he tilts his hips up, dragging the length through his folds.
Daryl’s clit catches on the head with every roll of his hips. His brain feels heavy, so he slumps forward against Rick’s shoulder.
Rick exhales through his nose, amused. “C’mon, rub on me,” he coaxes.
Daryl’s hips stutter, clunky for all of two seconds before giving in to the slow roll Rick’s guiding him into.
“Good,” Rick praises, fingers digging into the meat of Daryl’s ass. “Shit, I still can't get over how wet you are.”
Daryl’s pulse thunders in his ears, heat crawling up his neck. He should be mortified, but Rick groans, urging him on. All of that chasing feels childish compared to how adult he’s being right now.
“Okay, hey,” Rick rasps, “I want you to try takin’ me.”
Daryl nods nervously and reaches down between them.
Rick’s cock is hot against his palm, thick and heavy, pulsing when he wraps his fingers around it. He’s so damn soft and smooth. Daryl floats out an appreciative sigh as he traces along a vein.
Rick scoffs. “Never had anyone look at my dick with heart eyes like that before.”
“Stop.” Daryl shoves at his shoulder, then shifts his weight forward. He angles Rick’s cock toward his entrance as best he can, but the second the head presses against him, his fingers slip.
It slides uselessly across his folds, smearing wet on the inside of his thigh.
Daryl exhales sharply through his nose, frustration already prickling under his skin. Being scrutinized is bad enough, but eyes on him when he’s naked makes him want to vanish.
Especially when he can’t get Rick’s dick inside him.
"How the hell’s this supposed to fit?" Daryl grits out. He shifts his weight again.
“It will,” Rick soothes. “Just breathe.”
Breathe?
Sure.
With a scowl, Daryl tilts his hips around in restless circles to see if he can get him inside his cunt any easier.
The main problem is that he’s still too scared to force it.
Both of them groan when the head of his cock rubs hot along the seam of him, because that alone feels pretty damn great. Daryl could just grind along the length of him until he loses it, but again, he ain’t no fucking quitter.
Rick is already wet with Daryl's slick, which biologically, is meant to ease the glide.
Clearly it ain’t doing shit.
Maybe he’s just broken or something.
At least they found a decent seat for Rick to lean back on while he twiddles his goddamn thumbs. Daryl’s been trying at this for too long already.
Nothing is working in his favor here.
Syrupy golden sunlight slants through the window above the couch, directly in Daryl’s eyes. Lights him up like a fucking exhibit. Can’t even see Rick’s face because he’s in shadow down there.
Motes of dust swirl around whenever he puffs a breath. Which he’s doing a lot of, apparently. His chest is shiny with sweat.
Fuck, it’s hot in the sun.
Daryl’s always heard that first times were awkward, but that’s the thing, it’s not just awkward. It’s straight up fucking humiliating. He’s making a fool of himself.
Obviously Rick’s not the virgin here, so he could cut himself some slack, but Daryl’s pride won’t let him do that.
Daryl exhales hard through his nose, lifts higher, tries again. Daryl bites back a noise when the head of his cock catches, thighs trembling.
Then it slips. Again. Even with how wet he is.
Hell, maybe that’s why it keeps happening.
Regardless, Daryl grits his teeth and tries again.
Slips.
"You gotta push down, Daryl.” Rick’s grip on his hips tightens and he moans, head dropping back against the back of the couch. “You're teasin’ me."
Yeah right. Daryl wishes he had that much control of the situation.
“No, no, no.” Rick clutches the back of Daryl’s neck and pulls him down until their foreheads bump together. "Yes I will. You really need to breathe."
“I can’t—”
“Daryl.” A laugh bubbles out of him.
"Quit laughin'. You got a damn tree trunk between your legs."
Rick barely holds back his chuckle. "Listen. You’re just thinkin’ too hard." His hands leave Daryl’s nape in favor of resting on his waist again. "Please, lemme help you."
“Nah. I got it.” Daryl swallows, shifts again. Focuses on loosening the tension coiled tight in his thighs.
Tries.
Slips.
“Dammit.”
"Breathe, Dixon."
"'M tryin', man, shit."
“I know. You’re tryin’ so hard.”
Slip.
“Fuckin’—”
“D, you gotta push down harder than that.” Rick’s thumbs rub circles on his belly. “It’ll hurt, but you’ll adjust. Promise.”
Regardless, he tries once more, because he ain’t no goddamn quitter.
Slip.
Just as Daryl’s about to start raging, Rick catches his chin in his hand and makes him focus on him instead.
Daryl melts into him a bit.
Rick’s eyes are serious. “You’re gonna stop being so damn stubborn, and you’re gonna let me help you.”
Daryl nods as best he can, then Rick’s doing exactly that. Daryl sits up as Rick adjusts the angle for him. He tilts his pelvis far more forward.
It’s shameful just how off the mark he was.
Rick holds his cock up for him. “There we go,” he sighs. “Now sit. C’mon.”
Daryl takes a shaky breath, looks up at him, then back down. Rick holds him in place and pushes up at the same time as Daryl’s weight settles.
Daryl hisses.
A little more—
“Shit, D.” Rick groans low in his throat. “Let me in.” He pushes up against him with more force.
Daryl chokes out an, "Oh, oh—"
Then his breath shatters as the head of Rick’s cock bullies its way inside him. His hand flies to the back of the couch and white knuckles it.
“Goddammit, Rick—”
His thighs tremble with the effort of staying there, of not lifting back off immediately. Everything burns. Deep, radiating pressure that makes him want to cry.
Rick looks desperate all of a sudden. “Your cunt’s tight as hell,” he rasps.
"You're splittin' me in half."
"Breathe."
Daryl starts panting.
"Breathe slowly."
"Man, quit with that meditation shit. Tryin’ not to die right now."
"Want some more help?"
“No, fuckin’, just—shit—just gimme a second.”
Rick's hands skate up his sides to rest on the dips in his waist. The warmth and tenderness of Rick’s palms is absurdly comforting, considering the rest of him is threatening to rearrange his insides.
"You're doin’ good," Rick smiles.
The praise pops like little sparks in Daryl’s chest. He heaves a deep breath and glances down at him. "Doin' good?"
“Yeah, real good.”
The sun has dipped far enough behind the trees for him to properly see Rick’s face now. Kind of wishes he couldn’t though, because whenever Daryl whimpers or gasps, he sees Rick’s expression tick, like he’s enjoying the sound of it or something.
Daryl shoves a hand into his cheek and groans. "Quit watchin’ me like that."
Rick chuckles. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Stop.”
Daryl braces for something stupid when Rick’s mouth opens, breath held and hesitating.
"You’re cute like this," he finally says.
Yep. Stupid.
Doesn’t matter that he braced for it either. It still kicks him in the chest.
"Christ, man—Quit with the sappy shit."
“What? I can’t say you’re cute?”
Daryl slaps a hand over Rick’s mouth before he can say anything worse. “Nah.”
Rick’s lips twitch under his palm, warm and unbearably fond.
Daryl wants to strangle him.
Rick’s breath puffs hot against his palm, and Daryl can feel the shape of his smile. Sees it in his eyes.
Daryl really thought all of this taking-your-virginity shit would be rough and quick, something to get over with. Not whatever the hell this is turning into.
Rick’s breathing has gone shaky and fast. He doesn’t remember when that happened. Daryl lowers his hand from his mouth.
“Want you on your back, Daryl.”
He says it like it's already decided.
Rick's hands slide up and close around Daryl's middle before he can answer, not that he was going to argue. A startled breath catches in Daryl's throat as the world tilts beneath him.
Rick shifts his weight and rolls them sideways. For a brief second everything feels unsteady, tangled together, and then Daryl's shoulders sink into the cushions. Rick follows him down, crowding close.
Daryl’s thighs fall apart beneath the pressure of Rick settling between them. Shit, he watches Rick spit into his palm just to stroke himself all slow.
He leans forward and measures his cock against Daryl's stomach, like he's trying to see how deep he'll reach.
Daryl’s cunt pulses when he sees Rick's cock twitch and weep onto his stomach, just below his bellybutton.
“Do you have any idea what you fucking do to me, Daryl?”
“No.”
Rick leans back and drags the head of his cock over his clit, back and forth. The pressure is perfect. “Lemme show you, then.”
Daryl’s heart does a somersault, hips rolling up into it. “Please.”
“Yeah?” Rick murmurs. “You beggin’?”
Daryl’s face burns hotter. He should lie, should bite back and force his denial, but his body’s being too honest for any of that.
So, he nods.
“Then you must be ready for my cock.”
Daryl shuts his eyes tight, arm flying up to cover them. He nods again, quicker this time.
The shift in Rick is instant—his amusement fades, replaced by something darker, more focused. Just like he was back in the study. The way Rick’s grip tightens on his thighs tells Daryl that he’s done playing around.
Before Daryl can brace himself, Rick pushes back in. The breach isn’t as jarring the second time. Daryl's wet eases the way, but when the head fully pops inside, he still gasps.
Daryl pulls his knees back so he can properly watch as Rick buries his cock deeper.
Mm, fuck.
Daryl watches in awe. He doesn't know how his body could accommodate something so thick, so long. Rick gradually disappears, stretching him open inch by agonizing inch.
A groan climbs out of Rick, like he can’t hold it in. He’s not even halfway in when he starts to thrust. Shallow, slow little movements.
In spite of the gentle slide, Daryl melts. His head drops back against the couch with a shaky moan. "Rick, please don't stop doin’ that."
Rick grins. "Well, since you asked so nicely." He obliges, each thrust reaching a fraction deeper than the last.
Daryl feels the drag of him in places he didn’t even know he could.
“Damn, Dixon.”
With a whine, Daryl lifts his head and sees Rick’s gaze locked on his lower belly. Both thumbs rub in reverent circles below his bellybutton.
Between one trembling breath and the next, Daryl notices why.
Rick’s cock is so goddamn big that he bulges him out from the inside.
With a satisfied groan, Rick pulls out until just the head of him catches inside. Then he pushes back in.
Slow as hell.
Rick’s cock fills him up. More, and more, until sure enough, his stomach bows out again.
“Fuck. Holy fuck.” Daryl quickly props himself up and slides a hand down his chest to shove Rick’s hands away so he can feel instead.
Rick laughs as he picks up speed. Daryl doesn’t even acknowledge it. His eyes stay fixed on the recurring swell of his belly, fingers trembling over it.
Shit, he’s going insane.
Rick makes it worse, fuck him, of course he does. His fingers splay warm over Daryl’s lower stomach, then he presses down just as he rolls his hips forward again.
The pressure is obscene. He feels it everywhere. Rick’s palm presses down like he’s trying to mold Daryl’s body around him.
Insane? Nah. Daryl’s brain simply goes empty. All he can think about is being speared on his cock.
Daryl’s mouth falls open around a long groan as Rick finally—finally—starts fucking him like he needs it. None of that slow, careful bullshit anymore. Just deep strokes that knock the air right out of his lungs.
"Look at that," Rick murmurs, voice gone low and grumbly, fingers digging into the meat of Daryl’s thighs. "Already goin’ stupid on my cock."
Daryl covers his face with one hand and flips him off with the other.
Rick pushes it away from his face, then his kiss lands hard.
Not careless. Not rushed.
Certain.
Daryl makes a rough sound in the back of his throat as Rick's mouth claims him, stealing every coherent thought he’s got left. One of Rick's hands slides into his hair while the other braces beside his shoulder, caging him in without actually trapping him.
The distinction matters.
Daryl feels it.
Feels the choice in it.
Still, he grabs a fistful of Rick's shirt and pulls him closer.
Like he couldn't stop himself if he tried.
Rick answers immediately.
The next kiss is deeper, slower, somehow even more overwhelming than the first. Daryl's pulse hammers against his ribs. Every nerve feels stripped bare, sparking beneath his skin.
His head sinks back into the cushions.
Rick follows.
Their foreheads knock together briefly when they break apart for air, neither of them getting far enough away to really count as separated.
Daryl's chest rises sharply when his hips pick up the pace, sliding around easily in his cunt.
Rick's gaze drops to his mouth.
Then lifts again.
That steady stare settles on him, dark and unwavering.
"Daryl," Rick says quietly.
Just his name.
Nothing else.
But it hits harder than a shove.
Daryl swallows.
His fingers tighten in Rick's shirt.
Rick's expression shifts, something fierce and fond flickering beneath the surface, and then he's kissing him again before Daryl can think of a single thing to say.
Probably for the best.
Thinking left the room a while ago.
Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick stills him by the waist and pulls out.
“No, God, fuck. Don’t st—”
Rick shushes him. “Wanna screw you from behind. Get on your knees.”
Daryl doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles to flip, chest pressed into the couch cushions, ass up.
Daryl blinks.
A choked noise comes from behind him. "Oh my God, Daryl."
He doesn't know what that comment's about, then his brain catches up. Both of Daryl's hands are holding himself open, presenting like some desperate fucking whore. His breath snags in his throat.
Daryl's never felt this raw, this needy, like his blood's too hot, searing through his veins like lava.
Rick exhales sharply behind him, and then—because he's an absolute bastard—he drags the thick head of his cock through his soaked folds instead of just fucking into him.
The glide is obscenely smooth, teasing, maddening.
"Rick—" Daryl’s voice cracks, throat tight like he’s about to cry. "Quit fuckin’ teasin’ me, dammit—just—" His fingers dig into the meat of his ass, hips jerking back uselessly against empty air.
Rick pushes back in without preamble, pace reckless right off the bat. Daryl groans in relief through his teeth, then he's just making sounds that scrape his throat raw.
It feels so good, fuck.
His cheek presses into the couch cushion, vision going blurry as Rick reams him open.
“Fuck, you're gone,” Rick murmurs, voice rough, hands sliding up Daryl’s back to grip his shoulders. “So pretty when you cry.”
Daryl wants to protest. Pretty ain’t the word he’d use, not with his thighs shaking, body covered in a gleam of sweat.
Wait. Cry?
He’s crying?
And Daryl really didn't think it could get better than this.
He's been wrong about that since the study.
Rick’s fingers hook over his shoulders and yank him back to meet the next thrust. The noise that tears out of Daryl is something between a shout and a sob, his hands fly up to the cushions as Rick's rhythm turns punishing, fucking into him with enough force to throw him forward with every drive of his hips.
Rick pants above him, chuckling breathlessly as his thrusts turn erratic. “And you said you couldn't take my cock.”
Daryl’s head spins. He is taking it, taking all of him. His hips jerk back instinctively, meeting Rick’s next thrust with a wet smack.
Both of them go still.
Fuck, that was incredible.
"Keep that up, D."
Rick hauls him back, grip bruising-tight on his collarbones. Daryl’s spine curves in a rigid arc as Rick starts fucking into him again—hard, merciless, no quarter given.
Daryl focuses on the rhythm, then his body just learns. He meets Rick halfway, pulls a ragged groan from both of them, sticky-wet where their bodies meet.
It’s so goddamn overwhelming.
Daryl’s hand shoots down between his thighs, fingers rubbing desperate circles over his clit.
The friction makes Daryl's spine tingle. Realization hits him like a punch because this is going to wreck him. He knows it.
Feels it.
His cunt pulses as he continues circling his clit—
Oh.
His orgasm rushes up on him so fast it gives him whiplash.
No slow climb, no warning, just a brick wall.
Only the wall isn't brick. It's velvet and clouds and warmth.
Daryl's eyes roll back, pleasure cresting when he clamps down around his cock. That's really when he feels how stuffed he is.
Squeezing. Fluttering. Full.
God, he's so fucking full.
“Comin' on my cock, Dixon?” Rick’s voice is so deep. "Shit."
Daryl’s body jerks through it, oversensitive and trembling, and Rick keeps going. The slide gets slicker, hotter as Daryl’s cunt grips around him in his aftershocks.
"So damn tight." Rick’s rhythm turns brutal—fast, sharp thrusts, chasing his own peak. "You drive me crazy."
Daryl hiccups, tranced and wrung out, but his hips still push back instinctively.
He’s boneless, pliant, letting Rick take what he needs. Helping him take it.
Daryl's mouth falls open when Rick's cock pulses, spilling inside. Filling him even more, fucking it deeper into him. Then he buries himself to the hilt and stays there.
Daryl's thoughts are syrupy-slow as he drops his head down, blinking vapidly at the ground below them.
Rick's weight is a furnace against his back, panting hot and damp between his shoulder blades. They stay like that—stuck together, sweaty and spent—long enough for Daryl's daze to lift and provide more sensory input.
He's sore as hell.
He flexes his fingers against the couch cushion, throat working around nothing.
Fuck, now what?
Rick finally shifts back, pulling out. He feels it immediately, sticky warmth trickling out of him, dripping onto the linoleum below.
His face burns.
"Jesus," Rick mutters. He leans down, hands still gripping Daryl's hips, and watches. Actually watches as more of it leaks out.
Daryl twitches, tries to squirm away, but Rick's fingers dig in, holding him in place. "Quit," he snaps, but there's no bite to it. "Man, I ruined you."
Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick’s thumbs spread him open. The air feels cool against his flushed skin.
The mortification is instant, heat rushing up his neck. He tries to squirm away, but Rick holds him firm, memorizing the way Daryl’s cunt pulses around nothing.
Then one thumb drags to center, teasing the swollen seam of him.
Daryl’s hips jerk before he can stop them. "Quit—" he starts, voice cracking, but the protest dies when that thumb presses inside him.
Rick hums appreciatively.
Daryl wants to vanish.
The thumb sinks deeper, curling inside him, and Daryl’s body jerks.
"Goddamn it, Rick," he grits out, but his hips roll into it anyway, chasing the pressure.
The sky outside has bled from gold to bruised purple. They’ve wasted too much daylight already.
"We—ah—we gotta get back ‘fore it’s full dark."
Rick’s other thumb rubs slow circles around his clit, maddeningly light. "Mm. Few more minutes."
Daryl’s thighs tremble, thighs squeezing around nothing as Rick’s thumb works him open, slick and easy. It’s too much. Not enough. His breath comes in shallow hitches, fingers clawing at the couch cushion. "Ain’t got a few minutes," he manages.
Rick finally concedes with a soft laugh. Daryl turns immediately, curling inward, shoulders hunching like he can fold himself small enough to disappear. His hair hangs in a damp curtain between them—his favorite hiding spot.
Rick doesn’t let him. He catches Daryl’s chin between his fingers, tilting his face up. The kiss he aims for his mouth gets intercepted by Daryl’s palm, shoved against his lips with a half-restrained grin.
"Go get my clothes, jackass," Daryl mutters, voice rough.
Rick blinks, slow, like he’s trying to recall the layout of the room through the fog of post-coital haze. His brow furrows. "Where’d you—?"
"Outside," Daryl deadpans. His fingers flex against Rick’s chest, nails scratching lightly through the damp curls there. The ghost of a grin tugs at his mouth when Rick’s expression shifts—confusion melting into realization, then settling into something unbearably fond.
Rick’s grin spreads slow. "It was a good idea at the time," he jokes. His hand reaches up to clutch the back of Daryl’s neck, tugging him forward before he can dodge.
This kiss actually lands, square on his forehead, warm and lingering.
Rick exhales a laugh through his nose, then finally pulls away and stands. His knees pop audibly—too many years kneeling in dirt and gravel—as he stretches his arms overhead. Daryl watches the play of muscles in his back, the way his spine flexes when he bends to rifle through a nearby cabinet.
The blanket Rick pulls out is woolen, smelling of dust and cedar. He tosses it at Daryl’s head with a smirk. "Cover up before you catch cold, princess."
“I envy people who haven’t met you.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.”
Daryl flips him off but snuggles into the woolen blanket anyway, pulling it tight around his shoulders.
He watches Rick step into his jeans one leg at a time, hopping slightly to keep his balance. The sight is so goddamn domestic that Daryl’s chest does something weird and fluttery.
"Don’t go anywhere," Rick says, already buttoning his jeans one-handed like he’s in a goddamn hurry. Like Daryl’s got anywhere to be right now.
The second the camper door clicks shut behind Rick, Daryl’s face cracks into a grin so wide it hurts his cheeks. He presses both palms over his mouth, muffling the stupid, giddy noise that bubbles up his throat.
He pulls the blanket up to his chin like some chastity shield.
As if that ship hasn’t already sailed.
He slumps onto his side, hugging his knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, replaying every second.
Rick’s hands, the stretch, the way his stomach bulged. It’s all a sweaty, oversensitive blur.
His thighs stick together when he shifts, and yeah, okay, that’s gross, but he also kinda wants to rub his legs like a cricket and chase the aftershocks.
a knock on your door wasn't uncommon, but one in the dead of night was confusing. you were half asleep, hoping it would just go away. you’d figure it out in the morning if it was important. the knocks, however, persisted for much longer than expected. when you finally went to answer it, though, they had stopped, and you swung open the door to look.
daryl dixon was pissing in your yard. grumbling to himself, he swayed while he peed in your bushes. once he realized you had seen him, he quickly tucked himself away and cleared his throat, struggling to stay balanced. "y'didn't answer the door, i had t'piss," he slurred.
you didn't look impressed, but quickly realized he was drunk. so, instead of yelling at him to scram and leave you alone, you let the pathetic man in your house. sitting him down at the center island, you got to work grabbing him some water and bread. he felt out of place, being taken care of like this. but god, he loved being in your home. it smelled like you, made him warm and floaty. he liked your hands, small and soft, grabbing him a glass. too drunk to think, daryl’s lips moved before his brain did, and he made a fool of himself.
"you smell good," he mumbled. "y'look nice. thanks fer this. sorry i pissed in yer yard."
you sighed, tired eyes focused on getting daryl water. a shake of your head, and you shoved it in his palm. “slow sips. if you vomit on my carpet, i’m makin’ you lick it up.”
“yes, ma’am,” daryl muttered, head down in shame.
watching him take small sips begrudgingly, you kept your arms folded. “you piss on my daisies?” you asked flatly.
daryl paused, blinking slow. he didn’t fucking know. had no idea. he barely remembered doing it. a shrug.
you sighed, rubbing the bridge of your nose, before making an executive decision to walk over and grab the glass. you examined his face, glassy eyes, the kicked puppy frown.
“you’re a messy drunk,” you murmured, reaching up to stroke his cheek.
daryl flinched, before leaning into it, “yeah… i know.”
“so why’re you drunk?”
“missed you.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“it is…” daryl chewed the inside of his cheek. “was jus’… thinkin’. about’cha. wanted to… see you.”
“you drank before you got here, though,” you clarified, hand falling from his face. “so what was up before?”
daryl didn’t answer. instead, he leaned in, and let his forehead rest on your shoulder. you could’ve pried it out of him, but you couldn’t help wrapping your arms around him. “you’re an idiot,” you whispered.
“you smell nice,” daryl mumbled.
“you mentioned that,” you rolled your eyes.
a/n: here have this while i spiral into oblivion. thanks for your patience & support as always. mwah.
hello little lamb chops. i apologize for lack of uploads. lately, my life has been crazy! my partner and i have separated, and i’ve been staying with a friend until he gets his ass out of our apartment.
in this chaos, i have come really short on cash. my partner owes me money i may never see, including next months rent. i’m doing what i can for myself, but just wanted to put this out there if anyone is able to help. requests are closed, but if you are looking for something in return for your support, just let me know and i am willing to do it!!
my ko-fi is here.
um no pressure for this also. just putting it up because i have it and ahhhhh. i love u. i promise i’m working on more content. giving u kisses. thank u for listening.
this is not my graphic credits to owner i love sonic ):
In honor of Mother’s Day, I would like to offer y’all the thought of Daryl casually calling you mama in front of people like it’s just a regular nickname (I.e. “c’mere, mama” or “slow down, mama, you’re gonna break you’re damn neck” while you’re trying to figure out his motorcycle). To anyone else it sounds like a redneck term of endearment but you know he really means mommy
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