"Even Your Pants Haven't Showered In 3 Weeks"

Awful at chemistry because it is a cheMYSTERY to me / no game is a game if it doesn't have ass, sass, or sin in it / practice safe sex, so go fuck yourself

[belleeebelleee]

Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader

Happy doesn't realise you love him back. The club thinks he should be studied by scientists.

Warnings: Happy tells Tig to kill himself but it's mostly a joke, not detailed sex because it felt like the right way to write it for the feel of the story

this.. this one i've had sitting in my drafts for like.. 5 months.. maybe longer.. please be nice about it - i don't know what it is about this one but i love it and it's like my baby

By the time the club collectively reached the conclusion that Happy Lowman ought to be tranquillised, tagged, and handed over to a team of highly trained behavioural scientists for long-term observation, it had already become painfully obvious to literally everyone with functioning eyesight that the man was in love with you and, somehow even more absurdly, had absolutely no idea that you were in love with him too.

This was not a subtle situation.

Subtle would have implied room for interpretation, a possibility of misunderstanding, some faint and noble ambiguity that could reasonably excuse the staggering level of emotional incompetence currently on display.

What was happening instead was closer to watching a man stand in the middle of a rainstorm and insist he wasn't wet while water poured off his face in sheets.

Happy, for his part, had long since stopped pretending he wasn't gone for you. That particular battle had been lost months ago, somewhere between the first time he rearranged his entire day because you'd casually mentioned needing help moving furniture and the second time he nearly broke a prospect's wrist for making you flinch with a slammed door.

He knew he wanted you. He knew he thought about you too much, worried about you too often, looked for you in every room, listened for your laugh over every other sound, noticed every stupid little thing about you with a level of attention that bordered on clinical obsession. He knew that if you called him at three in the morning, he would answer before the first ring finished and have his keys in hand before you even explained what was wrong. He knew that the sight of you in one of his sweatshirts had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. He knew that every time you smiled at him in that soft, private way of yours, something hot and helpless and suspiciously tender unfurled in his chest and made him feel like he was being skinned alive from the inside out. He knew all of that.

What he did not know, apparently, was that you loved him back.

Not liked. Not flirted with. Not found attractive. Loved.

Deeply. Obviously. Embarrassingly obviously.

The kind of obviously that made the entire club stare at him with a blend of horror, fascination, and the exhausted pity usually reserved for very stupid men and concussed deer.

It had become a running problem.

"He's broken," Tig announced one afternoon from the battered couch in the clubhouse, speaking with the solemnity of a man delivering a eulogy while simultaneously stealing fries off Bobby's plate.

"Like, in a medical sense. There is no other explanation. I think we should send him somewhere. For research."

Juice looked up from his laptop. "A hospital?"

"No, not a hospital. A lab."

Chibs, who was halfway through a beer and had been forced to witness one too many catastrophically oblivious interactions between you and Happy in the past week alone, snorted into the bottle.

"Aye. Put him in a glass enclosure with enrichment toys and let some poor bastard in a white coat take notes."

Bobby nodded, disturbingly thoughtful.

"You'd need to control the environment. Make sure he has access to coffee, knives, and a photograph of her. See what happens."

Tig perked up. "Can we give him puzzles? Like one of those little boxes where if he solves it he gets a treat?"

Juice grimaced. "Why are you all acting like he's an ape?"

"Because an ape would have figured this out by now," Chibs said flatly.

Across the room, Happy sat at the bar cleaning one of his guns with the focused calm of a man who was either deliberately ignoring the conversation or genuinely hadn't noticed that it was about him... Both possibilities were equally likely.

He looked up once, expression blank.

"What."

"Nothing," Chibs said.

Tig leaned forward, grinning with all the menace of a man who had no instinct for self-preservation. "We're just trying to figure out if you're naturally this stupid or if it's a learned behavior."

Happy went back to cleaning the gun.

"Kill yourself."

"See?" Tig said, gesturing wildly. "He's defensive. That's how you know it's a sensitive topic."

Happy did not rise to it, which in itself was suspicious, because normally Tig could bait him into at least one threat within thirty seconds.

But you were due at the clubhouse soon, which meant Happy's attention had already started doing that thing it always did in the hour leading up to your arrival: stretching itself taut toward the future like a wire under tension, every part of him more alert, more present, more impossible to miss. He wasn't fidgety. Happy didn't fidget. But he had checked the time three times in the last ten minutes, and when a bike pulled up outside, his head lifted automatically before he could stop it.

It wasn't you.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

Chibs watched this happen and put a hand over his face.

"Jesus Christ."

Juice blinked. "What?"

"He looked disappointed."

"Of course he looked disappointed," Bobby said. "She's not here yet."

"No, I know, but—" Juice lowered his voice as if Happy wasn't ten feet away and perfectly capable of hearing him. "He looked like a dog whose owner didn't come home."

Tig slapped a hand to his chest. "That's the saddest thing you've ever said."

"I'm right."

"You are right," Chibs muttered. "That's the problem."

The thing was, if Happy's feelings for you had existed in a vacuum, maybe the club could have accepted the nonsense with a little more grace. But they didn't. Your feelings were there too, plain as day, practically glowing in neon, and every single member of SAMCRO had been unwillingly drafted into the role of witness.

They saw the way your whole face changed when Happy walked into a room, the way your posture softened, the way your eyes tracked him without you seeming to realize you were doing it. They saw how you always ended up next to him even in crowded spaces, how your body angled toward his on instinct, how you saved him the last cup of coffee without asking whether he wanted it because of course he did, how you remembered tiny things about him that nobody else bothered to notice, like which shoulder got stiff after long rides and which brand of painkillers he hated because they made him groggy. They saw the way you reached for him whenever you were tired or cold or overwhelmed, not dramatically, not clingy, just with that quiet certainty of someone who had already decided where safety lived. And they saw, perhaps most damningly of all, how you looked at him when he wasn't paying attention.

That look was what finally convinced Bobby.

Bobby had held out longer than the others, partly because he was a fundamentally decent man who preferred to mind his own business and partly because he had once made the mistake of commenting on Happy's love life and spent the next two weeks wondering whether his brake lines were going to fail in retaliation.

But one night you were all at Teller-Morrow for a barbecue, and Happy had gotten pulled away into a conversation with Jax near the garage, leaving you at one of the picnic tables with Gemma and Tara while the rest of the club milled around drinking beer and pretending not to eavesdrop on everyone else's conversations.

Somebody said something funny and you laughed. Then, like your body had developed a private compass keyed exclusively to one man, you turned your head automatically to look for Happy so he could share the moment with you.

He wasn't even part of the conversation. He couldn't possibly have heard the joke. But you looked for him anyway, eyes skimming the yard until they found him by the garage, and when they did, your expression changed into something so nakedly soft and fond and helpless that Bobby physically lowered his beer and said, out loud, to nobody in particular, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Gemma had followed his line of sight, seen your face, and sighed the long-suffering sigh of a woman who had raised emotionally stunted men for most of her adult life.

"Yep."

Tara, beside her, smiled into her drink. "She's gone."

"She's been gone," Gemma corrected. "The problem is so has he, and somehow he still hasn't noticed she's standing right there waving a damn flag."

From the grill, Piney had grunted. "Boy's got rocks in his head."

This, more or less, became the official consensus.

Happy, unfortunately, remained blissfully, infuriatingly unconvinced.

He had reasons, of course. Stupid reasons, but reasons.

Happy had spent most of his life existing in spaces where love either came with conditions sharp enough to draw blood or didn't show up at all. He understood lust. Understood loyalty. Understood possession, protection, hunger, violence, devotion expressed through action rather than language. Those things made sense. They fit in his hands.

But the idea that someone like you—young and bright and good in all the ways he wasn't, with your easy smile and your ridiculous ability to make everyone around you feel steadier just by existing—could look at a man like him and want more than a handful of stolen moments? That did not compute.

In Happy's mind, the best he could realistically hope for was that you liked him enough to keep choosing his company, liked him enough to kiss him on the cheek when the you felt like it, liked him enough to let him take care of you in the quiet, unspoken ways he'd somehow become addicted to.

Love was another category entirely, one he had filed firmly under things for other people.

He wanted you too much to risk pushing. Too much to gamble. So instead he did what Happy always did when confronted with feelings he didn't know how to survive: he took what was offered, guarded it with his life, and convinced himself not to ask for more.

This would have been almost noble if it weren't so spectacularly idiotic.

The tipping point came on a Thursday night.

It had been a long week. Everyone was tired. Tempers were short. Half the club was at the clubhouse drinking in varying stages of silence while a storm rolled in over Charming, thunder grumbling low in the distance and rain tapping against the windows hard enough to blur the parking lot lights into smears of gold.

You had come by after work wearing one of Happy's old hoodies over leggings, hair damp from the weather, carrying takeout because you'd correctly guessed that the men currently occupying the clubhouse had not eaten anything more substantial than beer and nicotine since noon. This alone should have been enough to prove your devotion.

You handed food to everyone with the absent efficiency of someone who'd done it a hundred times, smiled through Tig's inappropriate gratitude, swatted Juice when he tried to steal from Happy's carton, and finally settled onto the couch with your own dinner while the room gradually softened around you in the way it always did, as if your presence somehow took the sharpest edges off everything without demanding credit for it.

Happy took the armchair beside the couch.

Not across the room.

Not at the bar.

Beside you.

Because of course he did.

You ate with one leg folded under you, occasionally nudging your foot against his boot under the coffee table in a rhythm so unconscious it made Chibs want to scream.

Happy, equally unconscious, rested one forearm along the arm of the chair nearest you, fingers close enough that every now and then your hand brushed his when you reached for your drink. Neither of you reacted like this was unusual.

Which, to be fair, it wasn't. Physical closeness had become so routine between you that the club had long since stopped flinching every time one of you casually invaded the other's space.

The problem wasn't the touching.

The problem was the look on your face every time Happy said something that made you laugh, every time he leaned over to steal a bite from your fries, every time he absentmindedly tugged the hood of the sweatshirt straight because it had bunched up beneath your hair. You looked at him like he was your favourite secret and your safest place and the answer to a question nobody else had heard you ask.

And Happy looked back at you like a starving man permitted to kneel at the gates of heaven but too afraid to step inside.

"He's hopeless," Tig whispered.

Chibs, watching from the bar, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Aye."

Bobby took a drink. "I think we need an intervention."

Juice looked alarmed. "Like... for drugs?"

"For stupidity."

"Can you stage an intervention for stupidity?"

Gemma, who had arrived halfway through the meal and was now smoking by the open office door, exhaled a ribbon of smoke toward the ceiling. "You can if enough people are willing to yell."

The opportunity arrived faster than anyone expected.

At some point the power flickered. The storm got worse. The room dimmed, then brightened again, and you startled hard enough at a crack of thunder overhead that your drink tipped, splashing across the front of your shirt and the couch cushion with a cold, humiliating mess of soda and melting ice.

"Shit," you hissed, jumping up.

Happy was on his feet before the cup even hit the floor.

He grabbed napkins, set his food aside, knelt in front of the couch without hesitation and started blotting the spill before it could soak deeper into the fabric, his movements quick and efficient and so instinctively attentive that the room went very quiet. You stood there apologising, embarrassed, one hand pressed to the damp front of the shirt while Happy muttered, "Stop. It's fine," in that low, rough voice of his, already focused on fixing the problem before you had time to feel bad about it.

"It's on the cushion, Happy, I can—"

"I got it."

"It's on me too."

He looked up.

That was all.

One glance.

Just one.

And because your shirt was wet now, clinging to the shape of your body in a way that immediately made three separate men in the room look anywhere else out of self-preservation—no one wanted to risk Happy's wrath over this—and Happy froze for half a second with a napkin in his hand and a look on his face that suggested he was having approximately twelve different crises at once, half of them protective and half of them deeply, spectacularly filthy.

Then he stood up, peeled off his kutte and the flannel underneath it in one swift movement, and held the flannel out to you without a word.

You blinked. "Happy—"

"Put it on."

"I'm okay."

"You're cold."

You weren't cold.

Everyone knew you weren't cold.

But arguing with him in that tone was pointless, so you took the flannel, cheeks pink, and disappeared into the bathroom to change while Happy finished cleaning the couch with the kind of single-minded focus usually reserved for bomb disposal.

The second the door shut behind you, Tig leaned toward Chibs and whispered, loudly enough for half the room to hear, "If she comes back out wearing his shirt and he still doesn't get it, I'm setting something on fire."

"Make it him," Gemma said.

Happy ignored all of them.

Or pretended to.

Five minutes later you returned wearing Happy's flannel, the sleeves rolled because they were too long, the hem brushing the middle of your thighs, and every single person in the room watched Happy look up from the couch and then stop moving entirely.

The man went still in a way that should've triggered emergency alarms.

His eyes locked on you.

Your fingers toyed with the rolled cuff of the sleeve.

And then, because apparently you had no regard whatsoever for the blood pressure of anyone in the vicinity, you smiled at him and said softly, "Smells like you."

Tig slapped both hands over his face.

Juice made a strangled noise.

Bobby whispered, "Oh my God."

Happy stared.

You, perhaps mistaking his silence for confusion rather than the complete collapse of all higher thought, took two small steps closer and touched the front of the flannel where it covered your chest.

"I like stealing your clothes," you admitted.

Nobody breathed.

Not one person.

Happy's mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

No sound came out.

Gemma muttered, "Dear Lord."

You were blushing now, but you didn't back down. If anything, you looked more determined.

"I like when you take care of me."

Happy still said nothing.

"I like when you hover," you continued, voice quiet but steady. "And when you glare at people for standing too close to me. And when you act all annoyed every time I skip lunch but then somehow have food waiting for me anyway. And I like that you know when I'm tired before I do. And I like that you always make sure I get home safe. And—"

Chibs was already grinning because he knew what was coming before Happy did.

You swallowed.

Looked directly at him.

And said, with the kind of trembling courage that made the entire room collectively lean in, "I've been in love with you for a while, Happy."

Silence detonated through the clubhouse.

Thunder rolled outside.

Somewhere in the back room a pipe clanged.

Tig whispered, "Holy shit."

Happy did not move.

He looked like someone had taken a crowbar to his skull and pried his brain open. Completely stunned. Completely motionless. Every line of his body gone rigid with disbelief so absolute it bordered on reverence. If Chibs had walked over and waved a hand in front of his face, Happy probably wouldn't have blinked.

You, on the other hand, looked increasingly alarmed by the lack of response.

Which was fair.

Because from your perspective, you had just confessed your love to a notoriously terrifying man in front of half his club and he was currently staring at you like he'd forgotten how language worked.

Your voice got smaller.

"...Happy?"

That did it.

He moved so suddenly that Juice actually flinched. Three strides and he was in front of you, hands cupping your face with a rough care that made your breath catch, eyes searching yours so intensely it was almost unbearable to watch.

"Say it again."

You blinked.

"What?"

His thumbs brushed your cheeks.

"Say it again."

The room had gone so silent that even the rain seemed to pause.

Your lips parted.

And because you were either the bravest woman alive or just as far gone for him as everyone had suspected, you whispered, "I love you."

Happy shut his eyes.

Just for a second.

Like the words hit him physically.

Like he needed that one tiny moment to survive them.

Then he opened them again and Chibs watched the exact instant Happy Lowman—hard, lethal, emotionally constipated Happy Lowman—broke wide open right there in the middle of the clubhouse. The way a lock gives after enough pressure.

He leaned his forehead against yours and let out a breath that sounded almost wrecked.

"...Thought I was the only one."

Your face crumpled in the softest, most beautiful way.

"Oh, honey."

Tig immediately choked on his own spit.

Gemma cackled.

Happy, who had just called people honey exactly zero times in his life and would probably kill anyone else for even thinking the word in his direction, looked like he might either kiss you or pass out. You solved the dilemma for him by grabbing the front of his T-shirt and pulling him down to you.

The kiss was not gentle.

It wasn't frantic either, not sloppy or reckless, but it had the unmistakable force of two people who had spent far too long trying to survive around feelings that had long since outgrown containment. Happy kissed you like a man making up for lost time and lost nerve and every miserable second he'd spent convincing himself not to hope for this. One hand slid to the back of your neck, the other locked around your waist and pulled you flush against him, and the sound you made when he deepened it was enough to send Tig staggering backward in exaggerated outrage.

"Okay!" Tig shouted. "That's enough! We get it! You're both hot and in love! Some of us are trying to have a normally traumatic evening here!"

Nobody listened to him.

You were smiling against Happy's mouth when he finally lifted his head, dazed and flushed and still holding you like he was afraid the whole thing might vanish if he loosened his grip.

"You love me," he said, and there was something almost incredulous in it, like he still couldn't believe he was allowed to say the words out loud.

You laughed softly, one hand sliding up to touch his face.

"Yeah, baby. I do."

This time it was Bobby who made a strangled sound.

Chibs had to physically sit down because he was laughing too hard.

Happy ignored all of them, eyes fixed on yours with a look so openly adoring it nearly qualified as indecent.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You gave him a look of such fond exasperation that half the room started snickering in anticipation.

"Happy," you said. "I have been flirting with you for months."

He frowned. "No, you haven't."

The clubhouse exploded.

Tig dropped onto the couch, howling. Juice folded in half. Bobby put both hands over his face. Even Gemma had to lean against the wall because she was laughing too hard to stand up straight.

You stared at him.

Happy stared back, clearly baffled by everyone's reaction.

"I wore your clothes on purpose," you said slowly.

"Yeah."

"I literally told you I liked how you smell."

He blinked.

"You keep my hoodie at your place because I said it was comfortable," you pressed on, incredulous now.

"...Yeah."

"I made you heart-shaped pancakes on Valentine's Day."

Happy went silent.

The entire room went dead.

Chibs lowered his beer. "Ye what?"

Your eyes never left Happy's.

"I made them with bacon because I know you don't like sweet breakfasts. I put your coffee in your favorite mug. I kissed you on the cheek and told you I adored you."

Happy looked like he was being hunted for sport.

"I thought..." He trailed off, visibly struggling. "Thought you were being nice."

Tig made a sound like a wounded animal.

"Scientists," he wheezed. "I'm serious. Get him in a lab."

You laughed so hard you had to hide your face against Happy's shoulder, and to his credit, once the horror of his own obliviousness wore off, even Happy's mouth twitched. He wrapped both arms around you and held you there while the room dissolved into chaos around you, his chin resting on top of your head, expression dazed in a way Chibs had never seen before.

Then, after a long moment, Happy looked at the club and said with total sincerity, "I thought she was just nice to everybody."

Gemma actually threw a bar towel at him.

He caught it before it could hit you where you were still curled against his chest.

"You absolute idiot."

The room lost whatever remained of its mind.

Happy, to everyone's surprise, did not argue.

He looked down at you tucked into his arms, wearing his flannel, smiling against him with the sort of warmth that made the entire miserable world outside the clubhouse feel very far away, and something in his face settled. The disbelief was still there. The wonder too. But underneath it was certainty now—solid and immediate and bone-deep.

He tipped your chin up.

"Kiss me again."

You grinned. "Bossy."

"Yeah."

"I kind of like it."

His eyes darkened instantly.

"Oh, I know."

Tig shrieked, "NOPE," and covered Juice's ears for no reason whatsoever while the rest of the room erupted in delight, but Happy was already kissing you again, slower this time, less desperate and more possessive, like he had finally accepted that you were his and he was yours and nobody in this room was ever going to let him live down the fact that you had basically had to hand-deliver your love confession with diagrams and subtitles before he understood what was happening.

Later, after the storm eased and the club gradually dispersed and somebody—probably Chibs—announced that Happy was no longer allowed to make fun of anyone else's intelligence ever again, Happy walked you out to your car with one hand locked around yours and the other carrying the container of leftover takeout you'd forgotten on the counter. The air smelled like wet asphalt and rain-cooled earth, and the parking lot was quiet except for the drip of water from the awning and the distant hum of traffic somewhere beyond the yard.

You stopped beside the driver's side door and turned to face him.

The flannel was still hanging off your shoulders.

His flannel.

He looked at you in it and did that tiny, helpless thing he always did when affection hit him harder than he expected—eyes softening, mouth going rough at the edges, like tenderness still startled him every time it landed.

"You really thought I was just being nice?" you asked.

Happy had the decency to look vaguely embarrassed.

"...Maybe."

You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth.

"I love you, idiot."

He exhaled a laugh against your lips, low and warm and so rare it made your chest ache.

Then he slid his hand to the back of your neck and kissed you properly, unhurried and deep beneath the dim parking-lot light, and when he pulled away he didn't let you go far.

"Come home with me," he said, but there was nothing commanding in his tone, nothing rough or expectant. Just.. hopeful.

The kind of invitation that meant more than the words themselves.

Your smile turned soft.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

Happy rested his forehead against yours, eyes steady.

"Been sure a long time. Just didn't know I was allowed to have it."

Something in your expression cracked with love so open it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"You are," you whispered. "You always were."

So you went home with him.

And sometime around two in the morning, after kissing in his kitchen and then his hallway and then his bed with all the slow, greedy reverence of people who had spent too long wanting and too long waiting, after his hands had learned the shape of your body without the interference of doubt and your mouth had finally taught him what it sounded like when his name fell apart on your tongue, after the hunger had softened into something lazier and deeper and you ended up curled against his side in nothing but one of his T-shirts while rain tapped faintly at the bedroom window, Happy lay there with your head on his chest and your leg tangled with his and realized the club was never going to let him forget any of this.

Not the confession.

Not the pancakes.

Not the "I thought she was just nice."

Not the fact that he had apparently needed love explained to him like a suspiciously aggressive rescue dog.

He looked down at you sleeping against him, hair spread across his shoulder, fingers curled into his skin as if even unconscious you wanted to keep hold of him, and decided he didn't care.

Let them laugh.

Let them mock him for the next twenty years.

Let them write research papers.

You loved him.

You loved him.

And when you stirred a little closer in your sleep, he wrapped his arm tighter around you, pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and settled deeper into the bed that no longer felt too big.

The next morning, when Chibs called to ask whether the scientific community should be informed of any breakthroughs, Happy hung up on him.

Then he looked over at you stealing his pillow, smiled into the quiet of the room, and pulled you back into his arms anyway.

Because if the club wanted to study something, they could study this:

Happy Lowman, forty-nine years old, dangerous as hell, hopelessly in love, and finally smart enough to keep the woman who loved him right where she belonged—warm, sleepy, wearing his clothes, and tangled up in his bed like she'd been made to stay there.

[luvnarra]

—.✦ ݁˖ No more fucking on runs.

Pairing; Daryl x fem!reader

Summary; You and Daryl were out on a run, clearing a house when you realized you finally have all the time and privacy you need.

Tw; 18+ mdni, smut, oral (r!receiving), p in v, praising, mirror sex, headlock, biting, kinda rough sex, violence, blood, killing, just porn with some plot.

Era; Prison era

The clearing of the old, two-story house went far smoother than either of you anticipated. The last house on the sweep, and the most intact one you’d found all week.

Between the two of you, clearing a place like this was practically second nature—But, actually, finding the supplies you needed was what mattered.

You handled the perimeter with the easy, synchronized rhythm you and Daryl had perfected over months of supply runs.

Up on the second floor, a lone walker bumped uselessly against a locked bedroom door, its faint, dry groans muffled by the wooden walls. Yet neither of you bothered with it; the door was solid, and the rest of the ground floor was completely clear.

You were both standing at the entryway now, you fixing your shirt while Daryl was setting his heavy duffel on a side table to organize the dry goods and medicine bottles you'd gathered. His hands working methodically, tightening straps and sealing canvas pockets.

You leaned back against the closed front door, quietly watching Daryl shove the last box of pills into his bag. And before you even realized it, your gaze had wandered to his bare arms, lingering on the way his biceps flexed with each movement. Even something as simple as tightening his grip around the strap made the muscles shift and bunch beneath the surface. He slung the bag over his shoulder and straightened, the broad muscles across his back rolling beneath his shirt—

It didn’t take long before a very different idea took root.

"We finished early" You said softly, the words lingering on your tongue as you pushed yourself off the door with a slight shrug, letting the silence sit for a beat afterward.

Daryl offered a low, familiar hum in response, giving a brief nod without looking up from his pack. "Yeah. Still better head back ’fore it gets dark tho” He said, pulling the strap closed and adjusting it over his shoulder. "Nahh… We're good” You countered smoothly, taking a step closer. "I think we have some time”

But Daryl just nodded again, totally unaware, his mind still entirely focused on the work. "Mhm" He grunted, adjusting his crossbow, completely oblivious to your tone or the way your gaze had shifted.

"The house is nice, too…” You continued, stepping even closer.

He spared the place a quick, indifferent glance, clearly not caring about the decor. "’S nice" He mumbled gruffly, totally missing the hint before dropping his gaze back down to fix the hunting knife at his hip.

But you didn't back down—You took another step, right into his personal space, until the heat radiating off his body was impossible to ignore. You leaned in, placing your palm flat against the center of his chest before slowly, deliberately, trailing your fingers down the rough fabric of his shirt, moving lower toward his belt.

"Lucky us, we have it all to ourselves” You murmured, biting your bottom lip slightly.

Daryl finally paused, his blue eyes snapping up to meet yours as a small, confused frown tugged at his brows. But before he could process that, your fingers hooked on his waistband, tugging closer as you tilted your head up.

"And no one's gonna walk in…” You added softly, catching his eyes, while intentionally slowing your breathing, letting your gaze linger on his lips.

Back at the prison, especially after the crowd from Woodbury had moved in, privacy had become an absolute myth. The cells didn't have doors—just thin, fraying sheets slung over wire that did nothing to stop boots echoing down the catwalks or people constantly popping in to ask questions. With the crowded cellblock and the constant chores, it was impossible for the two of you to have a single, quiet, uninterrupted moment entirely to yourselves.

Daryl scanned you up and down, taking in that unmistakable look you had in your eyes and the sudden, heavy tension in the room—The realization hit him like a physical spark and you watched the exact second it finally clicked. His eyes widening just a little as the sharp line of his frown melted away instantly, his gaze locking onto your lips.

Fucking finally.

Without a word, Daryl shrugged his heavy supply bag off his shoulder, letting it thud carelessly to the floor. His large hand swept out, his broad arm wrapping tightly around your waist to yank you flush against his chest, while your own bag clattered on the wood.

He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours in a deep, bruising kiss that immediately turned into a heated, passionate, breathless make out—It was desperate and demanding from the first second. He tasted like rain and salt, his tongue tangling with yours with an urgency that made your knees weak.

With a low groan, his arm hooked securely under your thighs and hoisted you off your feet, his strength taking your weight without a second of hesitation. You wrapped your legs around his waist in an instant, clinging to his shoulders as he held you effortlessly with one powerful arm. Your hands buried in his hair as the kiss deepened, your tongues brushing together in a frantic, unhurried rhythm that had been building up for days.

Without breaking the kiss, his lips moving hungrily against yours, Daryl turned and carried you toward the staircase, holding you tightly against him while still carrying his crossbow in one hand, his fingers remaining curled around the grip. He walked up the steps smoothly, his heavy boots thudding against the wood as he carried you up to the second floor as if you weighed nothing at all.

At the top of the landing, Daryl didn’t miss a beat, kicking the door of the bedroom wide open. The door swung inward with a hard slam, the force knocking back the locked-in walker behind it and sending the snarling corpse stumbling backward a few feet onto the bedroom rug.

But Daryl didn't even drop you. Still holding you tightly against him, he raised the crossbow with his free hand, aiming toward the shadow. He let the bolt fly, the heavy snap of the string echoing in the room as the arrow buried itself deep into the walker's chest.

The corpse staggered but kept creeping forward, its jaws snapping air.

Daryl started to turn his head just slightly, breaking his focus from you so he could get a clear line of sight to finish it—But before he could pull away entirely, your hand reached out, cupping his jaw hard to turn his face back to you, pulling him right back into the kiss.

With your legs still locked around his waist, you reached down, your hand slipping his hunting knife straight out of the sheath on his belt and without even breaking contact with his lips—You whipped your arm back and threw the blade across the room. It flew straight and true, sinking with a heavy, wet thud right into the walker's forehead. The corpse collapsed instantly to the floor, dead before it hit the rug.

Daryl pulled back an inch, a rough, breathy rumble escaping him against your mouth. "Jesus, woman”

He carried you the remaining few steps to the mattress, finally letting his crossbow go and clatter to the floor. He laid you down on the dusty sheets, his heavy body immediately shifting his body over yours and pinning you down.

And the second your back hit the mattress, you didn't waste a single moment. Your hands immediately darted down to his waist, your fingers almost trembling with urgency as you worked fast to unbuckle his heavy leather belt. But before you could get the thing off—Daryl’s hand came down over yours, catching your wrist and stopping your fingers right mid-motion.

"Nah, uh" He grunted out softly as he pulled back just enough for your lips to part, his gaze locking on yours. "Ya said it yarself...” The corner of his mouth tugged upward ever so slightly, his thumb brushing lightly along your side. “We got time”

A soft, impatient whine escaped you, a small pout tugging at your lips as your fingers twitched restlessly against the metal of his buckle, still trying to push past his grip. "Daryl..."

He just let out a quiet huff, gently catching your hands and pushing them back up, pinning your wrists loosely above your head. He leaned down, capturing your lips once more in a deep, lingering kiss before his mouth slowly began to travel downward.

His rough jaw dragged along your cheek, his hot breath brushing against your skin as he pressed a slow, heavy trail of kisses down the side of your neck. Every press of his lips was deliberate and unhurried, making your skin tingle as he moved lower over your collarbone, his stubble scratching pleasantly against your flesh.

"Wanna taste ya first" He mumbled lowly against your bare skin, his hands releasing your wrists to slide down your sides.

His mouth glided over the hem of your top, trailing warm, breathless kisses down your stomach, sending a sudden shiver straight through your core.

He dropped on his knees, quickly working your boots off one by one and letting them hit the floorboards with heavy thuds. Slowly, deliberately, his hands moved up to unbutton your shorts, easing the denim down your thighs before tugging them completely off, leaving you in just your top and your lacy panties.

But instead of rushing, Daryl stayed right there between your legs. His dark head dipped down, and he began pressing soft, warm kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, right near the hem of your lace. He lingered there, his stubble grazing your skin as he took his sweet time.

"Mm, Daryl—Stop teasing” You breathed out, your hips twitching restlessly against the sheets.

He ignored you completely. With a quiet, dark huff against your skin, he shifted his focus, moving over to press more slow, lingering kisses along your other thigh, avoiding what you actually wanted.

“Please…” A quiet, desperate whine escaped you as you looked down at him with pleading eyes.

Finally, Daryl slid his hands up your hips, taking the waistband of your panties between his thumbs before slowly, unhurriedly, he dragged the soft fabric down your legs and tossed it aside.

But even then, as you lay completely bare to him, he didn't dive right in. He rested his hands firmly on your thighs, pressing another warm, slow kiss just inches away from your core, pulling another sharp gasp from your lungs. "Daryl, I swear—"

But before you could even finish your sentence… he dipped down, burying his face between your legs.

A loud, sharp gasp ripped from your lungs, your lips parting as a helpless, breathy moan echoed through the quiet room. “Fuck—!”

His hands parted your thighs widely, his tongue sliding through your folds, tasting you with a fierce, driving hunger that made you grip onto the worn sheets helplessly. He didn't hold back—his mouth working over you like a starved man, like a man who hadn't eaten in days and was finally getting his favorite meal, taking you in with a fierce, relentless devotion.

He didn't give you a rhythm either.

He edged you on purposely long, filthy licks that had you panting, then sudden hard sucks that had your eyes rolling back. His tongue circled your clit in tight, precise strokes, then dragged lower, pushing inside you just enough for you to feel it before retreating again.

Your back arched up off the bed just slightly before collapsing back down, every muscle in your body locking up as your fingers frantically curled tighter around the rough bedding, knuckles turning white. His tongue circled your clit again, then flattened against it, applying just enough pressure to make your entire body convulse.

“Mmhg—right there” You moaned out, your hips unconsciously bucking up against his face, trying to chase his mouth in a desperate attempt to tip yourself over the edge. Daryl groaned against your core, the vibration sending another shock of sensation through your nerves.

"Quit movin’" He mumbled gruffly against you, his voice thick and deep as his hands clamped down tightly on your thighs. His broad, calloused palms locking you in place with an unyielding grip, holding you still as your body tried to squirm.

You whined again, your hips shaking and twitching involuntarily against the sheets as his tongue pressed harder around the small ball of nerves. You were shaking, thighs trembling under his grip, every breath a broken sound.

“Ya taste s’ good” Daryl mumbled quietly—though it sounded more like a thought spoken aloud than anything else— and his tongue was back on you in a second, persistently lapping at your now very swollen clit.

You could only whimper softly in response, your hands scrambling blindly across the mattress for leverage until your fingers tangled tightly into his dark hair, gripping him close. "Mm, Daryl—" You gasped out, your voice breaking into desperate, breathy whimpers as the sensation overwhelmed you. "God, don't stop”

He didn't.

His hands squeezed your thighs before trailing up to your waist and pulled—No, yanked you more firmly against his face, his rhythm now growing entirely unhinged.

You were just a panting and whining mess, completely helpless under his grip. And as if that wasn’t enough—Daryl brought one hand up, pressing his palm down firmly over your lower stomach. The sudden pressure hit the exact knot of tension building inside you.

Your body reacted before your mind could, the intensity almost too much and your knees instinctively squeezing shut around his head, but Daryl didn't hesitate—without saying a word, he forced your thighs apart again, holding you open, even wider than before.

"Daryl, please—" You whimpered, your fingers gripping his hair even harder—so hard you were sure it had to hurt, yet Daryl? He didn't even react. Didn’t pull back an inch. "'M close—Fuck! So, so close"

The moans you were letting out were downright sinful. The pleasure almost blinding. You threw your head back in sheer pleasure, gasping frantically for air—only to be met with your reflection staring right back at you through a mirror standing right in the corner of the room.

How had neither of you noticed this earlier?

From that angle, the reflection was flawless, capturing the entire bed in vivid detail. Through the blur of your own heavy breathing, you locked eyes with your own image, your mouth parted wide, your chest heaving, rising up and down rapidly as you took in the sight of Daryl’s dark hair buried firmly between your thighs, holding you pinned through the rush.

Your breathing grew faster and faster. The combination of the visual and the way Daryl’s mouth sealed over your clit and sucked hard, drove you straight over the edge.

Your back arched high off the sheets as the built up tension finally snapped. Your eyes shut for just a moment, a breathless moan escaping you as you came undone with a cry of his name, your thighs trembling as he rode out your orgasm.

The slick, wet noises continued as he worked you through your high, his tongue savoring every last drop of your release and your body slowly sank back into the mattress, your eyes fluttering open to the same reflection staring back at you.

Slowly, Daryl lifted his head. His breath hot and heavy against your inner thigh as he wiped a thumb across his lip, his blue eyes tracking yours up to where you were staring. He paused for just a second, staring at the reflection of your wet, parted skin and your legs wrapped over his broad shoulders before his gaze caught yours in the glass

"Well, look at that" He mumbled against your inner thigh, a rough, possessive smirk pulling at his lips

You looked down at him, chest heaving as you caught your breath. Daryl gradually leaned in, pressing a small kiss right on your mound before trailing upward, his lips brushing over your stomach, then between your breasts, and along your shoulder to your neck, drawing a soft sigh from you.

When he was finally close enough—He paused. His lips lingering just above yours, his warm breath brushing against your skin.

Without thinking, you instinctively leaned up, desperate to close the small gap between you, but just before your lips could make contact—With a swift, smooth movement, he flipped you over onto your stomach.

A small gasp escaped you as your face planted briefly into the mattress. But before you could even gather your thoughts, his hands clamped around your waist, yanking you roughly back toward the edge of the bed, another sound slipping out.

Without a word, you watched him through the mirror as he shifted his weight, the metallic snap of his belt buckle echoed in the room before he frantically shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs at the same time, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock already hard and pulsing, pre-cum leaking from his tip as it slapped against his stomach.

Then, suddenly, without so much as a warning, his hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you upright until you were kneeling on the bed, your back pressing flush against his broad chest. A small whimper escaped you as you hit the solid warmth behind you, your eyes never leaving the glass, watching as he leaned closer. His mouth pressed a slow, heavy trail of lingering kisses all along your shoulder and up the sensitive line of your neck.

“Couldn’t even wait t’ get back to the prison, could ya?” He rumbled quietly, his stubble scraping against your skin, sending shivers right through your whole body.

A soft, desperate whine slipped from your lips, your breath coming in shuddering hitches and before your mind could even catch up—your hips instinctively pushed backward against him with an impatient, almost pathetic need.

Daryl let out a low grunt against your shoulder, his teeth grazing lightly against your neck as his hands tightened on your waist to keep you grounded. "Always s’ damn needy..." He rasped out.

"Daryl, please..." You whimpered, biting your lower lip slightly as you locked eyes with him through the mirror, your gaze filled with raw need. Yet, he stayed right there against you, taking his time to press another slow kiss to your shoulder, keeping the tension coiled agonizingly tight.

"Please..." You breathed out again, completely unable to hold back any longer.

Slowly, his hand left your waist to grab at his slick cock before moving it to your entrance. His tip slid against you up and down teasing before steadily pushing into you. Your walls tightened helplessly around him, small, pitiful whimpers escaping you at the slightest stretch. Though it didn't seem like he cared. He continued to slowly push himself all the way into you, your mouth dropping open as you gasped again, attempting to hold in the loud moans you desperately wanted to let out.

“Fuck…” You breathed, the word barely more than a whisper as you adjusted to the feeling of him stretching you, your breath faltering for a moment.

He nearly withdrew completely, leaving only the very tip before one sharp thrust drove him back into you. Your body jolted from the force, the air punched clean from your lungs as his hands clamped tighter around your hips, holding you firmly against him. “Fuck—!” You cried out, your hands trying to find something to hold onto.

But before you even had the chance to recover, he set a punishing pace, each thrust following the last without warning. His grip never loosened, keeping you steady against him as each movement forced your body to follow the relentless rhythm he’d set. In the mirror, you could see every movement-the slick sheen of sweat on his neck, the dark focus in his eyes as he looked up into the glass, watching the way your body reacted to every hit.

"Look at ya" Daryl rasped out, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hand reached around your front to grip your waist, anchoring you tight against his thighs as he set a faster pace. "Can't even take yar eyes off, can ya?"

“Daryl…” You moaned, your eyes fluttering shut, your head falling back against his shoulder as the intense image completely overwhelmed you.

“Nah, uh, uh—” His hand quickly reached up, his fingers cupping your jaw firmly to tilt your head back up toward the glass. "Keep 'em open” He ordered roughly, his grip tightening just slightly as he thrusted deeper. "Wanna see ya watchin'” He rumbled low, his voice thick against your ear.

You obeyed immediately with another whine, staring straight into the mirror at the reflection of him holding you. "Look at yar pretty face” Daryl mumbled against your skin, his grip on your jaw easing back down to your waist.

But as his thrusts turned even harder, reached even deeper—He kept knocking your body forward with each sharp rock of his hips. And no matter how much he tightened his arm around your waist, no matter how hard he tried to keep you steady, keep you pinned against him—Your body was, still, jostling too much. Seeing that you, too, struggled to stay upright, small, clearly frustrated whines escaping every time your body got jerked away—He shifted his grip.

His free hand left from your hip, his arm coming around your neck in one smooth movement and settling into a firm, but loose enough headlock, pressing you tighter, steadier against his chest, locking you in place.

You couldn’t stop the loud moan that left you. The sudden feel of his thick bicep squeezing your face, his arm solid around your neck—not tight enough to hurt or restrict your breathing, but hard enough to keep you trapped—made you instinctively lean into him, your walls spasming violently, humiliatingly around him, swallowing him in like a damn vice.

A low, heavy grunt escaped his throat right against your neck, feeling the sudden tension in your body. "That do it for ya?" He rasped out against your skin, his voice thick and rough.

You just nodded helplessly against his arm with another breathless, broken whine as your hands came up to grasp his forearm. Not trying to push him away, no— Clung to him, your nails digging into his skin for dear life as his hips snapped forward again, burying himself to the hilt.

Daryl let out a quiet chuckle against your cheek, his lips dragging closer to your ear before softly biting at your earlobe. "Little freak..." He whispered roughly, feeling you tighten around him again. "Ya like tha’?" He let out a another breathy laugh, holding you in place as he dragged himself all the way back, stopping just before his tip slipped out.

"Daryl, please—!" Your words barely had time to linger before he slammed back into you with one hard thrust, his groan breaking into a whimper as the motion sent a wave of electricity through both your bodies. "Fu—uh—ck! " You whimpered, the intensity too much to bear.

His eyes never left you as his large hand traveled slowly from your waist, catching the hem of your shirt and pushing it upward. His palm settled over your breast, giving the soft weight a single, deliberate squeeze—just to tease—before his touch wandered downward again. His fingers skimmed over your stomach, lingering for only a moment before continuing lower, his hand finally settling between your thighs and cupping your, soaked, heat.

“Mmhg, Dar—” Your breath hitched as his fingers slid between your drenched folds, moving with practiced certainty and instantly finding your sensitive clit.

His fingers worked in firm, deliberate circles, the rhythm of his hand matching the relentless pace of his hips almost perfectly, not giving you a single moment to catch your breath. A broken cry ripped from your throat, raw and desperate enough to sound almost obscene.

“’S too much—God don’t stop” You barely even knew what you were saying anymore. The combination overwhelming, leaving you struggling to put together any kind of coherent thought, your back arching once before colliding with his chest again. “C’mon. Let go f’me” He mumbled lowly, his own breathing becoming erratic.

Your lips fell open, unable to quite close again as your breathing grew increasingly uneven. Every shaky inhale seemed to dissolve into another breathless moan, another soft, broken whimper slipping freely from your throat before you could catch it— Yet your body still moved instinctively with his, meeting every movement instead of retreating. You took everything he gave you, only to find yourself wanting more, your hands gripping onto him as though you couldn’t get close enough.

He thrusted into you again, his tip hitting against your g-spot, forcing the air out of your lungs. The stretch burned in the best way—thick, relentless, filling you completely as his hips slammed flush against your ass. He stayed buried for a second, breathing hard through his nose before pulling almost all the way out, only to drove back in harder once again.

“Fuck—'M close” Another loud moan slipped from you, your eyes struggling to stay open as you fought through the haze, forcing yourself to keep your gaze on your reflection—just like he’d ordered you to. “Yeah?” He teased, his mouth going back to trailing wet kisses across your shoulder. “Mmm”

But before you could catch your breath—He repeated the action. The wet sound of it filling the room, filthy and loud, echoing off the walls. It was impossible to ignore, mixing with your ragged breathing and the low sounds coming from him.

A loud cry tore from you, so loud you were almost certain it could’ve been heard from two blocks away. “Ya have t' keep it down, sunshine” He mumbled, though he, too, struggled to hold back his own sounds. “Gon’ attract a whole damn herd”

And so, to muffle your resounding, echoing cries, you leaned forward, sinking your teeth straight into his thick bicep. “Christ—!” Daryl let out a low, guttural groan at the bite, his pace quickening as he drove deeper, his breath hot against your ear as his cock pulsed uncontrollably.

“Bitin’ like a damn walker, ain’t ya?”

The teasing words only made you arch into him harder, sink your teeth deeper, so deep you swore you could almost taste blood. Yet your eyes remained locked, watching yourselves in the mirror as the friction built to a fever pitch, your pussy clenching desperately around him and causing him to release an involuntarily, loud moan.

His hips stilled just a moment, enough to let you register the pause, then slammed into you with punishing depth and precision. “I know yar close, angel. Just let go f’me” Every drive, every roll of his hips dragged along every swollen nerve inside you, the muscles of his arm tensing under your teeth as he pushed into you over and over again.

“That’s righ'” He felt it, your walls weakly tightening around him and still, he didn't ease, pushing deeper, chasing every last spasm of sensation while drawing out his own edge. “That’s it”

Slowly, your teeth released his flesh, and through the glass, you instantly caught sight of the unmistakable mark you had left behind—a deep, imprint of your teeth framed by red, broken blood vessels beneath his skin. A thin trail of your drool running freely down his arm, but Daryl didn’t seem to give a single damn about it, keeping his grip entirely firm around you as his hips snapped against yours once again.

“Daryl—!” Your mouth fell open. A loud, broken moan tore from your throat, his name barely recognizable between your ragged breaths, your walls tightening and releasing around him, spilling your release down his cock.

Your head fell back against his shoulder, your chest heaving rapidly as you struggled to catch your breath, every inhale coming shaky and uneven. Your thighs trembled beneath you, your legs shaking so badly that you could barely keep yourself upright, clinging to him helplessly just to steady yourself.

Your mind completely turned off, utterly blank and lost in the haze, barely registering anything around you except the sound of Daryl’s ragged breathing against your ear. “Fuck—” His pants grew louder, his control slipping, unable to hold his sounds back as your walls squeezed him tighter.

Then, suddenly, while still completely dazed and lost in the aftermath, his arm unwrapped from around your neck. And before you could even process what’s happening, his heavy palm pressed hard into your upper back, shoving you straight down against the mattress. You gasped as your chest hit the worn sheets, left bent over the edge of the bed as he kept control, maintaining the same overwhelming pace.

“So good f’me” His voice was broken now, his chest colliding against your skin with every harsh movement, dragging you back onto him to meet his thrusts. You didn't answer, just kept whining, moaning with every deep shove of his cock inside you.

You cried out as he buried himself all the way in again. Your stomach caved, your back arching helplessly. Every nerve was on fire. Your pussy dripping, twitching around him, every stroke pushing more of your release down your thighs, and still—He dragged his cock out slow, just to slam back in harder, your whole body jolting.

“C’mon, baby…” You whispered softly between whines, urging him, and his hands dug painfully tight into your hips as his composure completely broke. His pace turned desperate and sloppy, the smooth control he usually kept shattering as he chased his own high.

He leaned over your back, his forehead falling heavily onto your shoulder, eyes dropping to watch you take his whole length. He was the loud one now—raw, breathy groans and ragged whimpers escaping his throat right into your neck as he buried his face in your skin.

“Inside—Please, Daryl, I need it” You mewled, titling your head slightly, gasping shakily as you pressed your cheek against the mattress. “Mm, I need it, please” You pleaded with another soft whine, purposely tightening around him just to push him over the edge.

And that did it.

With one final, heavy thrust, Daryl buried himself deep, a low, strained whimper breaking from his chest as he held you pinned tightly under him, his broad chest rising and falling heavily against your back as the intense quiet of the empty house settled over you both once more.

For a long, breathless minute, the only sound in the abandoned room was the slow rhythm of your shared panting, his warm breath puffing in slow, damp bursts over the sensitive skin of your shoulder. The full, comforting weight of his body pressed flush against your back before, slowly, Daryl let out a low, breathy exhale, shifting his weight to roll onto his back, crashing heavily onto the mattress beside you.

"Fuck” You rasped out, your voice low and muffled against the sheets as you tried to catch your breath. "I needed that” Daryl grunted in response, staring up at the cracked, faded ceiling plaster as his chest rose and fell in heavy lulls. "Yeah… Figured” He let out a low, rough huff.

You rolled your eyes playfully at him, shaking your head as a quiet scoff escaped you. “I think we should stay here for a little longer” You said quietly, letting out another heavy breath before settling more comfortably against the bed.

“Yeah, right” Daryl let out a quiet half-scoff, turning his head just enough to glance over at you. “Way you were moanin’, coulda sworn ya were tryin’ to call every damn walker in the area over” His brow hitched, his rough voice still husky with exertion. “Probably got a line of ’em waitin’ outside by now”

You scoffed, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to look at him. “As if I was the only one being loud” You fired back, rolling your eyes playfully once again before shifting your weight. "Plus—From what I recall, it wasn’t exactly my fault" You added, looking down into his dark eyes with a knowing look.

Daryl didn't chuckle; he just scoffed again, a low, dry sound in his chest. “Oh, yeah?” He lifted his arm slightly, turning his arm so the light hit the deep bite mark on his bicep, the imprint of your teeth still clearly visible against his skin. "Tha’ ain't yar fault either, I suppose?" He gestured toward it with a mocking little tilt of his head.

You leaned in a little closer, tilting your head with a dry, teasing smirk. "Mm, pretend like you didn't like it” You mumbled, your eyes, purposely, lingering on his lips for a second longer than necessary before slowly returning to his.

Daryl huffed, turning his face away for a second with a quiet twitch of his jaw. "Didn't say that” He muttered back, his voice dropping into a low, gruff grumble, like he didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of hearing him admit it.

Yet you simply ignored him, rolling your eyes once again before leaning in to meet his lips. And for all his grumbling, Daryl kissed you back without hesitation.

Your lips moved gently against each other, falling into a natural, unhurried, open-mouthed rhythm. His hand came up, his broad, calloused palm gently cupping the side of your face, his fingers threading into your hair as his thumb dragged over your cheekbone. He pulled you in closer, deepening the kiss into a slow, heavy slide of lips and tongue that tasted like sweat and raw relief, taking his time as you sighed against his mouth.

When, suddenly, the heavy sound of the front door downstairs creaking open filled the empty house—

Both of you froze instantly.

The warmth in the room vanished in a fraction of a second. The kiss broke as you pulled back, your breathing instantly halting as your eyes locked onto Daryl's. He stayed completely still, his hand dropping from your face as his eyes narrowed toward the bedroom threshold.

Downstairs, heavy boots scuffed against the worn entryway floorboards.

"Ya sure you heard somethin' in here?” A coarse, skeptical voice muttered, the sound echoing up the stairwell. “Yeah, man, I told you!” A second voice joined in, followed by a sleazy, low chuckle that made your skin crawl. "Bitch was moaning like a fucking animal in heat—Heard 'em clear from the treeline”

The voices echoed through the house—And you and Daryl didn’t waste a second, moving in dead, silent instinct, sliding off the bed without letting the mattress spring—You quickly grabbed your panties off the floor, stepping into them and pulling them up before pulling your shirt back down over your ribs. Beside you, Daryl reached for his boxers, yanking his jeans up his legs right after but leaving the fly completely unbuttoned and undone in his hurry.

"Shit... look at this!" A third voice chimed in from the doorway downstairs, the distinct sound of heavy canvas straps rustling hitting your ears. "These packs are fucking loaded!"

Daryl stepped around the bed, his movements fluid and frantic as he snagged his crossbow off the floorboards, pulling a bolt back to lock it into the groove with a quiet click. You reached right for his waist, slipping his heavy hunting knife straight out from the sheath attached to his still unzipped jeans.

"Let’s go upstairs!” The second guy snickered downstairs and you heard the creak of leather boots shifting toward the base of the staircase. "Those idiots are probably passed out by now”

"What, just like that?" The first guy asked, his footsteps scuffling near the bottom step.

"Yeah. Put a blade through the guy's throat real quiet" The second voice replied smoothly, his tone sickeningly casual as the heavy thud of his boots hit the first wooden step. "Then we take turns on the bitch. Hear how good that pussy sounded from the street?—Least she can do is share”

Daryl’s body paused for the briefest moment at the words. His jaw tightened, shoulders tensing as his pulse kicked hard beneath his skin. His brows drew together, his fingers curling slowly into his palm as a hot rush of anger shot through him. His mind already running through exactly what he was going to do to that fucking prick.

"Hell yeah!" The third guy chuckled from down near the door, staying behind. "Go on up. I'll guard the gear”

With the knife in hand, you stepped lightly over the floorboards, taking position right beside the doorframe in the dark shadow of the wall. Daryl stepped up right behind you near the threshold, his knuckles white around the frame of his crossbow, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like wires.

The boots came up the stairs slowly—step by step, creak by creak—accompanied by quiet, arrogant chuckles.

The second the lead guy cleared the top landing, his shadow breaking over the doorway, Daryl exploded out of the bedroom.

"Fuck, he's awake—!" The guy gasped, but he didn't even have time to raise a weapon before Daryl slammed straight into his chest, tackling him hard against the hallway wall.

The second intruder—holding your hunting knife that he’d stolen straight out of your supply bag downstairs—rushed you immediately. "Fucking dumb bitch!" He hissed, his face twisted as he brandished the stolen blade. “Hey!” You narrowed your eyes, backing up a fraction as you raised your chin with a sharp smirk. "That's my knife!”

"Oh, you want it, bitch?" The guy spat, lunging forward with a nasty grin. "Then take it!"

He tried to slice wild straight at your throat, but you dodged clean back, the blade missing you by an inch. However, the space was too tight. His heavy free fist swung around and caught you hard straight in the stomach. The wind was knocked out of you instantly, pain flaring hot as you staggered back against the wall with a gasp. But the adrenaline surged through your blood before the pain could sink in. You bit through it, driving Daryl’s knife forward with a hard, brutal swing, slicing a deep, jagged line clean across the man's forearm.

The guy screamed out a filthy curse, dropping your blade from his hands as blood sprayed onto the floorboards, and he lunged at you again with absolute murder in his eyes.

Right as you dodged his arms, your gaze flicked back to Daryl—who had his problem pinned against the wall. He was raining heavy, brutal fists into the man's face. And in just a second, the idea clicked— Mid-fight, as your guy reached for you again, you darted sideways, your hand snatching Daryl’s heavy leather belt right out of his belt loops.

Daryl caught the sudden tug at his waist and threw you a quick, bewildered glance, but he didn't have time to pay attention as his own guy started swinging back.

Meanwhile, you went straight back to fighting your dude, the heavy leather strap taut in your hands. Taking advantage of the opening while he reeled, you whipped the belt over his head and locked it tight around his neck. Turning on your heel, you pulled with everything you had, walking backward and dragging him with you step by step. He thrashed wildly, hands clawing at his throat for air, until your back slammed hard against the wall, pinning him in a ruthless chokehold.

The guy swung again, but this time his fist caught Daryl across the cheek. His head snapped to the side, but he barely reacted before swinging back, his fist connecting hard with the man’s jaw. The guy stumbled, only to lunge at him again, throwing another punch, but Daryl caught his arm, shoving him back, and droving another quick hit into his face before the two of them stumbled into the wall. "I'm gonna gut you, bastard!” The intruder snarled frantically, spitting blood on the floorboards. “Then I'm gonna fuck your bitch really nice—!"

Daryl’s eyes went pure, lethal red. Adrenaline surging through his veins so fast he didn't wait to load another bolt—he drove the sharp wooden tip of his crossbow bolt straight through the guy's jaw, pinning his head to the wall and ending him instantly.

"Daryl!" You gritted out through your teeth, straining to hold the choke firm against the guy's desperate kicks.

Daryl spun around in an instant at the sound of your voice, his breathing wild as he saw you struggling to keep the guy still. His body reacted on pure instinct, and without a single hesitation, he instantly raised his crossbow, took aim in a split second, and fired point blank—The bolt sank straight into the guy’s forehead.

The man went dead weight instantly, collapsing onto the floorboards in a limp heap as you let go of the belt.

You stumbled just slightly as you pushed yourself off the wall, bending down to snatch your knife from the bloody floor. “My knife” You muttered, throwing the now dead asshole a kick straight to his ribs before moving along with Daryl out of the room and at top of the stairwell landing.

When, the third guy—whose stupid ass had just started scrambling up the steps to check on the noise—froze at the top step, his eyes widening in absolute horror. "Wait—fuck, don't—!"

But before he could pull a gun or turn to run, you lunged forward and buried the knife deep into his chest. And in the exact same breath, Daryl charged up from behind you, kicking the man brutally straight in the gut and sending him tumbling backward down the entire flight of stairs.

His body crashed off every step until his skull hit the hardwood floor at the bottom with a loud, sickening crunch. Blood spilled out over the entryway floorboards as he lay still.

A heavy, ringing silence fell back over the house.

You both just stood at the top landing—you still wearing just your shirt and panties while Daryls undone jeans ride low enough to reveal the waistband of his boxers— trying to catch your breath while simply watching the dead body right down the stairs.

Your hands rest flat on your knees as you bent forward, panting heavily. Between the brutal adrenaline rush of the fight and the intense, exhausting session against the mattress just minutes prior, your legs felt completely weak, trembling so badly under your weight that it felt like a total miracle you were even standing at all. You were overwhelmingly thankful for the adrenaline keeping you upright.

Without taking his eyes off the stairwell, Daryl reached out and tapped you slightly, gently with the back of his hand against your thigh. "Ya alrigh'?" Breathing deeply, you gave just a small nod. "Yeah”

You straightened up slowly, wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. "Are you?" You asked, your gaze still fixed down at the corpse before as Daryl grunted, giving back another single nod. "Yeah…”

After what felt like a very long second— "You think this is our sign to stop fucking on runs?" You asked breathlessly, a tiny, adrenaline-laced smirk tugging at your lips through the sweat as you slowly turned your head to look at Daryl beside you.

Daryl’s chest heaved as he stared at the body below, his hands still shaking slightly from the rush. "Yeah…” He gave a single, quiet nod before slowly, raising his head to look at back you, his dark eyes locking onto yours instantly.

You both just looked at each other in the quiet hallway, breathing hard, everything passing between your eyes— And in a split second, Daryl closed the distance between you.

His mouth crashed hard against yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. Without a second thought, you dropped the knife to the floorboards, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck as his broad hands clamped around your waist, pushing you backward straight into the bedroom once again.

“Guess we’ll stick to that next time" You murmured against his lips with a breathless, dry smirk as he backed you up to the bed. He grunted out softly against your mouth, titling his head just slightly as a low raspy hum vibrated in his chest, his dark eyes flashing with pure heat. "Yeah…"

.✦ ݁˖ ———

The engine of the heavy motorcycle sputtered to a stop, the low, deep rumble fading into the hot afternoon air as Daryl kicked down the kickstand in the main prison yard. Dust swirled around your boots as the two of you get off, the heavy metal gates grinding shut behind you. Rick and Carol were already walking down the gravel path toward the yard to meet you, both of them eyeing the long delay.

“What took you guys so long?” Rick asked, resting a hand flat on his hip as his eyes darted between the two of you, taking in the dust, the sweat, and the sheer length of time you’d been gone. "You were supposed to be back hours ago”

"About that…" You sighed out, swinging your leg off the back of the bike before popping your back, and rolling your stiff shoulders. "We got into a bit of a trouble”

Carol raised her eyebrows, her sharp eyes taking in the way you were moving before she reached over to take one of the overflowing supply bags from the back rack. "Trouble? What kind of trouble?"

"Three assholes tried t’ jump us in one of the houses down the road" Daryl grunted out, swinging his leg over the seat, his boots hit the gravel with a heavy thud as he pulled his crossbow strap off his shoulder.

Rick’s brow furrowed, his posture instantly tense with concern. "Are you two okay?"

"Yeah" You nodded casually, running a hand through your hair before pulling it forward over your shoulders, letting the strands fall around your neck to hide the fresh, reddish marks as best you could. "We took care of them” You explained, giving Rick a small nod before turning toward Maggie and wasting little time before falling into step beside her.

The two of you padded down the corridor, heading toward the upper cells—not quite rushing, but really having no intention of lingering around the others long enough for anyone to notice the marks on your neck and realize the assholes you’d been fighting weren’t the only reason you and Daryl had been late.

Meanwhile, Daryl took the heavier crates of canned rations down the main hallway toward the armory with Carol.

As you walked with Maggie, your hand kept periodically coming up to adjust the hem of your shirt, trying to pull the fabric higher around your neck to hide the stubborn hickeys. But near the entrance of the cell block, Carol crossed paths with you two and her keen gaze dropped straight to the dark, fresh red bruises blooming along your collarbone and the side of your neck, peeking out just beneath the hem of your shirt.

She pursed her lips tightly, fighting back a knowing smirk as her eyes twinkled with silent amusement before she turned to follow Daryl toward the supply tables.

In the storage room, Daryl was busy stacking the haul, his worn leather vest leaving his arms exposed as he reached down into his canvas bag and pulled out a few cans of beans to stack nearby. But then—as he lifted another heavy bundle, the light hit his upper arm, exposing the obviously fresh, deep bite mark standing out red on his bicep.

And Carol’s eyes caught it in an instant.

She tilted her head, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips as she huffed quietly. “Huh… those assholes did that to you too?” She asked, raising an eyebrow knowingly, her hands never stopping as she continued stacking the food onto the shelves.

Daryl froze for a split second, his grip tightening around the metal rim of a can. “Mm” He gave a single, stiff nod, deliberately avoiding her gaze as his hands moved straight back to stacking the beans onto the metal shelves with aggressive speed. "Fucker got a good pair of teeth”

He lied straight through his teeth, keeping his head shoved down, focusing entirely too hard on organizing the food.

Carol nodded in pure amusement, continuing to move around the selves as she shot him another knowing look, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. "Oh... was he the one who gave [name] those hickeys too?"

Daryl stopped completely mid-reach, turning into a literal statue. The tin can in his hand hovered an inch off the shelf as he slowly turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing into a stone-cold glare that could melt iron.

Yet Carol didn't back down for a second.

“Hey, hey I'm not judging! I don't blame you—Good for you two!” She said with a small shake of her head, holding her hands up in mocking defense. "Lord knows it’s damn near impossible to find a quiet place to get fucked properly ‘round here” She mumbled, nudging Daryl teasingly with her elbow. “—Not with all these people breathing down your neck” She added with a small playful grimace, a low laugh bubbling up in her throat.

Daryl's jaw clenched so tight the muscle twitched beneath his beard. "Stop”

"No, no, I'm serious! I get it!" Carol chuckled, her tone entirely too bold and shameless as she turned on her heel to head back toward the common area. "Just do me a favor—next time tell her to ease up a bit. She bites any harder, she's gonna give you rabies”

Daryl just glared hard, his ears burning bright red under his greasy hair as grunted out. "Shut up”

Carol just smiled proudly as she leaned against the frame for one last moment. "Was it worth the trouble, at least?" She spoke again, tilting her head just slightly, watching him carefully.

Daryl immediately shot her a sharp, stern warning look, warning her to drop it—But, of course, Carol didn't budge. She just held his gaze, giving him a patient, knowing look in return, standing her ground and silently waiting for an actual answer.

Daryl held her eyes for a long beat before he finally cracked, shifting his stance. He looked back at the food, staring down at the metal shelves lined with tin cans in front of him and for a moment, the room was dead quiet. Then, slowly, hesitantly and so quietly it barely carried across the concrete room—

“Fuck yeah…”

[lovetositinsilence]

J♤ card

process here | prints

[galaxywarp]

[lucifers-tacos]

My sister has a video somewhere of some armadillos at my parents and im in the background saying "you know you can shoot one of them things and the bullet will ricochet right off of it" and the my sister saying "seriously??" And then my mom going "no Ashley" 😂😂

[cowboysoupbowl]

the good old days :)

[ffspy]

pinterest inspires me to do cool things

[belleeebelleee]

Happy Lowman (Sons of Anarchy) x fem!reader

You tell Happy you don't want to have sex, at least for a little while, looking scared, like you think he'll leave because of it. He's genuinely offended that you think that.

established relationship where you stop being intimate

The first time you met SAMCRO member Happy Lowman, somebody whispered to you, “Don’t smile at him unless you want him attached to your hip for the rest of your life.”

You’d laughed because it sounded ridiculous.

Happy barely spoke.

He stood in corners like a ghost in a leather kutte, tattooed arms folded over his stomach, eyes dark and unreadable beneath the California sun. Men louder than him filled every room he walked into, but somehow your attention always snagged on him anyway.

Maybe because everyone else performed.

Happy didn’t.

What you saw was what you got: violence, loyalty, strange deadpan humor, terrifying stillness.

And somehow beneath all of that— gentleness.

Tiny pieces of it.

The way he held doors open without looking at you. The way he moved people out of your path with one hand at your waist like it was instinctive. The way he remembered exactly how you took your coffee after hearing it once. The way he watched you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Like he was cataloging you. Protecting you. Keeping you somewhere safe inside his head.

Nobody expected the two of you to happen.

Least of all you.

But somehow it did anyway.

Slowly.

Then all at once.

You’d been around SAMCRO for almost a year before Happy kissed you.

A year of late nights at the clubhouse helping Gemma with bookkeeping when she got tired of dealing with idiots. A year of Happy appearing beside you silently whenever somebody got too drunk, too close, too handsy.

A year of conversations made mostly of: “You eat yet?” “Mm.” “You should sleep.” “Probably.” “You threatening people again?” “Maybe.”

It shouldn’t have worked.

It did.

Because underneath the silence, Happy listened harder than anyone you’d ever known.

He noticed things.

Like how you twisted your rings when anxious. How crowds overwhelmed you. How you hated yelling. How you smiled differently when you were genuinely happy versus when you were trying to survive a room. He knew before you did when you were upset.

Which was dangerous. Because it made you start needing him.

And needing people had never ended well for you.

The kiss happened behind the clubhouse after a long run gone bad.

Not for him.

For you.

You’d gotten a call from Gemma asking if you could bring extra medical supplies because Chibs had gotten patched up rough and everyone was too busy arguing to think straight.

You showed up exhausted after a fourteen-hour shift, hair messy, hoodie too big, carrying supplies through a parking lot full of angry bikers.

And some prospect you barely knew grabbed your wrist.

Not hard enough to bruise.

Just enough.

“Hey sweetheart,” he slurred. “Smile a little.”

Before you could even react, Happy appeared.

One second he wasn’t there.

The next he was.

The prospect released you immediately.

Every person in the lot went silent.

Happy didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t posture. Didn’t threaten.

He just looked at the guy and said quietly, “Walk away.”

The prospect practically fled.

You stared at Happy.

He stared back.

“You okay?” he asked.

And something inside you cracked a little because he sounded genuinely concerned.

Not possessive. Not controlling. Concerned.

You nodded. Then promptly burst into tears.

Which was horrifying.

You didn’t cry in front of people. Certainly not in front of six-foot tattooed enforcers with kill tattoos.

Happy looked more alarmed by your tears than he ever had holding a gun.

“Jesus Christ,” Tig muttered somewhere behind him. “The girl broke Happy.”

“Shut up,” Chibs said immediately.

Happy stepped closer slowly like approaching a wounded animal, “You hurt?”

You shook your head.

“Then what?”

“I’m tired,” you whispered, embarrassed. “And he grabbed me and I just—”

Happy’s jaw flexed.

“Okay.”

That was it.

Okay.

Immediate acceptance, without judgement or impatience.

Then he took the supply box from your hands and walked you inside with one massive hand resting lightly between your shoulder blades.

Like he’d do it forever if you let him.

After that, something shifted.

Happy started showing up everywhere.

At your apartment with takeout because “you forget food exists.” Outside your work after late shifts because “parking garage creeps me out.” At the grocery store once, somehow, after you texted Gemma that your tire looked weird.

“You stalking me?” you asked suspiciously.

“Yes.”

He said it completely seriously.

You laughed so hard you snorted.

Happy looked weirdly pleased with himself for causing it.

That should’ve terrified you.

Instead, it made warmth bloom in your chest.

Because nobody had ever made protecting you feel gentle before.

The first night you slept together happened almost eight months after your first kiss.

Eight months of tension. Eight months of Happy touching you like you were precious despite the blood on his hands. Eight months of learning him.

He liked your fingers in his hair. Liked sleeping with one hand wrapped around your ankle because he always needed to know where you were. Liked listening to you ramble even if he only answered half the time.

And God— the way he looked at you sometimes nearly ruined you.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he’d found something good and was terrified someone would take it away.

You understood that feeling too well.

Which was why loving him scared you so badly.

You knew about his past.

Not every detail. But enough.

Women who used him for danger. Women he never let close. Women he slept beside but never truly stayed with.

You also knew what people said about him.

That Happy Lowman didn’t do soft. Didn’t do commitment. Didn’t do vulnerable.

And yet he sat through terrible movies with you because you liked them. He carried hair ties around his wrist because you always lost yours. He once drove forty minutes at three in the morning because you texted: “Can’t sleep.”

No explanation. Just showed up. Laid beside you. Rubbed your back until you finally drifted off.

You were doomed after that.

Completely doomed.

The first time you told him you loved him, he went very still.

You’d been half asleep, cheek pressed against his chest while rain hammered against your apartment windows.

“I love you,” you mumbled.

Silence.

Then, “Say it again.”

You lifted your head.

Happy almost never looked uncertain. But he did then.

You touched his face carefully.

“I love you.”

His throat worked hard.

Then he pulled you against him so tightly you could barely breathe.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Me too.”

You realized then how starved he was for tenderness.

And it shattered your heart.

Things were good for a while.

Scary-good.

Domestic in ways nobody would ever expect from Happy Lowman.

He started leaving clothes at your apartment. Started sleeping there more than the clubhouse. Started unconsciously building routines around you.

Morning coffee. Your legs over his lap during movies. His bike parked outside your building almost every night.

You should’ve felt safe.

Instead— you started getting afraid.

Because safety never lasted.

Not for you.

Not historically.

And especially not when sex got involved.

Your ex had taught you that.

Not with fists. With conditions. With withdrawal. With the subtle cruelty of making affection transactional.

He only stayed sweet when he was getting what he wanted.

If you said no, he sulked. Got cold. Distant. Punishing. You learned quickly that your comfort mattered less than keeping someone from leaving.

Even after you escaped that relationship, the fear lingered.

You’d hidden it well for a long time.

But lately— everything in your life felt too intense.

Work stress. Club violence. The constant fear of getting a call saying Happy was dead.

Your own anxiety clawing under your skin.

And sex had started feeling less comforting and more overwhelming.

You still wanted him. Still loved him desperately.

But every time things started getting heated lately, panic bloomed in your chest.

You kept pushing through it anyway.

Because you were terrified of what would happen if you didn’t.

Happy noticed.

Of course he did.

He noticed everything about you.

The hesitation. The way your breathing changed. How your smiles got strained afterward. The guilt.

And because Happy was Happy, he didn’t push. Not once.

If anything, he got gentler. Slower. Checking your face constantly. Stopping immediately whenever you tensed.

Which somehow made you feel worse. Because he was trying so hard and you still felt scared.

The breaking point came on a Thursday night.

You’d had a horrible shift. Two trauma cases back-to-back. One loss.

You came home emotionally hollow.

Happy was already there, sitting at your kitchen counter cleaning one of his guns with mechanical focus.

He looked up immediately when you walked in.

“You eat?”

You shook your head.

“Tired.”

“Yeah.”

He stood, crossing toward you, strong hands settling on your hips.

Then his expression changed.

“Hey.”

You realized suddenly you were trembling.

“I’m okay.”

“Bullshit.”

Normally the bluntness would’ve made you laugh.

Tonight it nearly made you cry.

Happy cupped your jaw carefully, “What happened?”

And because you were exhausted and emotional and so deeply in love with this terrifying man— everything spilled out.

The stress. The fear. The panic attacks you hadn’t mentioned. The way intimacy suddenly made your chest tight sometimes even though you wanted him. Even though you loved him. Even though none of it was his fault.

You were crying by the end, humiliated and shaky.

Happy listened without interrupting once.

Which honestly made it harder.

Because he looked so focused. So attentive. Like every word mattered.

When you finally stopped talking, silence filled the apartment.

Your stomach twisted painfully.

This was it, then.

The moment things changed.

You stared at the floor.

“I just…” your voice cracked. “I don’t think I wanna have sex for a little while.”

Silence.

You rushed on immediately.

“I mean not forever obviously, I just—I’m trying not to freak out every time and I know that’s unfair to you and I know eventually you’ll probably get tired of dealing with—”

Happy’s hands tightened on your waist.

“Look at me.”

You couldn’t.

That alone probably told him everything.

His voice got rougher.

“Baby.”

The nickname nearly undid you.

Slowly, you lifted your head.

And immediately froze.

Happy looked offended. Not angry. Offended. Deeply, genuinely offended.

His brows furrowed hard as he stared at you.

“You think I’m gonna leave because we’re not fucking for a while?”

Your face burned.

“I mean… maybe not leave immediately, but eventually and I wouldn’t blame you and—”

“Jesus Christ.”

He stepped back suddenly, running tattooed hands over his face.

Not angry. Upset.

Which confused you more.

Happy pointed at you like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You seriously think that’s all this is to me?”

“No—”

“Then why the hell are you lookin’ at me like I’m about to walk out the door?”

Your throat tightened.

Because you didn’t have a good answer. Just old fear. Old conditioning. Old hurt.

Happy saw it anyway.

Of course he did.

His entire expression shifted instantly.

The frustration melted into something wounded. Not for himself. For you.

“Oh, baby.”

You broke completely at that.

He crossed the room immediately and pulled you against his chest.

You started apologizing automatically.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it’s stupid—”

“Don’t do that.” His arms tightened hard around you. “Don’t apologise for being scared.”

The words hit you like a punch.

Because nobody had ever said that before.

Your voice came out tiny against his shirt, “I just thought maybe eventually you’d get sick of me.”

Happy pulled back enough to look at you directly.

There was genuine disbelief in his eyes.

“Sick of you.”

You shrugged helplessly, tears sliding down your cheeks.

And then Happy Lowman—terrifying enforcer, tattooed killer, human nightmare—looked like you’d personally broken his heart.

“C’mere.”

He guided you to the couch and sat down, pulling you directly into his lap.

You curled against him automatically.

One massive hand rubbed slowly up and down your spine.

“You listen to me real careful,” he said quietly.

You nodded against his chest.

“I don’t stay places I don’t wanna be.”

A pause.

“I’m here because I love you.”

Your eyes burned again.

Happy tilted your chin upward gently until you looked at him.

“You could tell me no sex for six years and I’d still be here annoying the shit outta you every day.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

He kept going.

“You think I care more about gettin’ laid than you feeling safe with me?”

“No…”

“Then stop thinking you gotta earn me.”

That one nearly stopped your heart.

Because somehow—somehow—he’d found the exact centre of the wound without you ever naming it aloud.

Happy’s thumb brushed under your eye.

“You don’t owe me your body because I’m your boyfriend.”

Fresh tears spilled over immediately.

“I know that logically.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “But somebody taught you different.”

The deadly calm in his voice told you exactly what he thought about that person.

You swallowed hard.

Happy leaned his forehead against yours.

“I’m not him.”

The simplicity of it destroyed you more than a speech would have.

Not him. Not conditional. Not transactional.

Just— Happy.

Solid and steady and frighteningly devoted.

“I know,” you whispered.

“You don’t,” he corrected softly. “Not all the way yet.”

That hurt because it was true.

That night, Happy didn’t touch you sexually once. Not even remotely.

Instead, he ordered takeout. Forced you to drink water. Sat beside you on the couch while you half-watched terrible television and slowly decompressed.

Every so often, he’d glance at you.

Like he was checking something.

Finally you noticed.

“What?”

“Tryin’ to figure out how anybody made you think love works like that.”

Emotion clogged your throat instantly.

You looked away.

Happy’s hand found yours immediately.

“You know what I like most about you?”

You blinked at him suspiciously.

“What?”

“You’re soft.”

You laughed weakly. “That sounds insulting.”

“It ain’t.”

His thumb stroked over your knuckles.

“You stayed soft anyway.”

Despite everything, he meant. Despite hurt. Despite fear. Despite life trying to harden you into something sharper.

You leaned against him carefully.

Happy kissed your forehead.

“No one gets to punish you for needing time.”

The next few weeks confused you.

Because you kept waiting for the shift. The resentment. The frustration. The subtle withdrawal you’d learned to expect.

It never came.

Happy stayed exactly the same.

Actually—worse.

More affectionate, if anything.

Like he was trying to prove something to you.

He still kissed you slow and sweet every morning. Still held your hand everywhere. Still slept tangled around you every night. Still looked at you like you hung the damn moon.

Nothing got colder. Nothing got conditional.

When he wanted you, he showed it openly but never pushed.

A heated kiss would turn into forehead touches. Hands on your waist. Soft bites to your shoulder.

Then he’d stop there unless you initiated more.

No pressure. No guilt. No disappointment. Just patience.

It was almost harder to handle.

Because every day he stayed gentle chipped away at old fear until you didn’t know what to do with yourself anymore.

One night at the clubhouse, Tig cornered you near the bar with a grin.

“You and Hap get in a fight?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

“What?”

“He’s been glaring at everybody extra hard lately. Usually means somebody upset him.”

You glanced across the room instinctively.

Happy sat at the table with Chibs and Jax, expression flat and terrifying as usual. Like he could kill six men before finishing his beer.

Then he caught you looking.

Immediately softened. Tiny. Barely noticeable unless you knew him.

But it happened.

Tig noticed your face changing and barked a laugh, “Oh my God, you two are disgusting.”

“Shut up." You rolled your eyes.

Tig leaned closer conspiratorially.

“He threatened a prospect with bodily harm for waking you up from a nap earlier.”

Your mouth fell open.

“What?”

“Kid dropped a wrench.”

Across the room, Happy was still watching you.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

His gaze immediately warmed.

Tig gagged theatrically.

“I’m gonna throw myself into traffic.”

Later that night, you found Happy outside smoking.

You slipped beside him quietly.

“Did you threaten someone for waking me up?”

“No.”

You stared.

Happy exhaled smoke.

“I implied consequences.”

You burst out laughing.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then his expression shifted slightly as he looked at you.

“Better today.”

It wasn’t a question.

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

Because somehow you were.

Not magically fixed. Not cured. But safer.

And that mattered.

Happy touched your jaw lightly, “You tell me if that changes.”

You swallowed hard.

“I will.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

Satisfied, he kissed your forehead.

The simple tenderness nearly hurt.

A month later, you woke from a nightmare shaking so badly you accidentally elbowed Happy in the ribs.

He woke instantly.

Years of violence had made him terrifyingly alert.

“What happened?”

You couldn’t answer.

Your chest hurt. Your skin felt wrong.

Panic attack.

Happy recognized it immediately.

“Hey hey hey. Look at me.”

You curled inward instead.

“I can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can.”

His voice stayed calm and grounded.

“You’re okay. C’mon, breathe with me.”

He guided you through it patiently. Steady reassurance while you shook apart beside him in the dark.

Eventually the panic loosened enough for you to think again.

Humiliation rushed in immediately afterward.

“Sorry.”

Happy made an annoyed sound.

“You gotta stop apologizing every time you have feelings.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself.

He brushed messy hair away from your face.

“Bad dream?”

You nodded.

“About?”

You hesitated.

Then admitted quietly, “You leaving.”

Something painful crossed his face.

He pulled you directly against his chest.

“Not goin’ anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Can.”

“You literally ride around shooting people sometimes.”

“That’s different.”

You snorted weakly.

Happy kissed the top of your head.

“I mean emotionally, smartass.”

Warmth spread slowly through your chest. Because he meant it.

You could hear it every time he spoke to you. Feel it every time he touched you.

Happy loved with terrifying consistency.

Once you were his, you were his.

No games. No manipulation. No halfway.

It hit you fully one afternoon in the kitchen.

Not during some dramatic moment. Not during a declaration.

Just while making coffee.

Happy sat at the counter cleaning a knife while you rambled about a rude coworker.

Halfway through your rant, you stopped abruptly.

Happy looked up immediately.

“What?”

“You really love me.”

His brows furrowed like the statement confused him.

“Yeah.”

“You’re not pretending.”

Now he looked offended again.

“Why the fuck would I pretend?”

You laughed softly at yourself.

“I don’t know.”

Happy set the knife down immediately and crossed toward you.

Then he framed your face in both hands.

“You listenin’?”

You nodded.

“I love you when you’re anxious.”

A kiss to your forehead.

“I love you when you’re exhausted.”

A kiss to your cheek.

“I love you when you’re scared.”

Another kiss.

“And I’m gonna love you until you stop lookin’ surprised about it.”

Your eyes filled instantly.

Happy sighed softly, “There she goes.”

“You’re being emotionally supportive at me,” you accused tearfully.

“Sounds terrible.”

You laughed through the tears.

Then he kissed you properly.

Slow. Warm. Careful.

Nothing demanding in it.

Just love. Pure and devastating.

A few nights later, you initiated things for the first time in weeks.

Not because you felt pressured. Not because you were afraid.

Because you wanted to.

And the second Happy realized that distinction, something in his expression cracked wide open.

Not lust. Relief.

You touched his face gently.

“You okay?”

He nodded once.

“Yeah.”

But his voice sounded rough.

You understood suddenly.

He’d been scared too. Scared of hurting you accidentally. Scared of pushing too hard. Scared of becoming someone you feared.

Your heart nearly burst.

“You know you never made me feel unsafe, right?”

Happy looked at you carefully.

“Wanted to.”

“What?”

“Make sure.”

Emotion swelled painfully in your chest.

So you kissed him.

And this time there was no panic. No fear clawing at your ribs. Just warmth. Trust. The solid certainty of being loved without conditions.

Happy touched you like something precious.

Like he always had.

Only now you could finally feel the difference.

Every kiss asked instead of took. Every touch checked in. Every pause gave you room to stop. And when you pulled him closer, he made this rough broken sound against your mouth like you’d handed him something sacred.

Later, tangled together beneath tangled sheets, Happy traced lazy patterns along your spine while you rested on his chest.

Quiet filled the room comfortably.

Then, “You know what pissed me off most?”

You lifted your head sleepily.

“About what?”

“The idea that you thought I’d leave.”

Your face heated immediately.

Happy shook his head slowly.

“Baby, I’d burn down half the state for you.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

You laughed helplessly.

Happy’s mouth twitched against your hair.

Then his expression softened again into something unbearably tender.

“You don’t gotta be useful to be loved.”

Your breath caught.

Because even now—even after everything—he was still trying to heal the parts of you nobody else noticed were bleeding.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then whispered, “I think you might actually be a good man, Happy Lowman.”

He snorted.

“Don’t spread that around. Ruins my reputation.”

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

Then tucked yourself closer against him while his arms wrapped around you automatically.

Safe.

Not because nothing bad could happen. Not because life suddenly became easy.

But because for the first time in a very long time—love didn’t feel like something you had to earn.

And Happy stayed.

Exactly like he promised.

[seraphiism]

; ༊ character : arthur morgan ; ༊ fandom : red dead redemption 2 ; ༊ notes : female reader, is referred to as 'missus'. arthur is drunk. repost!

you truly weren't sure what to expect when hosea informed you that lenny and arthur were, in fact, very much inebriated-- ah, well, that was the kind and proper way to describe it, hosea said. you also weren't sure why you were so insistent this time around on tagging along and getting a certain outlaw home yourself; you knew he'd always find his way back to you, come hell or high water.

"honey bun," you say, words quiet and nearly drowned out in the chaos of the saloon, "i think you drank too much."

your touch is as tender as ever, hand gently pulling on his as you carefully, albeit clumsily try to drag him out of the building. you can see lenny laughing loudly in the corner, hosea sighing as he pats the younger gentleman on the back. you can't help but smile at the nonsense, though it falters the moment you feel arthur let go of your hand.

"...sorry, miss." he mumbles, half coherent. "i got a beautiful missus waitin' at home. can't be doing anythin' like holdin' hands."

you tilt your head, brows furrowed in slight puzzlement. must have drank more than usual, you assume.

"...arthur morgan."

"...yes'm?" he suspects you won't let up-- he's preparing for some incomprehensible ramble to shoo you, and you're very well aware of this-- as much as you'd love to hear it, you're a little tired, and you'd like to just go to sleep and be held by a certain cowboy that you love dearly.

"i am your missus."

you both just stare at each other, amusement meeting cluelessness, confusion, and...ah-- there it is. you smile when his eyes seem to brighten up at the sudden realization and recollection that you are, in fact, his.

"...so you are." he says. "well, i'll be damned. lucky me." he mumbles.

you roll your eyes, holding your hand out, the curve of your lips growing ever so softly as he gladly holds it.

"lucky you, arthur morgan."

[meninecanela]

The experience of watching myself (the reader) fuck my current fave in a reader x character fic:

[lucifers-tacos]

Yall, my freaking tooth hurts like no ones business. I went to the dentist and they couldn't do anything 😞. They referred me to someone else, but since its friday everything was closed by the time i was done. Ugh, this shit blows, and i dont want to do anything

In other news, its canning season!! Im struggling, but Got 5 quarts of peach tea canned, and fixin to make chili base, ketchup, pizza sauce, and pasta sauce. Ill have to get a picture of the tea because it looks so pretty

[creativepromptsforwriting]

I don't need AI to write. I can create fake scenarios in my head perfectly fine myself.

[cosmonautroger]

なっくす

[luvnarra]

Please more daryl smut 🙏🏼. Those two works you have are amazing. Maybe some abandoned house quicky perhaps, or season 1 hiding it from everyone. Whatever your heart desires

Trust me, I GOT you✋🏼✋🏼🫣

I’ve already have a few things on my drafts and have a lot more in my mind!!! BUT my studies and exams are killing me💔💔💔

And also I have to continue and finish my Ekko x oc story on wattpad so most days it’s hard to find any balance between all these😭😞

I swear if I had a damn magic genie I’d wish to either control time of a clone of me🙏🏼

But I’m trying my best and if my calculations are correct I’ll have posted something by the end of the week maybe?? But no promises😞

[lucifers-tacos]

Hehhehe i love that. Dont rush!! I have my own writing account that i am slow with. Take as long as you need (i have three requests that i havent finished myself and its been about two months now 🫣)

[escuerzoresucitado]

[bearcatcatbear]

Today is the only day you can summon the energy to reblog this.

[the-real-ted-cruz]

no other social media platform has lore quite like tumblr’s

[angstycatthatlikestea-deactivat]

the gods that haunt this place are unlike any others

[super-face]

I just saw a tiktok comment saying that tumblr right now is like a place recovered from being irradiated

[sneakyfeets]

[cryptognomicon]

Sign outside Tumblr: “This place is not a place of honor. No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing valued is here. …”

[transastronautistic]

id: screenshot of tags reading “the wildlife carries on in the ruins like nothing ever happened”

[therobotmonster]

Sometimes you can hear voices from the trees...

[person-of-many-names]

I like your shoelaces

[avocadosfromfigaro]

Thanks, I pulled them out of a stump filled with fae water and now it wards off the President

[luvnarra]

—.✦ ݁˖ Just a “rat”

Pairing; Daryl x fem!reader

Summary; Poor Patrick only wanted to throw a little water on his face. Turns out the prison rat wasn’t just a rat.

Tw; nsfw, mdni 18+, smut, p in v, shower sex, accidental voyeurism, minor witnesses sexual activity (Patrick is 16-17)

Era; Prison era

“Daryl— Please—”

The thick steam of the prison showers filled the air, blurring the cracked tile walls and rusted overhead pipes into a warm, hazy blur.

It was long past midnight, and the hot water running down your bodies felt like a necessary shield—the heavy hiss of the spray helping to muffle the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin against skin and the desperate, breathless sounds you were both making.

Daryl had you pinned face-first against the damp concrete wall. Your chest pressed flat against the stone, your palms gripping the tiles for balance as he gripped your hips firmly with his massive, calloused hands, driving into you from behind with deep, relentless thrusts.

"Fuck, you're so tight” Daryl growled into the back of your neck, his teeth lightly scraping against your skin as his hips bucked forward again. "Doin' so good f’ me... fuck”

You let out a soft, hitched pant, your fingers clawing at the wall as the pleasure threatened to overwhelm you. "Fuck... right there” You whimpered, your lips sinking into your bottom lip as a weak attempt to muffle your whines. "God, Daryl, that feels so fucking good..."

Daryl groaned in response, leaning even closer and changing the angle just enough so he could drive himself deeper into you, his chest now meeting your back.

Your hands pressed flat against the slick tile to brace yourself, a broken gasp escaping your throat as he kept up his relentless pace. "Daryl... 'm close—" You panted, your nails digging into the stone all over again as you tried desperately to keep your voice down despite the heavy curtain of falling water covering the noise. "So, so close..."

"Fuck, ’m too" Daryl grunted, his voice dropping into that thick, low growl that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, holding you firmly in place as he took complete control. "Just a little longer, yeah? Can ya’ do that f’ me?" He mumbled against your skin, the words lost between slow, lingering kisses along your shoulder and the side of your neck. His lips barely leaving your skin before finding another spot, teeth grazing gently as he marked you in the darkness.

Ever since the survivors from Woodbury arrived at the prison, finding any kind of privacy had become practically impossible. The place was more than just packed now, bustling with unfamiliar faces. And between the crowded corridors, shared meals, and constant guard rotations, moments like this—late-night showers behind the curtain of heavy steam and hidden midnight meetups—were the only moments you and Daryl could truly breathe without an audience.

Keeping your relationship a secret wasn't about a lack of trust—it was just about survival and keeping what you had sacred.

You were very careful. But of course, the core group wasn't blind. Nobody ever made a big speech about it, but—Rick, Michonne, Carol, Glenn, Maggie—Oh, they knew.

You never held hands in the courtyard, never traded soft words where anyone could hear, but the truth slipped through in the quiet spaces.

It was in the way Daryl’s posture shifted the second you stepped outside, his posture sharpening, his hand instinctively resting closer to his belt. The way he was far more protective over you on supply runs, always keeping a watchful eye and staying within arm's reach. But what gave it away the most, was the absolute, unhinged panic that had nearly torn him apart the time you got severely hurt on a run—a raw, terrifying break in his usual quiet stoicism that nobody who witnessed it could ever forget. That day, Daryl had nearly lost his damn mind under the terror of losing you.

Carol had been the first to truly know. She had seen it first, long before anyone else. She didn't need a confession; she saw it in the way Daryl looked at you when he thought no one was watching. Whenever her and Daryl sat out on the overturned crates in the yard, she’d watch him scan the perimeter carefully, his gaze flicking past the fences, past the gates, not stopping his searching until he found you. Only then would his eyes soften and the tension would leave his shoulders. It had taken weeks of Carol's sharp, knowing smiles and relentless teasing before Daryl finally grunted out a gruff, reluctant nod—his only official confirmation.

So here, tucked away in the steaming darkness of the shower block, was the only place where the weight of the world lifted, where you didn't have to act like just another survivor in the yard.

But, neither of you had any idea that your late-night meetups in the dark shower block weren't as hidden as you thought tonight.

It had been a suffocatingly hot day, and Patrick, the lanky, awkward kid with the thick glasses, simply couldn't bear the overwhelming heat of the night inside his stuffy cellblock. Unable to sleep, he had wandered into the wash area just wanting to throw a little cold water on his face to cool down.

He quietly stumbled deeper into the corridor, yawning tiredly when, suddenly, he heard the unmistakable, heavy grunts and wet slaps over the sound of the water, and then— "Daryl, don't stop..." He heard it clearly, the soft gasping voice, followed immediately by that unmistakable, gravelly rasp growling back. "Ain’t stoppin’ ”

Patrick’s breath hitched violently in his throat, his face instantly burning up in the dark— Oh shit... that was Daryl Dixon's voice. Daryl fucking Dixon's.

For a second, Patrick felt like he was dreaming, completely unable to trust his own ears.

Daryl was the man Patrick looked up to more than anyone in this world—a lone wolf in every sense of the word. Daryl was a man who barely let anyone touch him, let alone showed an ounce of romantic or intimate interest in another human being. Nobody in the prison had ever even pictured Daryl with a partner. Sure, he was a handsome guy, and Patrick had seen a couple of brave women try their hand at flirting with him in the past, but Daryl had that lethal, intense scowl that terrified most people before they could even get close. Most didn't even make it past eye contact; Daryl would instantly sidestep their gaze, grunting or shutting down conversations before they even began. He seemed entirely immune to that side of life.

So hearing the Daryl Dixon—of all people— sounding so completely raw, breathless, and consumed by someone sent a shockwave through the kid's entire chest.

It wasn't just idle curiosity that pushed Patrick forward anymore—it was pure, staggering disbelief.

Overwhelmed and desperate to see if his tired mind was playing tricks on him, Patrick took a tiny, hesitant peek around the corner of the brick divider— And when his eyes adjusted to the mist and landed on you, he almost gasped out loud in total shock, his eyes widening behind his lenses.

No… it’s couldn’t be…

Around the prison, you were untouchable in a way every guy knew better than to test. It wasn't that you were cold—no, you were warm, funny, talkative enough to keep a conversation going on and on for hours. You gave out hugs easily enough to friends or the younger guys in the group. But when it came to romantic interest, you held the highest fucking bar in the camp. Plenty of men had tried their luck, attempting to flirt or play it smooth, only to be shut down with a razor-sharp smirk, a sarcastic tease, and a bruised ego. You simply weren't the kind of woman who entertained just anyone, leaving every guy who tried walking away with his tail between his legs.

Yet here you were—completely yielding to Daryl damn Dixon. Letting him hold you, command your body, and guide every single breath you took without a single trace of protest or hesitation as he aggressively fucked you against the wall.

Shaking violently, Patrick couldn't resist taking one more subtle, terrified glance around the brick.

He didn’t meant to—but his eyes betrayed him, falling on the exact point of contact—where Daryl’s hips drove hard against the soft curve of your ass, keeping you pinned against the stone with every deep, unforgiving, thrust. Claiming every inch of your space to the point there was none left between you, each thrust pressing you harder against wet, slippery wall.

“C’mon, cum for me, angel” Daryl grunted against your neck, and Patrick instantly noticed his arm snaking around your front, his hand— the same hand he had shaken just a few hours ago this morning— traveling lower and lower till they met your core. Smoothly and naturally, with the ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times before.

But… what was he doing?

The poor, absurdly and unbelievably virgin, kid couldn’t make sense of it. His innocent mind, and even more innocent eyes, couldn’t quite understand what Daryl was doing to you. But judging by your reaction, whatever it was had completely unraveled you. Every shudder, every breathless sound, every helpless tremble— was all the proof he needed to understand that, whatever it was— it was driving you absolutely insane, overwhelming you with a rush of pure ecstasy that seemed to leave nothing else in the world.

“C’mon, give t’me, baby. I know yar’ close” Daryl’s fingers found your clit with unfailing accuracy, circling the small bundle of nerves with unwavering precision, his movements rough and demanding, perfectly in sync with the pistoning of his hips. And the broken, desperate cry that tore from your throat sounded utterly pornographic.

“Fuck, I c-can’t—” The dual stimulation was too much. You could barely form words anymore. All you could do was moan and whimper, yet push back against him to meet him thrust for thrust at the same time. Taking everything he was giving you and begging for more.

Patrick could’ve sworn he saw your knees buckle then, like the strength was slowly draining from your body—But Daryl didn’t let you. Didn’t let you fall, didn’t let you run from it. He kept you in place, pushed you harder against the concrete wall. Your cheek now completely pressed onto the cold tiles as his grip tightened around your waist, keeping your body upright.

“Nah, ya’ can. Ya’ will” Daryl didn’t just reply—he commanded. His fingers pressing so firmly into your skin that it almost looked painful.

Patrick blinked. Once. Then again. And again. Scrubbing a hand harshly over his eyes until bright white spots burst across his vision. God, he had to be dreaming. He just had too. Cause there was simply no way what he was seeing was real. No way that was actually you.

You—the woman who had never taken orders from anyone without a fight. The woman who could turn the simplest request into an argument if someone phrased it like a command. Even Rick himself had learned the hard way that getting you to follow one of his plans meant asking instead of telling, and asking properly, as you liked to put it

If someone had the nerve to even bark an order at you, you’d make damn sure to do the exact opposite just to prove a point. It didn’t matter who they were—Rick. Hershel. Especially Shane back then— Hell, anyone. The second someone tried to tell you what to do instead of asking, your stubborn streak came out swinging. You’d stand there with your chin tipped defiantly high while they fumed and clearly had lost their patience, never once flinching beneath their glare. And the angrier they got, shit, the more amused you seemed. Always saying something among the lines— “Yeah, well, last time I checked you’re neither my boss nor my damn father!” And then, with an infuriating little scoff— “So get a fucking grip!”

So how had you just folded so easily? So quickly. With no argument. No sarcastic comeback. Not even the slightest roll of your eyes in response to Daryl’s command. Nothing. You had simply listened. No—Whimpered.

Patrick could only stare, his brain stubbornly refusing to make sense of what he was seeing right now. What the hell had Dixon done to you? What kind of spell had he managed to put you under?

“Fuck, look at ya’ ” Daryl whispered down into your ear, his body shifting as he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back into you with one, single, hard thrust, burying himself completely to the hilt and reaching impossibly deep inside you. “Such a mess for’ me”

Your back arched in response, another helpless sound slipping past your lips as your pussy clenched desperately around him, sucking him back in so tightly that it had him whimpering against your skin. “Shit, keep doin’ that”

But then, as Patrick kept watching Daryl basically ruin you with just his…

A sudden, heavy realization settled into his chest.

Up until, well, tonight, Patrick had thought of the men in the camp simply as adults who were better with weapons. But standing in the damp shadows, watching the raw, unyielding power Daryl carried, the truth hit him like a truck.

He looked at Daryl—a man hardened by the world, a survivor who brought in food and protected the gates. And then looked at himself. And the massive gulf between a nervous teenage boy like him and a real, full-grown man hit him with brutal clarity. Patrick realized in that moment that he wasn't just miles behind Daryl on the battlefield— he was completely outmatched in every way that mattered.

He had always looked up to Daryl as a man, as fighter and as everything he dreamed to be, but watching the effortless, confident way he commanded your body, guiding you through every wave of pleasure with raw power and deep, grounded control, hearing the soft, helpless moans echo against the concrete as he drove you over completely out of your mind— Patrick felt small, realizing what it truly meant to satisfy a woman like that and that he was looking at a level of manhood he couldn't even comprehend.

"Daryl... please" You whimpered, your back arching deeper into his chest. "I gotcha. I gotcha, baby”Daryl murmured between sloppy kisses, his voice heavy with possessive pride. "Don’t hol’ back. Cum f’me”

Patrick felt a sudden wave of sharp guilt crash over him then.

Not because he suddenly felt uncomfortable or disgusted—far from it actually. If anything, he felt like a dump teenage boy who was watching a sex-tape for the first time in his life—But still, he desperately wanted to force his eyes away, to tear his gaze from the scene, because he felt like he was trespassing. This was sacred, private ground belonging to the two people he respected most in the entire prison, and watching felt like a massive betrayal, an act of sheer disrespect. He was overstepping a line he had no business crossing, intruding on a raw, deeply personal side of Daryl and you that no one else was ever meant to see.

His mind screamed at him to pull back, to never talk about this ever again, to turn around and erase this moment from his memory. But then, as your head fell back onto Daryl’s shoulder with a breathless whine—tipping over the edge into an intense, body-racking high—Daryl shifted his stance slightly, his head turning in the general direction of the hallway.

Panic seized Patrick.

A sharp, yet luckily silent gasp leaving his mouth as he spun around quickly, his back slamming flat against the wall and his face burning a bright, furious red. He slapped both hands over his mouth in utter shock, desperate to remain quiet.

Fearing he was about to be caught red-handed, he scrambled backward into the deeper shadows behind the wall—But Patrick was a clumsy, jittery kid. In his desperate, trembling hurry to hide further into the dark, his sneaker scuffed loudly against a loose piece of gravel on the concrete floor.

Skrrrrt.

The sharp sound sliced straight through the hiss of the shower.

You froze instantly, your breath catching in your throat as your peak was suddenly cut short. Daryl stopped dead inside you, his entire body turning rigid as iron. "Daryl..." You whispered, a sudden wave of intense panic and embarrassment flooding your chest. "What the fuck was that?"

Daryl didn't answer right away. His blue eyes narrowing as he stared piercingly through the steam and toward the dark opening of the room.

"Ion’ know” He muttered, his voice low and definitely not soft.

Patrick, terrified out of his mind, tried to shift his weight to sneak away, but his elbow nudged a rusted metal pipe behind him, making a faint, hollow clink.

"Who the fuck is out there?!" Daryl yelled through the steam, his protective instincts instantly flaring into pure rage. “Ya better fuckin’ leave right now! Or else I swear to God, I'll come out there and beat the livin’ shit out of ya!”

The sheer anger in his voice had you scrambling. You quickly pulled your hands to your chest, instinctively covering your very bare breasts as you reached out to slowly turn the water handle, cutting off the loud spray.

"Daryl... I think someone is actually there” You whispered, your voice shaking with anxiety and pure mortification. Daryl glanced down at you for just a second, but it was enough for him to take in the pleading and absolutely terrified look that had settled on your face as your eyes met his and the darkness across from you.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of you, moving backwards and reaching over the stall to grab a rough towel before hastily wrapping it around his waist. His eyes scanned the floor until they found a heavy, jagged piece of a broken mirror near the rusted sink. He reached down at the shard, gripping it like a knife as he crept silently toward the corner of the wall.

Hearing the water stop and Daryl’s heavy footsteps approaching, Patrick didn't wait around. He scrambled backward, slipping through the dark corridor as quietly and quickly as his lanky legs could carry him, disappearing back into the cellblocks before he could get caught.

Daryl rounded the corner, his makeshift weapon raised and ready to slash. But as he scanned the empty, dark hallway— he found absolutely nothing. Just… darkness.

He lowered the glass shard, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath before turning back to look at you. You were still standing in the dry stall, shivering slightly, nervously clutching your hands over your chest, your eyes wide with a mix fear and worry.

Suddenly, a loud, frantic scratching sound echoed near the trash bins in the corner.

Daryl’s head snapped toward it instantly. His hands tightened around the glass once again only to be met with a massive, bloated prison rat scurrying out from beneath a pile of rags, sprinting across the floorboards and disappearing into a drain.

Daryl let out a rough, dry scoff, tossing the piece of glass into the sink. "Just a rat” He grunted, shaking his head. "Dirty fuckin’ animal runnin’ away”

You let out a big, explosive sigh of relief, your shoulders slumping as the panic drained from your body. "Oh, thank God—” You breathed, a breathless, nervous laugh escaping your lips as you pulled your hands away from your chest and let them drop back to your sides. "I thought it was Rick or someone. God, that would have been so fucking embarrassing”

"Yeah, well, it ain' nobody” Daryl murmured as he slowly walked back into the stall, aggressively yanking the towel off his waist and throwing it to the floor. He stepped right back into your space, the wicked, possessive glint returning to his eyes as he reached for you again. "Now... where the fuck were we?"

His hands found your waist in an instant, a giggling, happy yell escaping your mouth as you wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders. He lifted you effortlessly against the wall again, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist as you completely forgot about the scare.

Daryl reached over, twisting the handle to turn the hot water back on, and without a single second of hesitation— His lips crashed to yours in a desperate kiss as he lined himself up and drove straight back into your wet entrance. Swallowing down every moan and whine that slipped past your lips as he restarted the fire right where it left off.

.✦ ݁˖ ———

Morning came too quickly. The prison courtyard already alive with people by the time you stepped outside, bright with warm sunlight. You and Daryl practically radiated an after-sex glow. Your skin looked flushed, and there was a lazy, relaxed rhythm to the way you both moved.

Daryl was hunched over by the vehicles, working under the popped hood of a truck, his hands covered in grease—Patrick was standing just a few feet away, holding a toolbox.

Most days, whenever Daryl wasn't out on runs or at the fences, the kid was hovering nearby, following him like a quiet shadow just to watch and learn how he worked. Usually, Patrick talked Daryl's ear off with eager, nervous questions. But today, the kid was dead silent, staring awkwardly at the ground, his face pale as he kept swallowing hard, desperately trying to force the vivid, explicit memory of last night out of his mind.

Daryl noticed the unnatural quiet right away, but he didn't say anything, just continuing to wrench a stubborn bolt.

When, out of what felt like nowhere, you walked past the truck carrying a basket of clean laundry. As you passed Daryl, you reached out and gave his side a playful, subtle nudge with your hand—a quiet, intimate gesture you always did the after a wild night.

Without even looking up from his engine work, Daryl reached a grease-stained hand behind him, his rough fingertips lightly brushing across the exposed skin of your waist as you passed. It was subtle, effortless, and blink-and-you'd-miss-it.

Patrick, however, caught it. He swallowed even harder, a visible gulp working down his throat as the image of you being pinned against the shower wall by Daryl’s whole body flashed violently back into his mind. He clutched the toolbox harder, his chest tightening.

But as the kid looked up again, you had already walked off into the yard, and Daryl leaned deeper over the engine block. "Pass me the socket wrench" Daryl grunted, not even bothering to turn around, his hand outstretched behind him. "The three-eighths one”

But Patrick didn't move. He was completely lost in his own head, frozen stiff, his eyes locked on the dirt ground while his brain replayed the breathless moans and raw power of what he'd witnessed in the steam.

Daryl waited a second, felt nothing in his open palm, and finally straightened up. He turned around, pulling his brows down into a heavy frown as he watched the kid completely zoned out, white-knuckling the metal handle of the toolbox like his life depended on it.

"Ay. Kid" Daryl snapped, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. "The wrench”

Patrick snapped out of it with a sharp, violent flinch. "O-Oh! Yes! I-I’m sorry!" He stammered, frantically digging into the box and pulling out the tool to hand it over.

Daryl took it without hesitation, but his intense blue eyes stayed locked directly on Patrick's pale, half trembling face, not even looking down at the wrench. His forehead creased in genuine confusion. "What the fuck is up with ya today?" Daryl grunted, his voice suspicious. "Yar’ quieter than usual. Usually ya never shut the hell up”

A cold wave of sheer panic washed over Patrick, sweat instantly breaking out along his forehead and neck. His stomach plummeted into his sneakers. He knew Daryl wasn't the type to hurt a kid for no reason, but the thought of what the Dixon would do to anyone—kid or not—who had caught and watched you in such a private, vulnerable, raw moment made Patrick's entire body shiver.

Panicking that Daryl was somehow going to connect the dots and realize he was the "rat" from the shower block, Patrick quickly shook his head, his hands flying up. "Oh—it's nothing! I'm fine, I'm fine, really!"

Daryl narrowed his eyes in confusion, thrown off by the kid's sudden meltdown. "Ya sure?"

Patrick nodded so fast his glasses almost slid off his nose. "Yeah! Yeah, yeah, I'm sure!" He stuttered, stepping backward away from the truck. "I—I actually have to go now! I think... I think Carol— Carl! Yeah! Carl called me. I got a job to do, I gotta go!"

Before Daryl could even drop another word, Patrick turned on his heel and fast-walked away as fast as his legs could carry him, practically sprinting toward the cellblocks to escape.

Daryl just stood there by the truck, holding the socket wrench and staring after the kid in absolute, utter confusion. He let out a low, almost amused huff, shaking his head. "What the fuck ‘s wrong with that kid..." He muttered to himself, before wiping his greasy forehead and leaning back into the engine block.

Barely a few minutes passed, the courtyard quiet except for the distant chatter and the clink of metal against metal. When suddenly— You slipped back around the side of the vehicle, the basket of laundry now missing no from your hands.

Quietly, you stepped up right behind Daryl, your arms slowly wrapping around his waist as you leaned your cheek against his broad, firm back.

Daryl tensed slightly at the sudden contact, but as soon as he caught your scent, his shoulders eased. He stayed hunched over the truck, turning his head back over his shoulder just enough to look at you, his blue eyes softening just a little in an instant.

"Hey" You murmured softly, teasingly against his spine. "Hey” He mumbled back, his gravelly tone hushed and intimate but you caught the gentleness in it.

Slowly, you stood on your tiptoes, leaning closer to press a series of small, lingering kisses against the warm skin of his neck. Daryl stiffened again, his head snapping instantly to the left and right to scan the open yard. "What are ya doin', woman?" He muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a low, almost scolding tone. "People gonna see”

But you paid his warning no mind, letting out a soft hum against his pulse point. "No one comes back here except you... and that little tail of yours" You murmured playfully, teasing him about Patrick and the way the kid followed him around like a lost puppy most of the time.

Daryl swallowed hard, his breath hitching slightly as your lips continued their deliberate path up his jaw line. He tried desperately to stay focused, to keep his hands steady on the engine, but the warmth of your breath against his skin made it nearly impossible to hold onto his senses.

Abandoning the wrench, Daryl straightened up to his full height and turned around inside your arms to face you. "Someone could come askin' f’me" He warned softly, staring down at you. "Or f’ you"

You just shook your head with a quiet smile, closing the tiny distance between you until your chest pressed against his. Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, resting against the firm, warm skin of his lower stomach. "Well, I've got about ten minutes before Carol needs me for supply counts” You whispered, your eyes locked onto his. "And I highly doubt anyone's looking for you right now. So..."

Your hands moved lower, fingers hooking playfully into his waistband, tugging him just a little closer. You bit your bottom lip softly, fluttering your lashes up at him with a look of pure, close to desperate, need.

Daryl’s jaw clenched, a muscle working in his cheek as he looked down at you. The needy, burning look in your eyes made his blood run hot, his body reacting instantly to your touch despite every instinct telling him to stay alert.

The corner of his mouth twitched, fighting back a smile. "What? Last nigh ain’t enough for ya?"

Without a moment’s hesitation, you shook your head. Your fingers slipped lower, pressing firmly against him through his jeans, feeling how fast he was already hardening under your touch.

Daryl’s breath hitched violently, his whole frame going rigid for a second before his head snapped sideways to check the perimeter one more time. "Fuck..." He grunted low in his throat, a rough, helpless sound escaping him.

You let out a soft, teasing laugh, looking up at him with deliberate innocence. "Oh, look at that hypocrisy" You whispered, leaning in so close your lips brushed the shell of his ear. "Come on... we can be quick"

You trailed your mouth down to his neck again, leaving hot, slow, open-mouthed kisses along his pulse point. “Plus—There won’t be no rat to interrupt us this time” You joked, biting down on his skin softly.

That was it. Daryl folded completely. He had no intention of turning you down—to be honest he wanted this just as badly as you did, if not more.

Without another word, Daryl’s large hands came up, clamping firmly onto your waist. He backed you up swiftly, guiding you out of the open light and behind the tall, divider wall near the back of the shed where the shadow completely hid you both.

"Yer’ gonna be the death of me, woman" He mumbled, a small grunt escaping his lips, though there wasn't any real anger in it. You just chuckled softly, knowing you'd won—Again—and slipped your hands out from his jeans, bringing them up to wrap around his shoulders instead.

And before you could even process the win, Daryl leaned down, capturing your mouth in an intense, bruising kiss. His tongue slid smoothly past your lips, claiming you completely, swallowing any quiet sigh you tried to make. His dirty, grease-stained hands didn't hesitate—cupping your cheeks without a single care for the dirt smudging onto your skin—before one arm slid down to wrap like iron around your waist. His other hand hooked under the back of your thigh, effortlessly hoisting you up off your feet and anchoring you against his hip like he has done for, god knows, how many times.

You smiled into the kiss, wrapping your legs tightly around him as he held you pinned securely against the hidden wall, proving, once again, that neither of you could ever truly get enough.

And like said— No rat interrupted you this time.

[luvnarra]

—.✦ ݁˖ Maybe, knock?

Pairing; young!Daryl x fem!reader

Summary; Daryl’s older brother, Merle, clearly has no sense of privacy.

Tw; nsfw +18, smut, p in v, getting caught in the act, Merle being rather annoying.

Era; Pre-apocalypse

The silence of the early morning house was heavy, drafty, and entirely yours. With Will out of town—god knows where, likely passed out in some ditch or brawling in a county over—the small, cramped bedroom felt like a sanctuary.

The only sounds filling the quiet space were the soft, breathless pants and whines slipping from your throat, answered by the deep, low grunts vibrating in Daryl's chest as his head rested in the crook of your neck.

He was positioned perfectly between your legs, his heavy, muscular frame pinning you softly to the mattress. He had both of your hands pinned above your head, his thick, calloused fingers locking tightly with yours as he set a pace that was absolutely relentless.

"You're so tight” Daryl choked out, his voice a gravelly whisper directly against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Fuck, baby... yar’ so good. Takin’ me so well”

A shaky, high-pitched moan escaped your lips, the friction building into a blinding, white-hot haze. Your nails dug into the backs of his hands. Every time he withdrew, it was a slow, agonizing tease, only for him to sink back in all the way, bottoming out against you with a heavy, wet thud that left you completely breathless. He was grinding his hips against yours, leaving no space between you, completely consuming you.

The heat in the room was suffocating, your skin slick with sweat where your bodies pressed together. You arched your back, a desperate gasp leaving your lips as he hit that perfect, sensitive spot inside you again and again. You felt a tight, sweet coil tightening deep in your stomach, a wave of pressure building so fast it made your head spin. You were right on the edge of coming, your inner muscles clenching tightly around him in a desperate, involuntary rhythm.

"Daryl... oh god, Daryl, please” You whimpered, your head tossing back on the pillow as you tried to find leverage, your body trembling on the verge of a shattering release.

He groaned desperate sound, his pace turning fast and hard as he felt you squeezing him, your body completely taking over his. He bent down, capturing your mouth in a bruising, deeply wet kiss, his tongue tangling with yours to drink in your soft whimpers as the friction pushed you closer and closer to the brink.

You were both so completely lost in the thick, intoxicating haze of each other's bodies that neither of you heard the heavy creak of the front door opening downstairs—

Merle had staggered in, half-drunk with a sweating beer bottle dangling from his fingertips, ready to holler for his baby brother. But the second his boots hit the floorboards, a soft, high-pitched moan echoed from upstairs, making him freeze.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Merle’s face. “Oh, shit. Baby brother’s gettin’ lucky” He mumbled quietly to himself.

Curiosity—and a healthy dose of sheer disbelief, since Daryl had never once brought a girl into this house—sent Merle creeping up the stairs. The sound of soft moans growing louder as he walked closer to Daryl’s room. And with a brutal kick of his heavy boot, Merle shoved the bedroom door wide open. "Y-yo!"

You shrieked in an instant, your voice cracking in pure panic.

Daryl moved instantly with a terrifying survival instinct. He didn't even think. In one explosive motion, he grabbed the tangled sheets, yanking them up to cover your bare skin, shielding your chest, your hips, and the intimate space where his body was still deeply joined with yours. He used the blanket and the solid bulk of his broad shoulders as a human shield, completely burying you beneath him to hide you from his brother's eyes.

"Don' ya know how to fuckin’ knock?!" Daryl yelled, his voice cracked with pure, murderous adrenaline as he glared over his shoulder.

"Oh, shit!—" Merle cackled, taking a lazy swig of his beer, totally unfazed. "And here I thought ya were just up here yankin' the chain to one of them sex tapes again! Didn't think ya actually had a warm body in here”

"Get the fuck out!" Daryl yelled, his face turning a furious, dark shade of red, his shoulders incredibly rigid over yours.

"Oh, com’ on, don' be like that, baby brother” Merle teased mockingly. He laughed, playfully bringing his free hand up to cover his eyes, peeking through his thick fingers. "No, no, I didn' see a damn thing. Don' ya worry”

"Merle, get the fuck out. Now!" Daryl yelled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous, deadly edge.

But Merle just stood there, cackling. His bloodshot eyes drifted down, tracking the curves hidden beneath the sheets, until his gaze landed on your face peeking out from under Daryl's shoulder. His laughter cut off, his jaw dropping in sheer, unadulterated shock.

"Holy shit” Merle muttered, his eyes wide. "Is that... Oh my god. I cannot believe what the hell ’m looking at right now” You let out a heavy sigh, rolling your eyes despite the hot flush of embarrassment burning up your neck. "Merle, what do you want?"

Daryl slowly, reluctantly began to remove himself from you. He slid his body off yours, though he remained sitting right beside you on the edge of the mattress, keeping his massive frame positioned to block as much of your body as humanly possible while you tightly hugged the sheets around your chest.

"I never thought I’d live to see the day baby brother brought a girl into this house" Merle drawled, shake-headed and grinning like a hyena. "Let alone you, princess”

You rolled your eyes again, awkwardly clutching the fabric tighter, wishing the floorboards would open up and swallow you whole. "Merle, cut the bullshit and just go!” Daryl snapped, his voice tight, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles popped.

"No, no, no” Merle said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Don't get me wrong, ’m happy for ya two. Truly. I just... I didn't expect this” A sly, knowing glint entered Merle's eyes as he leaned against the doorframe, looking directly at Daryl. "Ain' ya the one, baby brother, who said ya weren' lookin at’ er? Said ya weren' interested and all tha’?"

Daryl shifted, an incredibly awkward, tense silence falling over him. He had indeed said those things in the past—mostly lying to keep his own protective walls up—but he never really told you about it. His eyes flickered down to the sheets, terrified of how you would react to knowing he had once tried to play it cool and reject the idea of you.

"Yeah, well" Daryl mumbled, clearing his throat rough and low. "Things change. Now get the fuck out!”

But Merle wasn't about to let you off that easy. He kept right on rambling, his grin growing wider and more insufferable by the second. "So... tell me, princess. Be honest with me! From a scale of one to ten— how good is my baby brother? At... ya’ know"

Your face changed into a deep, disgusted grimace. “But hey! From the way I heard ya moanin yar head off down the hall, I bet I already know the damn answer” You buried your face slightly in the sheets, letting out an awkward, mortified groan. "Merle, shut up”

"No, no, no" Merle pushed, cackling loudly. "Okay, here—Tell me when to stop!" He lifted his hands in front of his chest, holding his palms close together, and slowly began to draft his right hand outward, widening the gap to visually measure Daryl's size. "How big we talkin' here? Like... this? Or—"

You slammed your palm against your forehead, letting out another defeated groan at the agonizing awkwardness of the moment.

"For fuck's sake—" Daryl muttered. "Shut the fuck up, Merle! Get out!” Furiously, Daryl swung his legs over the side of the bed. He bent down, grabbing his discarded boxers from the floor, and hastily pulled them on.

Merle didn't even blink, his eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Well, look at ya two. Aren't ya just the cutest little couple?”

Daryl stood up, adjusting his boxers, and marched straight toward his brother. He didn't say another word; he just planted his hands firmly on Merle's chest and violently shoved him backward out of the bedroom. "Get the fuck out!"

"Does that mean I get a family discount?!" Merle shouted back over Daryl's shoulder, his voice echoing loudly into the room as he was pushed into the hallway. "Y’know, now that yar fuckin’ my brother, princess, can I get a special offer on the stash?!”

You clamped your jaw shut, staying curled in the center of the bed, your cheeks burning a bright, furious red. "Shut the fuck up and leave!" Daryl yelled, delivering one final, massive shove.

He grabbed the heavy wooden door, slamming it shut with a deafening bang that rattled the doorframe, before instantly twisting the lock. For a few agonizing seconds, Merle's loud, echoing cackles drifted down the hallway, accompanied by his terrible, high-pitched mockery of your moans, before his heavy boots finally faded down the stairs.

Silence settled on the room once more, but the heavy, lazy heat was gone, replaced by a suffocating blanket of embarrassment.

You sat there, still clutching the sheets to your chest, your face completely red as you stared down at the mattress, utterly unable to meet Daryl's eyes. You couldn't believe it. Merle had seen you. He had heard you crying out Daryl's name. He had, probably, seen parts of your naked body—parts that Daryl desperately, fiercely believed belonged only to him.

Daryl slowly turned around from the door. He looked incredibly frustrated, his chest heaving as his own protective, possessive anger simmered beneath his skin.

It wasn't just that the moment was ruined; it was a deeply territorial, clawing anger that tore at Daryl's chest. You were his. This side of you—the soft, flushed skin, the uninhibited cries of pleasure, the raw vulnerability of your naked body tangled in his sheets—was something sacred to him. It was a secret world that only he was supposed to have access to. The thought that Merle's eyes had even briefly brushed over you, that he had heard the intimate sounds of you giving yourself to Daryl, made his stomach turn with a toxic mix of jealousy and failure. He was supposed to protect you, to keep you safe and hidden from the ugly, invasive reality of his family. Instead, his own brother had busted in and stripped away that sanctity in a matter of seconds.

With a heavy, defeated sigh, Daryl walked over and sat on the edge of the mattress. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low.

"Sorry ’bout that” He muttered, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rasp that carried the weight of a genuine, deeply felt apology.

Your heart was still hammering against your ribs, and a lingering wave of pure mortification washed over you. You hated feeling so completely caught off guard and exposed, but you knew how heavily Daryl took things to heart. You didn't want him to carry the guilt of his brother's stupidity on his shoulders.

You reached a hand out from the sheets, gently placing it on his tense shoulder and squeezing it reassuringly. "It's fine, Daryl. Well, yeah, he’s gonna tease us about it for the rest of our lives, but it's… fine”

Daryl turned his head, trying to offer a small, reassuring smile at your attempt to comfort him, but his eyes remained dark, shadowed with worry. He knew how tough you were, but he also knew how violating a moment like that could feel.

"It ain't fine" Daryl muttered, shaking his head instantly. He turned his body toward you, his blue eyes searching yours with an intense, raw vulnerability. "He saw us. He... he saw you"

You nodded slowly, recognizing the fierce, protective possessiveness in his voice. "I know, but it happened now. We can't reverse it”

With a soft sigh, you slid closer to him, letting the sheets fall from around your body as you wrapped your arms around his bare chest from behind. You leaned your chin on his shoulder, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his warm skin.

"Daryl, I promise you, it's fine” You whispered against his neck. "I know it was embarrassing, but come on. It's… Merle. I mean— it could be worse” Daryl tilted his head back slightly to look at you, his brow furrowed in genuine disbelief. "How could it be worse?"

A playful, wicked smirk tugged at the corners of your lips, the tension finally breaking. "Imagine if it was your dad” Daryl’s face instantly contorted into a profound, horrified grimace. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

"Is it working?" You teased, a soft, genuine giggle escaping your lips. Daryl let out a rough, defeated scoff, but you caught the tiny, reluctant grin tugging at the corner of his lips. The tension in his broad shoulders finally began to melt away, the suffocating embarrassment lifting from the room.

You leaned in closer, tracing your lips slowly up the column of his neck, letting your forehead rest gently against his. Your hand slipped up to his face slowly, your fingers cupping his rough cheek to turn his head back toward you.

"Well…" You murmured, your voice dropping into a low, suggestive whisper as your eyes locked onto his lips. "Now that Merle is gone and the door is locked... how about we pick up right where we got interrupted?"

A slow, heated smirk spread across Daryl's face, his blue eyes instantly darkening with that familiar, burning hunger as his hand slid up to grip your hip beneath the sheet. "You're unbelievable”

"Yeah” You whispered, leaning in until your lips were brushing against his. "And you love it”

"Yeah” He murmured softly. "I do”

Daryl leaned forward, his large hands reaching out to grip your waist, slowly pressing you backward onto the mattress. A breathless, happy laugh escaped your throat as your hands tangled behind his neck, pulling his lips down to meet yours in a deep, slow, and fiercely passionate kiss.

Merle already knew what was up anyway—there was absolutely no reason not to finish what you had started.