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Shoulda Knocked

Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Established Relationship)

Genre: Fluff, Smut, Comedy, Domestic Chaos, Post-Canon (Prison Era)

Summary: It's mornings like these that make the apocalypse seem not so bad. Waking up with Daryl cocooning you, the normalcy of it all, fighting over the sink, Daryl not being able to keep his hands off you. But then again it is a prison. And privacy is a luxury.

Warnings: smutty fluff. Fluffy smut. fluff. Smut. Cute couple banter. Very very graphic smut. Like seriously it's gross children look away. Double creamoie, filthy talk, PinV, fingering, rough sex. Eventual smut. Daryl being uber possessive. A lil tiny bit of angst - Daryl Doesnt know what to do with all that possessive turmoil. Death threats, uncomfy situations where sex is very rudely interrupted.

Main Masterlist

Author's note: Had this lil number rotting in my drafts and I realised I hadn't written anything for the Prison era, so I thought I would finish it. This is a pretty big package deal of fluff and smut hope y'all like it. It was supposed to be short and sugestive then it turned smut under the cut then it just got out of hand what can i say. And lemme tell you sumthin', my face was embarrasingly hot writing this, it was ridiculous. The reason why this oneshot is so disturbingly hot is cuz im ovulating. so yeah. Anyway enjoy this very shameless oneshot lemme know what people think hehe.🙈

The cold hadn’t let up overnight. Even with the thickest of blankets and a second pair of socks, the chill clung to the prison like mold, seeping through stone and steel and right into your bones. But Daryl had never once let it touch you.

He always woke first. This morning was no different.

You were curled against him, legs tangled, skin pressed to skin beneath the blanket. He’d cocooned you in the night with the instinct of a man who knew how to trap heat and never let it go. One arm was looped lazily around your waist, his hand resting beneath your thin cotton vest, fingers idly splayed over the softest patch of your stomach. His nose nuzzled the back of your shoulder, the place where the warmth of your skin still held the faintest trace of lavender soap, and for a while, he just stayed there—still, breathing you in, pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist.

He should have gotten up. You both had chores to do. Watch rotations. Supply lists. A dozen things that couldn’t be ignored. But none of it mattered yet.

He kissed your shoulder, barely more than a whisper of contact, then nuzzled closer to press another to your neck. His hand drifted, slow and aimless, tracing the gentle curve of your hip before sliding down to rub lazy circles into your thigh beneath the blanket. The skin there was warm and soft and his.

“Baby,” he murmured, barely above a whisper, voice all husk and gravel. “Time to wake up.”

You didn’t answer, not with words anyway. Instead, you let out a pitiful noise—half moan, half sigh—and wriggled backwards into him with shameless intent, burrowing deeper beneath his arm like a sleepy parasite. One hand blindly reached for his, dragging it tighter across your waist.

“Mmmno,” you grumbled, barely awake, your voice thick with sleep, lips barely moving. “You’re too warm. You stay… compulsory.”

Daryl exhaled through his nose, helpless, forehead falling lightly against the back of your neck. Christ. How the hell was he supposed to move? You were limp and molten in his arms, every inch of you molded to him like you’d been made for it, your vest practically sheer in the morning light, your skin smooth like velvet, your hair fanned out over his arm. The thought of untangling from this—from you—felt like tearing open a wound.

“Can’t stay in bed all morning,” he mumbled into your skin, more to himself than you.

You hummed in response, groaning ‘just a lil longer’ into your pillow, the sound contented and low, a denial that buzzed against his chest where your back met him. His hand drifted again, tracing the dip of your waist, the notch of your hipbone, not quite ready to surrender the moment.

“Cmon, now,” he tried again, kissing the side of your neck this time, his lips lingering there. “Gotta get up. You know we do.”

You made a noise that might’ve been a protest or a curse or possibly even his name, but the blanket muffled it as you ducked your head further down, stubborn to the very end. The chill outside the covers had already started to creep in, brushing your shoulder as Daryl reluctantly shifted, and you shivered in retaliation.

Instead of getting up, Daryl leaned in closer, drawn by something he didn’t have the strength to fight. You were still turned away from him, curled loosely beneath the sheet, your breathing soft and uneven in that hazy space between dreams and waking. The early morning light cut through the slats in the cell door, catching the slope of your bare shoulder, the thin strap of your vest barely clinging on. The fabric was almost translucent in the pale wash of dawn—white cotton worn thin with age, clinging damply to the warm curve of your back, the gentle dip of your waist, the faint suggestion of skin and softness that he had no business staring at as long as he was.

But still, he did.

His hand hovered, fingers flexing like they weren’t quite his to control, before he reached out—just to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear, that was all—but his knuckles grazed the back of your neck, and his chest clenched at how warm you felt. He bent low, pressing the barest kiss to the spot just behind your ear, careful not to startle you, just needing the contact. Then another, slower one at your jaw. Another at the gentle slope where your throat met your shoulder. You stirred slightly, but didn’t turn. He stilled, breath caught—but when you didn’t push him away, he let his lips drift down again, across the exposed edge of your shoulder blade where the sheet had slipped. Each kiss was softer than the last. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… reverent. He wasn’t trying to start anything. Not really. He just wanted to be close. To worship what was already his, in the quiet morning hush before the world came back alive.

You sighed again, definitely more awake now but pretending not to be, your body stretching long and loose under his touch.

“Daryl…” you warned, voice still thick with sleep, the syllables dragging out across the pillow. “If this is your idea of motivation, it’s not gonna get me up any faster.”

He didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Just smiled into your skin like he hadn’t heard you, like he wasn’t guilty at all, and dragged his mouth lazily down the center of your chest. The kiss he left over your sternum was unhurried, deliberate, soaked in the kind of quiet patience only he could afford this early in the morning. Like he had nowhere else to be but here, pressed against you, tasting skin that still carried the warmth of shared sleep.

“You’re mean,” you muttered, breath hitching just enough to betray how awake you really were now.

He lifted his gaze without lifting his head, peeking up at you through his lashes with that crooked, barely-there smirk that told you he was enjoying this far too much.

“…And you’re getting up,” he said, low and smug, before leaning in and brushing his mouth over yours.

It was meant to be a quick kiss, maybe even a tease—just a goodbye on the lips, soft and fleeting—but the moment his mouth touched yours, something shifted. His lips stayed, molded to yours like they fit better there than anywhere else, and the air between you thickened. Your body responded before your mind caught up—your neck arched, following him when he pulled back, your brows drawing together like something had been taken from you.

He lingered a heartbeat longer, just long enough to feel your breath chase after his, then reluctantly peeled away with a quiet grunt. The mattress dipped as he swung his legs over the edge, one hand blindly reaching for whatever clothes were nearest. At the same time, the other smoothed across your thigh in a slow, familiar pass, before giving it a gentle, affectionate pat.

“Up,” he muttered, not even glancing back, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

You groaned dramatically, flopping back onto your pillow. “I liked you better when you were a human furnace.”

“Still am,” he muttered, yanking a shirt over his head. “Just mobile now.”

You made a rude little noise and dove back under the blankets, burying your face like the sunlight itself had committed an unforgivable sin. The cold had begun to creep in where his body had been moments ago, and you groaned in protest—long, drawn-out, and far more theatrical than necessary. Your bare legs tucked in tighter, one heel sliding across the sheet as you tried to seal every edge of the fabric against your skin.

Daryl hadn’t gotten far. He was still seated at the edge of the bed, bent over to shove his foot into a boot, one arm halfway into a shirt sleeve. At your noise, he paused, twisted slightly to glance back over his shoulder, and raised a brow.

“You sittin’ up,” he asked, voice gravel-thick and unconvinced, “or just floppin’ around like a damn fish?”

You made a muffled sound and rolled further away, the blanket dragging with you. “M’hibernating,” you muttered into the mattress.

He snorted low, shaking his head. “Alright then. Guess we’re doin’ this the hard way.”

Without warning, he reached back and gave the blanket a solid tug.

You shrieked and clutched it with both hands, yanking it back toward your chest with the fury of a woman defending her kingdom. “I am exposed here, sir!”

Daryl didn’t flinch. He was already shifting closer on the mattress, smirking faintly as he fought for another handful of the quilt. “You’re exposed every damn morning. Ain’t seemed to mind when you were draggin’ me down into the sheets last night.”

“That was before,” you huffed, one leg popping free in the scuffle before you managed to trap it back inside. “This is now. The mood has passed.”

He leaned further in, bracing a forearm beside your hip, his voice low as he hovered above you. “You talk like I ain’t seen you naked a hundred times.”

“Exactly,” you grinned, breathless, “which is why you should be immune by now. Go bother someone else.”

Another tug. You gripped the top corners of the blanket and rolled with it, twisting the fabric until it tightened like a shield around your torso.

“This is harassment,” you declared, peeking out from a fortress of cotton.

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, reaching again.

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare, Dixon. I will bite.”

He paused, grinning now, one eyebrow lifting as his fingers curled beneath the edge near your knee. “Yeah? Then I’ll bite back.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You wanna test that theory?”

Before you could respond, he shifted again—leaning in, eyes narrowing with that smug little glint that always spelled trouble. His knee planted firmly on the mattress beside your hip, the bed dipping under his weight as he braced himself with one hand, the other gripping the blanket in a slow, theatrical tug.

You yelped, twisting sideways like a cat avoiding bathwater, arms flailing uselessly as the last shred of your sanctuary was ripped away in one final, merciless yank. The blanket hit the floor with a soft thud.

“Daryl!” you cried, hands instinctively flying to your now very exposed lower half, curling inward like modesty had suddenly remembered to show up to the party.

For a moment, he just stared—then huffed a laugh so abrupt it punched right through the silence. His head dropped to your shoulder as he shook with it, warm breath skating across your skin.

“Seriously?” he snorted, glancing up at you with pure mischief in his eyes. “You’re shy now?”

You tried to glare, but it didn’t hold. Your cheeks burned and your arms remained stubbornly crossed. “It’s cold.”

He smirked, dragging a lazy gaze over your thoroughly uncovered body. “Ain’t the cold you’re worried about.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, trying—and failing—not to laugh with him.

“Yeah?” he said, voice still thick with amusement. “Well, you look cute all flustered. Might start hidin’ the blankets more often.”

You shoved at his shoulder with a huff, but it was useless. He wasn’t going anywhere.

He leaned in again, brushing his nose against your cheek, still grinning like the devil. “Still got you up though, didn’t I?”

He chuckled to himself, watching the slow, reluctant way you began to stir—shoulders rolling, hair mussed, vest slipping off one shoulder like it had given up trying to behave.

By the time he had shrugged on his pants and done his belt up, you were reaching for your clothes in the crate, which were a combination of both of yours, squinting like a woman who had only just remembered the concept of pants.

“Have you seen my underwear?” you asked at last, tone accusing, as though Daryl might’ve hidden them on purpose. “The soft ones. You know, the non-doomsday granny pair?”

He froze, posture stiffening ever so slightly. Daryl didn’t answer right away. Instead, his body went still—too still—and then, slowly, like a man preparing for a confession or an ambush, he turned his head toward you without meeting your eyes.

“…Might be in my back pocket,” he muttered, voice low and gravel-worn, as if speaking it any louder would make it worse.

You stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

Then, without a word, you leaned in with the kind of deliberate menace only a sleep-deprived woman could channel, your hand sliding around his hip and into the back of his pants. His breath caught—barely—and there it was. Right there. Your missing underwear, balled and tucked into his pocket like some deranged little keepsake.

You yanked them free and held them up in front of his face like you’d just caught him red-handed with a stolen relic.

“Daryl.”

He winced like the word physically pained him, gaze dropping to the floor as one shoulder jerked upward in the world’s guiltiest shrug. “They’re soft,” he said, tone already defensive. “Make good… hand wipes.”

Your jaw unhinged.

“I knew it,” you hissed. “You used them as a rag?”

“Nah,” he said quickly, hands lifting like he was about to be frisked. “Didn’t use ‘em. Just… kept ‘em. Kinda… thought about you.”

“In your pocket,” you said flatly.

He scratched behind his ear, not looking at you. “...They smell nice.”

There was a long, pointed silence, jaw agape.

One of those silences that stretched so far it looped back around to something almost tender. You sat there, holding the damn things, stunned into speechlessness while your brain tried to decide whether this was the weirdest or somehow most oddly romantic thing anyone had ever done to you.

Eventually, with a sigh that contained the weight of every bad decision you’d ever made about men, you shook your head and slipped the underwear on like the whole conversation hadn’t just happened.

“You’re such a freak,” you muttered under your breath.

Daryl stopped buttoning up his vest at that, head jerking up like you just slapped him, “I’m the freak?”

“You know who steals used underwear and keeps them in their back pocket? Freaks, babe. Losers. That’s you.”

He snorted. “Takes one a know one. You get horny when i fix shit. Don’t think I don’t notice. ”

You stared at him blankly. You searched your brain for a good comeback, but you couldn't find one. “Touché, Dixon. Touché ”

The sink was barely bigger than a dinner plate, wedged into the corner of the cell like an afterthought. The faucet groaned when it ran, and the drain clogged every other day with god knows what, but it was yours. At least, you pretended it was. You and Daryl had staked your claim on this little corner of civilisation with the same stubborn pride that marked every other piece of your shared life.

You padded toward it with a soft shuffle, your bare legs prickling with goosebumps from the morning chill. The hem of your white vest skimmed the tops of your thighs, and with your underwear barely peeking beneath it. The fabric clung slightly from the night’s sweat and body heat, translucent in places, but you didn’t care. Modesty wasn’t your strong suit, and Daryl had a point; if anything, this was overdressed for you as far as pyjamas go.

You reached the sink first, hands bracing against the cool metal rim as you leaned over it and twisted the knob. Water sputtered out, lukewarm and a little rusty coloured, but passable.

Daryl lingered behind you, eyeing your figure with the weary reverence of a man who had absolutely no business wanting you again this early in the morning, but who very much did.

“Move over,” he muttered eventually, stepping up behind you and squeezing your ass.

You didn’t move. Not an inch. If he thought that would do the trick, he had another thing coming.

“I was here first,” you said flatly, cupping water into your hands and splashing it onto your face. Droplets ran down your neck and into your shirt, and you didn’t even flinch.

Daryl pressed in closer, all warm and clean sweat, his hips brushing your backside as he reached blindly around you for the bar of soap. “Yer not even brushing yet. That’s stallin’.”

“It’s a ritual,” you mumbled through another splash. “A sacred, meditative rite. You barging in with your apocalypse man musk is disrespectful.”

He snorted, setting his toothbrush down on the edge of the sink with a little too much force. “The hell does that mean?”

You straightened slowly, turning toward him with a dripping face and narrowed eyes. “It’s that thing where you smell like blood, motor oil, and sex.”

He stared at you. Then shrugged. “Ain’t heard you complain.”

You reached blindly for the towel, but he already had it in his hand. You grabbed it anyway, resulting in a brief, quiet struggle as you both held onto the same fraying cloth, locked in the world’s dumbest game of tug-of-war.

“I need this more than you do,” you hissed, swiping at your face with a corner of the towel.

“I got shit in my beard,” he grunted, yanking it toward him. “Lemme wipe first.”

“You don’t even look in the mirror.”

“‘xactly. So how’m I supposed to know what’s on my face?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt and relinquished the towel with the grace of a martyr, turning your back to him again and resuming your sacred splash ritual. Behind you, Daryl muttered something about soap rationing and stealing all the warm water, but you ignored it. The sink hissed and coughed like a dying animal.

And somehow, none of it felt inconvenient. Just part of the rhythm.

You both reached for the shared toothbrush cup—two brushes, one chipped mug—and smacked his hand away gently when he reached for his first.

“I’ve got seniority.”

“You’re younger than me.”

“Exactly. My gums still work.”

That earned you a soft grunt and a barely-there grin as he snatched his toothbrush from the cup in spite of you. Your toothbrush moved lazily between your lips, your hair falling forward as you bent to spit into the sink. Water splashed against your vest, and you didn’t seem to notice—or care. Daryl noticed. God, did he notice.

Just when he thought you were done and about to get ready that’s when

you decided, quite unrepentantly, that you weren’t. You stood just to the side, lips pursed, tugging a scavenged plastic comb through your tangled hair. The comb had seen better days—half the teeth were crooked, a few were broken entirely—but it got the job done. Kind of. Slowly. Painfully. With lots of dramatic sighing, cursing, and a little bit of praying.

You leaned in close to the metal mirror, still foggy from your earlier splashfest, peering at your reflection as if it might reveal some great cosmic truth. Your arm lifted high over your head to angle the comb through the back, vest rising with the motion, exposing a sliver of skin at your waist and the elastic band of your underwear—his favorite pair, not that he was about to say that again.

Daryl spit into the sink, wiped his mouth on the towel you’d so generously surrendered, then glanced sideways at you as you flipped your hair over and began working on the other side like a woman possessed.

He cleared his throat. Loudly. Then again.

You ignored him, running the comb through again with all the solemn intensity of a war general preparing for battle.

So he coughed again. Louder this time.

You glanced up at him through your hair, mouth still foamy, looking at him through the mirror. “You good?”

“You done?” he said quickly, voice rough with sleep and barely-concealed amusement, “You already had your turn. Ain’t like you gotta impress anybody out there.”

"Maybe I'm looking for your replacement," you said, not even lookig at him as you were so fixated on detangling your hair.

He shook his head, not even reacting to your dig because of how ridiculous it was, and he knew it. "You look fine,” he muttered, like it wasn’t a trap, like he wasn’t walking straight into the meat grinder. He reached for your hips, nudging you to the side with the kind of half-hearted firmness that said he already knew he was about to get slapped. “Now move over.”

You turned to face him fully, slowly, arms falling to your sides in the heavy, deliberate silence of a woman preparing to wage emotional warfare. “Fine?” you echoed, incredulous. “I look fine?”

He froze mid-motion, toothbrush limp in his hand, the exact expression that bloomed across his face told you everything you needed to know: he’d stepped on the landmine, and it was already too late to run.

“…Shit,” he said.

Your eyes narrowed, chin lifting as you crossed your arms with the dignity of a queen betrayed. “You know what? Keep my underwear. Treasure them. Sleep with them under your pillow. I hope they keep you warm, because it is officially the last time you are ever seeing any of mine.”

He tossed his toothbrush into the cup with a clatter, already bracing. “Didn’t mean it like that, c’mon now—”

“Said what you said, Dixon,” you shot back, taking a single step backward, smirk twitching at the corners of your mouth as you stared him down. “Say hi to your celibacy era for me.”

His gaze narrowed, hands falling to his hips, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself. “Oh yeah? Well, that’s a real damn shame.”

You had barely a second to register the shift in his stance before he lunged, one arm hooking tight around your waist while the other snuck beneath your raised elbow with unsettling precision, his fingers zeroing in on the soft, traitorous patch of skin just beneath your ribs.

A shriek tore out of you before you could stop it, your entire body convulsing with laughter as you twisted and kicked, trying desperately to escape the onslaught, but Daryl only followed, relentless, grinning like the devil himself as he worked his fingers down your sides and under your arm, every touch landing like a spark against kindling.

“Daryl!” you gasped, voice ragged with breathless laughter as you stumbled back against the bunk. “You asshole! OK, I take it back, I take it back—”

“Too late,” he said, utterly unrepentant, his grip tightening just enough to keep you in place without hurting. “Said I don’t get to see nothin’ no more. Made your bed sweetheart.”

You tried to fight back, aiming a loose elbow at his ribs, but he caught your wrist with ease and spun you in with a fluid, practiced motion, pinning you to his chest with both arms wrapped low around your waist. You were flushed and heaving, hair sticking to your face, the thin white vest clinging to your skin where sweat and laughter had soaked through.

Then, without warning, he bent slightly at the knees, hooked an arm behind your thighs, and lifted you clean off the ground in one smooth motion, slinging you up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You yelped in protest, legs kicking wildly, hands thudding against his back as he adjusted his grip.

“Daryl! Put me down!”

“Sink’s free now,” he said with infuriating calm, and punctuated it by delivering a firm, resounding smack to your ass as he crossed the cell.

“Asshole!” you shouted, trying and failing to sound outraged as you squirmed, your hair falling in your face and your thighs tightening around his shoulder more for balance than in protest.

He dumped you onto the lower bunk with surprising gentleness, manoeuvring easily despite the cramped space and your flailing limbs. You landed in a graceless sprawl across the mattress, still laughing, your vest askew and your underwear flashing like a flag of defeat as you glared up at him.

He just shook his head, already turning back toward the sink, his voice low and maddeningly pleased.

You groaned, flopping backwards into the cot. “I hate you.”

He chuckled under his breath, toothbrush finally retrieved, and leaned over the sink like nothing had happened at all.

He came back without a word, crouching low between your legs where you sat half-sprawled on the bunk, still tangled in the blanket you’d refused to surrender. His arms looped back around your waist, like gravity hadn’t quite settled yet and he needed the contact to remind him where you were. His forehead brushed lightly against your sternum through the thin fabric of your vest, and for a second, all he did was breathe you in. His hands were warm against your lower back, fingers idly curling like he hadn’t decided whether he was holding you or anchoring himself.

You didn’t lean into him straight away, but you didn’t pull back either. One hand drifted lazily into his hair, brushing through the ends without thinking. The quiet was cozy, familiar. So when his voice broke through it, low and cautious, it felt less like an apology and more like a peace offering.

“You still mad?”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “I’m not mad.”

His brow twitched like he didn’t quite buy that.

You let your fingers trail down the nape of his neck and sighed. “Wouldn’t kill you to say something nice every once in a while, though.”

He shifted against you, just a little. “I do,” he defended, voice slughtly quieter. That earned him a look. Really? that's what your face said.

He squinted, visibly uncomfortable now, and rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re always starin’ in that damn mirror. Why I gotta remind you you’re beautiful when you should already know? You got eyes, dontcha?”

You blinked. Then squinted like you weren’t sure you heard him right.

“Did you just—” you sat up straighter, grinning, “—call me beautiful?”

His mouth tightened immediately. “No.”

“You so did.”

“Ya misheard.”

“Daryl Dixon,” you said, hand pressed to your chest, mock-gasping. “I don’t know whether to faint or propose.”

He tried to pull away, grumbling something under his breath, but you caught his arm and hauled him back into your space, laughing as you dragged him down beside you on the bunk.

He took in the lazy sprawl of you—bare legs, bare arms, hair wild and falling in every direction, vest clinging damp to your stomach and slightly translucent now where the morning light caught it. The fabric hung low around the neck, slipping just enough to expose the upper swell of your chest.

That’s when he saw it.

A small, blooming shadow of purple just beneath your collarbone—faint but unmistakable. A bruise in the shape of his mouth. One he’d left there last night, pressed into your skin with the heat of want and the low thrum of mine echoing through his chest. He hadn’t meant for it to mark, but now that it had—now that he saw it standing out so clearly against your soft, flushed skin—he couldn’t seem to look away.

That was his.

You were his.

The thought hit him harder than it should’ve. Not possessive like he owned you, but possessive like he got to have you. In this moment, in this place, when the whole world was still falling apart outside, he got this. You, sprawled out in your underwear, half-smiling and hair tangled and teasing him like it was your calling. No one else got to see this version of you. Just him.

Something in his chest ached sweet and deep. He raised his hand slowly to your vest, pulling it down slightly to get a better look at it.

“What?” you asked softly, blinking at him.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, eyes tracing the hickey he’d left behind.

You looked down, following his gaze to where the hickey bloomed faintly in the centre of your chest, wegded betweenyour boobs. When you glanced back up at him, there was a flicker of smugness behind your sleepy eyes.

“You got a bit of drool there, babe,” you teased, your voice gentler now, curious.

His tongue flicked across his bottom lip, like he was chewing on a thought he didn’t know how to say out loud.

“Didn’t know I left a mark s’all,” he muttered, voice low and a little rough.

You grinned at him like the devil herself. “Why, Dixon. You embarrassed?”

His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Nah,” he said. And he wasn’t. Not even a little. “Just… looks good on ya.”

You raised your eyebrows at that: “I look good with bruises?”

Daryl’s jaw shifted as if he might try to explain it, then gave up. His thumb brushed lightly over your hip, his voice quiet, almost casual.

“Weren’t tryin’ to. I dunno just… kinda like knowin’ it’s there.”

There was no heat in the way he said it—not yet. Just that dry honesty he always carried, slight shyness also, like anything softer might get stuck on the way out. But it was there in the way his eyes lingered on you now. In the way his hand stayed against your waist, grounding himself like you might float off if he didn’t.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightened the way it did.

“Well,” you said, trying for playful but already sinking into breathlessness, “maybe I’ll let you leave another one.”

His mouth quirked—barely. But his hand tightened at your hip.

“…That an invitation?” he asked, tone low and careful.

You lifted a hand to the back of his neck, tugged gently. “Not exactly subtle, was it?”

He didn’t say anything—and he didn’t have to. That look he gave you, unwavering and quiet, said enough. You’d seen it before, thousands of times before.

You leaned into him instinctively, that touch, that heat. Your lips twitched, barely holding back a grin, and your eyes lifted just as his dropped. He was close enough now that your exhales mingled, breath shared in the stillness, and though neither of you moved quite yet, the space between your mouths tightened—so much that when you smiled again, your nose brushed his.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He just waited there, calm and heavy with anticipation, like the choice had always been yours.

You grinned fully now, letting the weight of it pull across your cheeks. The sight of him kneeling in front of you like that—hands at your waist, forehead nearly touching yours—struck something warm in your gut. It was stupid how solid he looked like that, like every inch of him was wound up and waiting, held back only by the rough pads of his fingers curling a little tighter against your ribs.

So you leaned in and gave him a kiss. Just a peck. Teasing. A pull-and-retreat that barely skimmed his mouth. He huffed against your lips, exasperated and fond all at once, and when you did it again—one more kiss, just as brief—his hand shifted to the back of your head.

This time, when he kissed you, it wasn't quick.

It was heat and hunger pressed tight, the sound of your breath swallowed into his mouth, his palm cradling your skull as if to keep you still, keep you close, keep you his. Your fingers found the front of his shirt, curling tight in the fabric without even thinking, and your thighs parted around his hips without instruction, just an instinct you hadn’t even registered until he was nudging forward between them.

And still, he didn’t rush. He kissed you like it was the first time again—like the taste of your mouth was something to memorise all over.

But then his tongue slid against yours and your pulse kicked in your throat, and something beneath your skin began to fray, unraveling in soft waves of want.

You’d meant to keep brushing your hair.

You’d meant to start the day.

Instead, your legs spread wider, inviting him in without a word, he shifted forward, body crowding yours as he hovered, one forearm braced beside your hip on the mattress, the other tracing up your ribs, dragging the hem of your vest as he went. His mouth never left yours. His breath was hot and open and endless against your lips, and you felt the exact moment he was about to climb over you completely—

And then you moved.

Your hand slid down to his chest and gave a push—not to stop him, but to turn the tide. You rolled over with him, legs locking around his waist with practiced ease as you did so. Your knees anchored on either side of his thighs, hips snug against his lap, and his hands flew straight to your waist like magnets. That look on his face—the flicker of surprise, the punch of hunger—made the move worth it every time.

He chuckled low against your lips, grinning now as your forehead rested against his.

You kissed him again, longer now, deeper, letting your hips shift against his with slow, aching pressure that made his fingers tighten at your sides. His hands slid beneath your vest, calloused palms dragging up your back as if he had been waiting to do that ever since the last time he did so. You barely noticed when your breath hitched again, or when your body tilted forward, chasing more of him.

“Weren’t you supposed to be on watch this morning?” you murmured against his lips, the words half-laughed, half-mumbled, your arms winding around his neck like you had no real intention of letting him go.

Daryl didn’t answer right away. He just kissed you again with more intensity, hand gripping your waist as if you were water.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered in between kisses, voice rough like gravel and sleep and something a little more dangerous.

You huffed into his mouth, the sound shaky with a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Liar,” you whispered, though your voice didn’t have a single ounce of conviction left in it.

He grunted something close to a laugh—just breath, really—tugging at your vest. Yeah, this has gotta go. You raised your arms as he slipped your vest off for you. With your nipples now exposed to the chill of the air, they naturally pebbled, making the man lick his lips without even thinking. Jesus Christ.

You chuckled at the gesture, quiet and breathless, head tipping back as his lips chased down the column of your neck, your breath hitching the second he found that blooming mark again—barely healed, already deepening beneath his mouth.

Your hips shifted, just a little, enough to make him groan into your skin like it physically hurt not to take it further.

He leaned forward and kiss the center of your chest, right above the stuttering thump of your heart, his mouth hot and open and there as his hands slid higher to cup your breasts completely, the weight of his palms grounding you in the kind of safety that felt terrifying.

Finally, he reached your nipple, tongue flicking against it, slow and deliberate. You gasped—not because it was sudden, but because it was real, because it sent a bolt of heat between your legs and your whole body clenched without thinking, because the air around you didn’t feel still anymore, it felt charged, like the room had shrunk to just your breath and his and the way his teeth scraped lightly over your skin before his mouth closed around it and sucked.

. His mouth moved slowly, worshipfully, lips dragging to the other side of your chest where he left another bruise, this one lower, darker, the kind of mark you’d still feel days from now and remember exactly how it got there.

And then he kissed the center of your sternum again. Pressed his forehead there like he needed a second to breathe—like the weight of you, half-naked and trembling in his lap, was something he had to hold with both hands or risk dropping completely. You felt the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over the dip between your breasts as he inhaled deep through his nose and just stayed there for a moment, unmoving, like you were anchoring him to the earth.

His hands were still cupped around your breasts, thumbs stroking slowly across your skin, circling the peaks until they stood tight and aching, the tender friction shooting down your spine like a live wire. He dipped his head again, mouthed at the soft flesh where a bruise was already forming, and suckled lazily—barely any pressure, just enough heat and drag to make your legs tighten where they bracketed his hips, the soft cotton of your underwear clinging damp against you now, useless at this point, soaked with your own need.

The light was slanting through the barred window and the slit in between the curtains and the wall, carving your bodies in pale gold strip and soft shadow, catching on the edge of your collarbone, the curve of your waist, the toning of your abdomen, the fullness of your breasts, the fine hairs on your arm that rose with every brush of his breath. His mouth was open just slightly, lips pink and kiss-bruised, his chest rising beneath you in slow, uneven waves, and you felt it all—every tremor, every shiver, every inch of heat soaked through the thin cotton between your thighs.

Your body had already begun to move without thinking, hips shifting just enough to feel the pressure of him beneath you, not in some deliberate, practiced rhythm, but something softer and more helpless, like the tide coming in, like the ache of touch that couldn’t be undone. His hands steadied you instinctively, fingers tightening at your hips, but there was no dominance in it—no claim. Just contact. Just the grounding ache between you.

Your skin was molten hot where his mouth had already left new bruises blooming along the curve of your neck and across the top and underside of your breasts. You hadn’t even realised how many until he paused to admire them—thumb brushing beneath one with lustful focus, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them in daylight.

“Think I’m startin’ a damn collection,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice hoarse with something unshaped—part awe, part possession, part disbelief that he got to have you like this. He didn’t mean to be greedy. But fuck, it was hard not to be.

You didn’t answer. You just smiled, dazed and blissed and arching softly into his touch, your hips rolling against him with the kind of slow, idle rhythm that wasn’t meant to tease. You were just following instinct, your need humming low and constant, body aching to stay close, to sink into him in every way. You could feel him beneath you, hard and straining in his jeans, and it made you clench on nothing without thinking, made your fingers grip his shoulder and the railing above even tighter just to stay anchored.

“You’re starin’,” you whispered, breath catching when he kissed just below your collarbone again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hand skimmed up your side and cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the peak with maddening softness.

“Can ya blame me?” he grunted into your skin.

Fair enough. You sighed, head falling back as his mouth followed the curve of your breast, his tongue flicking lazily over a spot that made your back arch and your thighs tense around him.

He loved it. The way you looked like this—wild and soft and his—your skin flushed and glowing in the early light, your hair a mess, your breath trembling every time he touched you like you still couldn’t quite believe it was real. And no one else saw you like this. No one else would. That thought did something to him—something feral and fragile all at once.

You murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too far gone in your haze, still absently grinding against him like your body was chasing something without permission.

You were panting—quiet, breathless, not from exertion but from being undone, from every careful, unhurried touch, the way his mouth moved like he had all morning. And when he slipped one hand down—down your belly, past the twitching skin of your navel, across the waistband of your panties, you didn’t speak. You didn’t breathe. You just let him.

Because of course you did.

Because it was him.

His fingers curled over the elastic. He paused. Just barely. And you nodded—just once, barely enough to be seen, but more than enough for him to feel it.

His hand slipped inside.

The first drag of his knuckles against your slick heat made you shudder, made your hips rock helplessly into his palm like your body didn’t belong to you anymore. He groaned into your chest, low and guttural, his free hand gripping the back of your thigh to steady you, to keep you open for him as his fingers slid through the wetness between your folds, slow and careful, the pads of them circling your clit like he was testing pressure, trying to find exactly what made you twitch.

You bit down on your lower lip, head falling forward into his hair, your hands fisting in the fabric at his shoulders as he teased you in slow, gliding strokes, his mouth never leaving your breasts. He alternated between soft kisses and hot, sucking pulls that made your toes curl and your pulse stutter, and all the while, his hand worked you open with maddening patience—never too fast, never too much. Just steady. Just there.

His index finger slid down, pressed at your entrance, then slipped in so easily it made your whole body flinch forward. You let out a broken, whispered sound against his ear, too overwhelmed to name it, your forehead pressed hard to his temple now as your walls clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper. He didn’t push. Not yet. Just eased the finger into the knuckle and let you feel it—let you feel the fullness, the stretch, the dizzying throb of being touched right, being touched by him.

You whimpered his name then—not loud, but so full of breath and ache that it barely made it out whole. His thumb pressed back to your clit, moving in lazy, perfect circles now as he curled the finger inside you, and you swore you saw stars behind your eyes even though they were still open, still locked onto the side of his face where his jaw was clenched and his cheeks were flushed and his lips were wet with you.

He added a second finger.

You gasped, louder this time, hips jerking against him, the heat mounting now in thick waves from your thighs to your chest to the back of your neck, and the only thing grounding you was his iron grip on your hip and the rough rhythm of his breath against your chest.

Your brain was so foggy that you felt your balance sway dangerously backwards, your body immediately tensing up in response.

“‘S alrigh',” he rasped, his free arm wrapping around your back to keep you upright. “Just relax baby, I gotcha.”

You nodded again, but the motion was messy, unfocused, your head lolling against his shoulder as he fucked you with his fingers—slow and deep and so gentle it made tears sting behind your eyes, because it wasn’t about getting off, it wasn’t about friction—it was just about you. About how you looked in his lap, how you felt around his hand, how your legs trembled and your back arched and your skin flushed pink under his mouth.

And it could’ve gone on forever like that.

You could’ve come just like this, in his arms, his fingers inside you, his mouth against your chest, the world held at bay behind that thin curtain and the soft light streaming across the cell block from the barred window and onto your slick body.

“Ahh,” you breathed into him, voice quiet and hazy, already coming apart in the way your body arched and trembled. “Baby, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t need to finish. He could feel it in the way your hips bucked helplessly into his hand, chasing every slow, curling drag of his fingers like the last pull of a tide before it broke. You reached for the bunk railing overhead, fingers gripping tight, knuckles white as your thighs tensed and your head tipped back with a whimper, eyes squeezing shut like they always do in these moments. It was right there—just on the edge—your orgasm blooming in slow, molten waves, so close it made your very bones shake.

And then—

The curtain snapped open.

Light poured in like a slap.

“Hey, you up—”

The voice didn’t even finish before your body locked up with a full-body jolt, the breath in your lungs stalling into a raw, guttural gasp. Your thighs clamped tight around Daryl’s hips, arms flying instinctively to cover your chest as your whole body recoiled—not from him, but from the sudden spotlight.

You turned sharply away from the doorway, the instinct to hide stronger than the lingering crest of pleasure still rippling through you. But it was too late. Nick had already seen. Everything. Your body bare, flush and glistening, your chest heaving and exposed. He’d seen your mouth open, your face scrunched with pleasure, your spine arched, Daryl’s hand shoved in your underwear as if it paid rent.

Daryl’s hand vanished from your body in an instant, the sudden absence a cruel echo that left your core aching and empty. His entire frame went rigid against you, then he moved. Fast. Fuming. Protective.

The orgasm didn’t stop, but it didn’t land, either—not fully. Not the way it would’ve been if Daryl had helped you through it like usual. Instead, it frayed at the edges like torn fabric, ripped away before it could crest, your entire system crashing into a jagged, breathless shock that left you clinging to Daryl's shirt, mouth open but silent, eyes slammed shut against the flood of adrenaline.

Daryl immediately reached for the nearest blanket the second Nick’s voice came, pulling it over your back in one fluid motion, tucking you in and pressing your body flat to his chest with an arm like a vice. You didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. You curled in, breath ragged and skin burning, burying your red face against him as the last remnants of your kind-of orgasm sputtered out in a broken stutter of sensation that made your eyes sting.

Nick was frozen, like a deer in headlights, one hand half-raised, eyes wide with horrified realisation. He hadn’t meant to—but he had. He’d seen it all. And from the way he stood there, slack-jawed and stammering, it wasn’t just embarrassment. It was pure horror for what came next.

“I—I didn’t know, I swear—I didn’t mean—”

“Get the fuck out!” Daryl yelled, his voice booming not just around your cell but echoing throughout the entire cell block. Hell, the entire prison.

Nick backed up with hands raised, bumping into the wall as he scrambled for the curtain, muttering apologies. And Daryl was already moving.

He lowered you gently, but quickly, onto the mattress like you were glass, hurriedly smoothing the blanket across your hips, making sure your body was covered. Then he stood and was out the door in a flash.

You didn’t look after him. You couldn’t. Not yet. You stayed curled on your side, blanket pulled tight to your chest, one arm tucked under your head as your body tried to come back to itself. The tension still thrummed in your legs like a broken wire, the pleasure unfinished, twisted into something raw and hollow by the intrusion. You blinked, mouth open but dry, breath catching in your throat as you forced yourself to inhale slowly, once, then again.

The sound of the commotion had already begun to ripple through the cellblock as Nick stumbled backwards—hands up, voice tripping over apologies—but there was nowhere to go. The catwalk he stood on ended in cold cement and locked gates. And Daryl was already on him.

His boots were heavy and echoing across the metal grates as he charged the younger man like a goddamn freight train. Nick barely had time to yelp before Daryl slammed his body into the wall with a forearm across his throat, the force of it reverberating through the prison’s ribcage like a warning bell.

“The fuck you doin’ walkin’ into her cell without even knockin’, huh?” Daryl snarled, face so close to Nick’s their noses almost touched. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t mean to—I swear, I thought she was alone—”

To the man’s defence, you weren’t the most obvious couple. You didn’t cling to each other in public, didn’t make a show of affection in the hallways or at the dinner tables. What you had with Daryl existed in the quiet, private spaces— at most, his hand would brush your lower back when no one was looking. The immediate group knew, of course. They’d seen the arc of your relationship unfold from awkward glances to something that now resembled an old married couple. But the newer arrivals—like Nick, the jittery Woodbury recruit now backed up against the wall—didn’t know that until now.

“Should kill ya right here for how you just stood there gawkin’ at her.”

Daryl’s voice cracked through the air like a whip—rough, furious, and loud enough to bounce off the cement walls. It was more volume than most had ever heard from him, and it sent a ripple through the cellblock. Cells opened. Soft footsteps padded out onto the catwalk, tentative and tense. Glenn was the first to appear, eyes wide and alert. Carol followed close behind, tying her jacket as she squinted against the morning light. Rick came next—jaw tight, always ready to defuse a spark before it ignited into wildfire. Hershel moved slower, his crutches tapping softly with each purposeful step.

They didn’t need an explanation. One look was enough.

Nick stood frozen, hands half-raised in pitiful surrender, face pale and clammy. Daryl’s chest was heaving with fury, shoulders tense like a bowstring, fingers clenched in the man's shirt. The curtain that served as your only barrier to privacy now hung limply off one hook—torn aside, half-draped, revealing too much.

And then there was you, peeking out from the doorway to see if Daryl had killed Nick yet, blanket hastily pulled around you, flushed cheeks, and hair tousled from sleep and sex and sudden humiliation. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. Just the sight of you—half-shielded, lips parted in shock, fingers curled tight around the blanket—was enough explanation for the group. Nick had walked in on the two of you.

Glenn had already started moving, trying to intercept, hands raised in that well-practiced pacifying gesture. “Hey—hey, Daryl. C’mon. We get it, alright? Let’s all just breathe.”

Carol lingered, watching carefully. Rick edged down the stairs with quiet authority, his voice low but firm. “Daryl. It’s done. Let it go.”

But he wasn’t listening. Not really. He couldn’t. Not over the roar in his ears.

And then—

“Daryl.”

Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough. It cut through the heat in his veins like a sudden drop in pressure, slicing through the crimson haze behind his eyes and tethering him back to where he was, what he was doing, who he was doing it for. His hand remained fisted in the fabric of Nick’s shirt, shoulders still heaving as adrenaline roared against his ribs, but something in your tone made him turn. No panic. No fear. Just that grounded steadiness he always came back to.

You were standing in the narrow archway of your cell, blanket pulled tight under your arms, your bare shoulders kissed by the dull morning light filtering in through the high-set windows. You didn’t look angry. You didn’t even look embarrassed. You just looked at him — like you always did — with something calm, something knowing, something that stopped him in his tracks harder than any voice ever could.

His jaw flexed once, then again, and without another word he shoved Nick back against the wall one final time — not with the intent to injure, but enough to make him feel how close he’d come. Nick's eyes were wide and wild, lips stammering silent nothings, and though Daryl didn’t speak again, the way he looked at him was enough to bury a warning deep in his bones. Then he turned his back on him completely, like the matter had been settled.

Daryl was on you in three long strides, his movements fast but careful, eyes sweeping you head to toe like he needed to confirm you were still whole. One hand clutched the edge of the blanket where it had begun to slip, steadying it with a firm tug, while the other hovered just above your hip, not quite touching yet—like he was trying to ask without words if he could. You didn’t answer, but you didn’t have to. Your body leaned forward instinctively, and that was all the permission he needed.

He wrapped around you without hesitation, arms bracketing your frame with a kind of protectiveness that felt almost feral. The blanket was still clutched in his fist, but the rest of him was solid warmth and muscle and motion as he tucked you into his chest, blocking you from view as a dozen sleepy, confused faces began to gather at the edge of the catwalk.

It wasn’t a big crowd. A handful of people—ten, maybe twelve—most of them in half-buttoned shirts and mismatched socks, blinking against the light and murmuring to each other, eyes flicking between Nick and Daryl, taking in the image of Daryl using his body to shield you from onlookers with dawning realisation. But it was certainly enough people to make Daryl’s jaw tighten. Enough to make his grip on the blanket hitch a little higher as he folded his arms tighter around your shoulders, like he could physically shield you from the shame of exposure by sheer force of will.

He looked over his shoulder sharply, eyes finding Rick’s without needing to speak. And Rick, sharp as ever, read him immediately.

“Alright,” Rick called, firm and clipped, stepping forward with both hands raised. “Notin’ to see here, people. Go on.”

There was a shuffle of movement—Glenn lingering, motioning for people to go back to their cells before returning to his and Maggie's, Carol giving you a look that hovered somewhere between sympathy and secondhand mortification. Hershel dipped his head politely and turned away, muttering to Nick about lessons on knocking before entering a bedroom shared by a man and a woman.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice raw now, cracked and stripped down. His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, eyes scanning your features like he was checking for damage.

You exhaled a laugh that sounded more like an adrenaline dump. “Mortified, actually. Thanks for asking.”

The response didn’t ease him. Not completely. He gently ushered you further into your cell, away from leering eyes. The curtain whispered closed behind him, the soft slide of fabric shutting out the gawking neighbours and early morning whispers. For a moment, it was quiet—just the two of you in the dimly lit cell, breathing like the air had been knocked out of the room. You stood there in the middle of the cell, still wrapped in the blanket, one shoulder slipping bare as your hand clutched the edge tighter. Daryl hovered a few steps in front of you, all tense jaw and twitching hands, like his body hadn’t decided whether to fight or flee. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look you in the eye. He just stepped closer and reached out, tugging the blanket up where it had slipped, smoothing the fold down along your arm like it would make any difference at all.

His other hand had already begun tugging at the top edge of the blanket, fussing with the way it dipped too low near your chest, adjusting it like a man trying to erase what happened with nothing but his bare palms. You didn’t stop him. You just let him fiddle, watching the pinch in his brow deepen as his mind spun somewhere behind his silence.

He didn’t stop there. His fingers adjusted the corner near your hip, then fixed the hem where it hung uneven, then went back to your shoulder again—as if rearranging a blanket could undo the fact that someone else had seen you like this. You let him, watching with wide eyes and an incredulous twist tugging at the corner of your mouth, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Soooo,” you drawled, voice still airy with leftover adrenaline as you tugged the blanket higher across your chest, “that was horrifying.”

Daryl didn’t answer. His jaw flexed, teeth clenched so tight you could hear it grind beneath the silence. His hands were still hovering like they couldn’t decide whether to let go of the fabric or just bury themselves in it forever. He looked everywhere—your face, the blanket, the wall behind you—like there wasn’t a single spot in the cell that didn’t piss him off.

You cocked your head, hoping humor would crack the tension. “You mad?”

He scoffed, breath sharp through his nose. “The hell you think?”

“Jeez, just checking,” you muttered. “Didn’t exactly leave much room for nuance.”

He dragged a hand down his face, then gestured vaguely toward the door like it still burned. “You were naked. And that little shit just walked in.”

“Yeah, I remember,” you said with a dry little nod. “I was kind of there. Mid-thing, too, if you recall.”

His head jerked toward you like you’d slapped him.

“What?” you said, raising your eyebrows innocently. “You think I go around flashing these on the daily?”

His nostrils flared when you gestured to your breasts, and that vein in his temple did a little jig.

You softened, just a little. “Honestly? I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner. We’re living in a prison, babe. Privacy’s basically a myth at this point. Like… dragons. Or chocolate.”

“Don’t make it okay,” he muttered, voice quiet but tighter than barbed wire. It sounded like it physically pained him to say the words.

“No, it doesn’t. But it doesn’t make it some grand tragedy either. It just… happened. I mean it was bound to, we've been playing russian roulette with that curtain ever since we put it up.”

You reached out and brushed his wrist with your fingertips, and he flinched—not like you’d burned him, but like the ease of your touch made him feel worse. Like your indifference hurt more than the act itself.

He shook his head slowly. “How are you so... calm? Why ain't you pissed?”

“Why should I be?” you asked, tilting your chin. “Because someone caught a glimpse of the goods?”

He shut his eyes, like he was praying for strength.

You shrugged, every bit of strength in you was focusing on not chuckling at how little resolve he had when it came to you being naked. “They’re just tits, baby.”

His eyes snapped open, and when he spoke, his voice came out raw, rough around the edges and slightly louder than he intended. “They’re your tits!”

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute. His face flushed pink the second it left his mouth, and his eyes dropped to the floor like he’d just confessed something far too big for daylight.

You stared at him, then let out a short laugh. “Did you just yell about my tits?”

He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face like he wanted to wipe the last ten minutes off the earth. “That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yeah, you kinda did,” you teased gently, and your voice had softened now. “And honestly? I'm flattered.”

“I’m just sayin’…” he started, still not looking at you, “…he saw you like—like how I see you. It's messin' with me”

You stepped forward into the space between you, not that there was much; one hand pressed flat to his chest, you felt the way his heart thudded under your palm, as if it were trying to outrun itself.

“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now. Softer, as if you were worried he'd pull away at your question.

He shook his head again, rough, like he was trying to shake something off—but then he stopped, hands still at your waist, eyes barely holding to yours. When he spoke, it was low. Quiet. Almost like he didn’t want you to hear it.

“Ain’t about what we were doin'… Ain’t about him, even.”

You stayed still. Let him take his time.

“It’s just—” He huffed through his nose, jaw tight. “Ain’t nobody s’posed to see you like that. Just…”

His lips twitched, like he hated the words even as he said them.

“It’s you,” he muttered. “Don't matter if he only got a look. He don't get to see you like that. But now he has and-”

He shook his head again, eyes burning into yours, jaw working uselessly as if there were more he wanted to say but the words kept failing him.

“It’s like he stole somethin’. Even if he didn't meant ta... I fuckin’ hate it.”

The silence stretched. He wouldn’t look at you now—just stared off down at the floor, like maybe that would make it easier.

“Can’t help it, I just… want you all to myself,” he added, soft and miserable, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud. “I get it's selfish, but I do.”

Your breath caught as the space between you changed—subtle at first, like the temperature shifting just before rain.

"Hey," you said quietly, reaching up and cupping his face so he would finally look at you. "Listen to me, if anyone deserves to be selfish... It's you."

Something in the air softened, thickened with the weight of what hadn’t been said but was suddenly everywhere. Daryl wasn’t angry anymore. Not in the way he’d been before. He just looked overwhelmed, like his body was still catching up to the idea that someone else had witnessed something he thought of as his alone. Something sacred. Yours.

"Yeah, well.." he started, eyes darting about your face, looking for some sign of bogus in your face, but it was to no avail. "I dunno what the hell to do with it."

Your thumbs stroked his jaw, brushing the faintest stubble on his cheeks. His skin was warm under your touch, a little clammy, like he’d been sweating adrenaline ever since the curtain had swept aside.

“Well,” you murmured, keeping your voice light despite the intensity coiling in your chest, “I’ve got some ideas what you can do with all that possessive turmoil.”

One of his brows twitched like he couldn’t quite decide whether you were teasing or trying to disarm him again with jokes. You didn’t clarify. You just leaned back a little, head tilting cockily like this was any other casual morning conversation.

“Option one,” you offered, holding up a hand with mock solemnity, “you keep acting all weird and fidgety until we both die from repressed emotional constipation.”

A faint huff left him, barely audible, but there was a glint in his eye now—something bruised but breathing.

“Option two,” you went on, tapping your finger against his chest with exaggerated flair, “you pull your head outta your ass, accept that your stuck with me, and get over it. No returns. No receipts. Lifetime warranty.”

His lips twitched, just a little, but his posture still screamed conflict. Like he wanted to agree but didn’t trust that he deserved to. His hands stayed where they were—hovering, unsure—until you gave him one more nudge.

“And if all else fails,” you added, tone dropping with playful gravity as your hand slid slowly down his chest, “we just fuck until we forget what all this was about.”

That finally got a proper reaction. His head jerked back a bit, eyes wide with something like horror and hunger rolled into one. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away almost shyly, like the idea startled him.

“You serious right now?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. Ofcourse you were serious. stupid question.

You grinned, shameless. “I mean, we’ve tried talking. Not sure it’s our strong suit.”

His palm dragged slowly down his face, scrubbing over the tension there, and when he looked at you again, his expression had cracked—just a hairline, but enough to see what was beneath it. Embarrassment. Longing. Something ancient and boyish, like a man who’d never been allowed to want anything and was suddenly terrified he might get it.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Definetly,” you said cheerfully, tucking your arms around his waist under the blanket. “But it’ll be a fun funeral.”

He shook his head, but there was no real frustration in it anymore—just something soft and shaking loose. His eyes dropped again, his fingers brushing lightly over your waist as if to make sure you were still there, still his. But the touch didn’t stay tentative for long. Slowly, carefully, he let his hand settle. The blanket shifted with the motion, rustling like leaves, and then he was anchoring himself there—thumb stroking just beneath the hem where skin met cotton.

“Don’t wanna share ya,” he said finally, voice so low you almost missed it beneath the thrum of blood in your ears.

You leaned in, brushing your forehead against his, a quiet exhale warm between your mouths. “You don’t have to. I'm yours. That poor bastard barely survived the first glance. I doubt he’s gonna risk another.”

I'm yours. Yourds rang though his head like some symphony. A shaky breath left him then—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh—and for the first time since the two of you had been rudely interrupted, some of the iron in his shoulders melted. He rested his brow against yours, hands still firm on your waist like he could keep you his if he just held tight enough.

“Still wanna kill him,” he grumbled, but it sounded more passive than a threat now.

“I know,” you whispered. “But maybe, and just humour me here, how about you… don’t do that.”

His second hand found its way under the blanket, mirroring the first. They weren’t possessive now—just grounding, warm, holding onto something real and alive. You. The moment. Whatever this fragile, messy thing between you had become.

“I’m putting up a sign next time,” he muttered.

You smiled, lips brushing his as you laughed. “Make it big and bold. Maybe add some barbed wire. Paint it bright red n' write ‘If the bunk’s rockin’, y’all best keep walkin'."

He chuckled finally, and this time, when he looked at you, there was no doubt left. No shame. No fear. Just a quiet sort of awe.

His fingers slid up, slow and reverent, tracing the edge of your jaw before curling behind your neck. His touch was rough and gentle all at once, like he didn’t know how to separate the two anymore.

“You’re mine,” he said, not as a demand, but as a confession. Almost like he needed your permission to believe it. As if he were finally coming to terms with it.

You kissed him then—not hard, not fast, but with every ounce of conviction he couldn’t find the words for. “Damn straight,” you breathed into the space between your mouths.

And this time, he didn’t argue. He just held you, as if he finally understood he was meant to.

The kiss was soft at first—slow, anchoring, the kind that hummed low in your chest and made you forget the concrete beneath your feet. His lips brushed yours like they were still apologizing, still making up for every second of distance that had come before. But as always with Daryl, tenderness had a half-life. One moment you were breathing him in through the hush between your mouths, and the next, you were drowning in him.

His mouth took yours deeper, hungrier. Your fingers curled around the fabric at his chest, just to keep yourself upright. The air shifted. Got hotter. Thicker.

It wasn’t fast—god, no. It was glacial in how it climbed, in how his mouth slanted over yours again and again, each kiss drawing more from you than the last, each inhale like it had to be shared. The blanket still clung around your body, wrapped tightly from the earlier debacle, but you could feel it slipping, the tremor in your stomach, the twitch of your thighs under it, every time he exhaled against your lips. Every time his tongue traced the inside of your mouth, like he already knew what you were about to say.

Which, unfortunately, you were about to have to prove.

You pulled back slightly, just a breath apart, his forehead resting against yours. You tried to find your voice, but it came out softer than you’d meant—slightly strained also, like you were trying not to cringe at how needy you felt asking this.

“Hey… u…”

Daryl didn’t move, didn’t blink. Just watched you, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted, like he was enjoying the view of you struggling to speak more than anything else in the world. That smug, knowing bastard.

You tried again, clearing your throat and pressing your palm against his chest. “So… do you think we might, maybe… I mean, only if you want to… It’s just that earlier, y’know, we kinda got cut off—”

His brow arched slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“—and I just… I didn’t exactly, um… get to finish. And you’ve got like—ten minutes or something before watch so I figured we could maybe…”

He still didn’t speak. Didn’t back away. Just stared you down like you were the last meal left on earth, his lips twitching with amusement. Meanwhile, his hand tugged slowly at the top hem of your blanket—just a gentle pull, barely enough to shift it, but enough to send a bolt of heat down your spine. You faltered. Completely.

“I mean,” you blurted, flustered, “we don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. I just thought maybe if you weren’t doing anything right now or—”

His voice came low, slow, dangerously husky. “I don't now actually. Why dontcha just ask me?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

You felt you were being painstakingly clear in what you were suggesting, but apparently, he was too slow. That or he was being an ass and wanted you to say it. Definitely the latter.

His hand paused at the end of your blanket, dragging it up a fraction, knuckles grazing your thigh. His smirk deepened. “Ain’t followin’, sweetheart. Whatcha want?”

You narrowed your eyes. He was enjoying this. That bastard. The teasing, the way you could barely string together a sentence around him—he was soaking it up.

Ok. have it his way

You tilted your chin, let your mouth fall into an exaggerated pout. “Y’know what? Never mind,” you said airily. “Honestly, I wouldn’t wanna go again either if I were you.”

His smirk vanished like you’d slapped him. The air crackled.

You went on, your tone light as air, as if you were just chatting about the weather. “I mean, s’not like I used to brag about you to Maggie and Carol or anything. Back when you had stamina. That… spark.”

You sighed dreamily, folding your hands over your stomach like a wistful widow. “But I get it. You hit your prime. Happens to the best of ‘em.”

Then, with a devastating little shrug:

“Maybe next time I oughta just finish myself off and save you the trouble,” you said lightly, like it wasn’t meant to wound. Your tone stayed casual—teasing, even—but your eyes didn’t blink. “I mean, no point wastin’ your energy when I’ll just be fakin’ it for the morale boost anyway.”

That did it.

The blanket tore away from your body in one sharp, punishing tug, and for a single fleeting second the air bit cold across your skin—but it barely had time to register. His hands were already on you, rough palms slipping beneath your thighs with a purpose so instinctive it made your stomach clench, like every cell in his body had been waiting for permission to do this. And now that he had it—now that you’d baited him, pushed him, called his bluff—there was no stopping it. No soft return. No patience.

He hauled you up in one swift, seamless motion, as if your weight meant nothing to him, like you belonged there—hooked around his hips, clinging to the warmth of him as your arms locked tight behind his neck. Your legs wrapped around him before your mind caught up, your breath spilling into the crook of his neck as his shirt bunched in your fists and your whole body tensed, trying to keep pace with the shift in gravity.

His stride toward the cot was fast, controlled, driven by something deeper than frustration—something wild and hot and thick with want. His jaw flexed tight against your cheek as he walked, your thighs tightening around him as the world tilted with every step.

“You keep talkin’, baby,” he muttered low in your ear, his voice frayed and hot like it had been dragged through sand, every syllable carved straight from the heat building beneath his skin. “But you ain’t gonna be able to for long.”

And fuck—you believed him. Every word of it. Every heavy step. Every curling, possessive touch.

He tossed you onto the bunk like he didn’t trust himself to hold you another second, like if he didn’t let go he might fuck you standing up against the cell wall. The mattress groaned under you with a dry creak, the rough cotton of the sheet dragging beneath your back, your spine catching against it as you tried to sit up. But you didn’t make it far.

He was on you immediately, arms bracketing your body, his knees digging into the thin mattress on either side of your hips, his shoulders hunched as he loomed over you, not to intimidate, but to claim. His chest heaved with each shallow breath, his mouth parted, gaze raking down your bare form like it hurt him not to touch. His eyes flicked lower, tracking the line of your stomach, the curve of your breasts, the flush already blooming under your skin—and then back up to your face, where your lips were parted just slightly and your lashes fluttered from the weight of it all. You were his, and he was going to show you what exactly that meant.

But even as his weight settled over you, one of his hands gripping the mattress beside your head and the other braced near your ribs, he kept glancing past you, eyes darting to the cell door with every shift in the air. Like he couldn’t help it. Like the memory of earlier still haunted the doorway, a ghost waiting to barge in and ruin whatever this was before it could even begin.

You felt his hesitation in the way his muscles held just a fraction too tight, in the breath he held when the floor creaked somewhere beyond. He’d placed himself over you with purpose—angled just so, blocking you from view, a wall of heat and instinct and possessiveness. If anyone walked in now, all they’d see was him. Just Daryl, hunched over, his back broad and taut, hiding everything he couldn’t bear someone else to touch.

You didn’t blame him for being on edge. Not really. But goddamn, you needed his eyes on you. You needed to be seen—by him. Not watched. Not protected. Seen.

So you reached up, threading your fingers into the scruff along his jaw and tugged, firm and slow, until his gaze dropped down to yours. There was resistance, barely there, but it gave way the second your mouth brushed his.

That was all it took.

His mouth was already on yours again before your breath had even settled from the last kiss, rougher this time—hot and hungry and heady, like something had cracked open between you both and there was no use pretending anymore. Your lips met with too much force, too much ache, teeth brushing and breath catching, hands grasping anywhere they could. His stubble scraped your chin, your cheek, the corners of your mouth, but it only made you pull him closer, tilt your face to deepen the kiss until it stopped resembling anything soft or sweet.

And then his hand was on your hip, steadying you, anchoring you in place as he shoved your underwear down with a single, unforgiving motion. No teasing, no warning—just a rough tug that dragged the fabric over the curve of your ass and down your thighs like it had personally offended him. Which said a lot, considering they were his favourite pair.

You were already so worked up, still raw from what had been stolen moments before, your skin oversensitive and your mind gone blurry, and he knew that, hence the skipping over foreplay. His hands gripped your thighs as he settled between them, groaning as he felt the heat of you, head ducking to mouth at your breast, leaving a wet, open kiss above your racing heart.

Your thighs parted without thinking. His body settled between them, the weight of him solid and anchoring and perfect. You could feel the denim of his jeans catching your bare thighs, scratchy in contrast to the warmth of his hips, and you gasped softly into his mouth, the friction sending a spark through your spine. He grunted in response, hips grinding down once—just once—enough to make your breath stutter and your hands fly to his belt.

“Jesus, baby,” he murmured, voice hoarse with restraint, lips brushing your cheek now as his fingers cupped the underside of your thigh, pushing it higher against his side. “You’re already—fuck—“

You nodded, breath catching as your hands fumbled at his waistband, desperate and half-shaking. “I mean what did you expect, with earlier,” you whispered, half-laughing, half-panting. “Kinda stuck with me.”

He didn’t answer—just groaned low in his throat, the sound all grit and restraint, his mouth dragging down your neck in hot, open-mouthed kisses that bordered on desperate. His teeth scraped along your skin like he needed to remind himself you were real, here, underneath him, squirming and burning up with need.

Your fingers had barely worked his belt loose before he took over, popping the button and yanking the zipper down in one rough motion. He didn’t bother pushing them off—just shoved the denim low enough on his hips to free himself, cock already straining in his boxers.

But you didn’t wait for him to do the rest.

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers curling under the fabric and dragging it down just far enough to get what you wanted. He hissed as your palm closed around him—hard, hot, already leaking—and you guided him straight to where you ached, pressing his tip to your slick folds with a trembling breath that made your whole body shudder.

His arms went taut around you, head dropping as he sucked in air through his teeth, and then he looked at you—really looked at you, like you’d just set something off inside him he couldn’t come back from.

He drove into you in one desperate, guttural push, the force of it knocking the breath straight out of your lungs, his hips slamming flush against yours like he couldn’t stand another second not being inside you. The stretch hit deep, sudden and brutal and perfect, your mouth falling open on a ragged moan as your back arched beneath him, every muscle drawn tight with the shock of it.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, searching for anything to hold onto, but he wasn’t going anywhere—he stayed buried to the hilt, chest heaving against yours, forehead pressed to the crook of your neck like he needed your skin to remember how to breathe. He didn’t move, not yet, just hovered there inside you, cock twitching with restraint, like he was trying to get a grip but your body was already dragging him under.

His hand found your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a soft, dazed stroke that betrayed the feral tension in the rest of him. His eyes were screwed shut, jaw clenched like the feel of you was too much—too good, too tight, too fucking real—and you could feel the way he was trembling with it, strung so tight he might snap.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your cheek, voice low and thick like it had been scraped raw from somewhere deep inside.

You blinked up at him, dazed, your mouth already parted from how close he was, how full you felt, how still he was holding himself inside you like he needed something more before he let go. “Tell you what?” you breathed, even though some part of you already knew.

He didn’t answer right away—just kept looking at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like your skin under his palms and the sound of your breath in his ear weren’t enough, not without the words. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging slightly into the meat of it, and his hips twitched like his body was starting to move on instinct alone, like the restraint was costing him. When he finally spoke again, it came out quieter, rougher, like gravel dragged across his throat. “Tell me you’re mine. Right now. Say it.”

And maybe you should’ve teased him for it—should’ve made some quip about his sudden need for confirmation—but all you could do was stare back at him, completely undone by the way he was looking at you, like having you under him, around him, wasn’t enough unless he could claim every inch of you in every possible way. You could feel how hard he was still, how hot and heavy he throbbed inside you, like your body was the only home he’d ever known, and it was driving you absolutely fucking insane that he wasn’t moving.

So you said it—not because he needed it, but because it was the truest thing you could offer in that moment, your voice catching in your throat as you whispered, “I’m yours. Always.”

It was fast—god, it had to be—but there was nothing hurried about the way he moved. He drove into you with a rhythm so precise it felt like vengeance, not lust, each thrust carving out the echo of your earlier words like he was determined to prove you wrong with every inch. His forearm stayed locked beneath your ass, keeping your hips elevated, tilted just right, so the cot barely shifted beneath you—but your body sure as hell did. Your legs trembled where they draped over his shoulders, slipping slightly with every deep grind of his hips, and the noise that clawed up your throat didn’t sound anything like language.

You were trying to hold it together, but your nerves were shot, mouth slack, fingers twisted in the front of his shirt like you needed something to keep from floating off. The angle—fuck, the angle—was too much. Every inch of you was stretched tight, pulsing around him, body shaking with every drag of him inside you.

“Shit—” The word barely made it past your lips, nothing but a ragged breath ghosting against his ear. You clung tighter, trembling, brain static and white-hot where it should’ve held thoughts. “Baby—fuck—y-you wanna maybe—Jesus—ease up a little—?”

It came out broken, breathy, more plea than sentence, like even forming the words took more focus than you had left. He was buried so deep you could feel him in your spine, his rhythm relentless, like he was trying to rewire every nerve in your body from the inside out.

It wasn’t a complaint, not really—more a desperate kind of awe, like you were just now realizing what you’d unleashed.

His chest was slick against yours, mouth brushing your jaw, and when he answered, it came low and unbothered, like a man entirely in control even as he split you in two.

“You shouldn’t’ve run your mouth,” he rasped, not slowing, not faltering, just rutting deeper, angling harder, like every word you’d tossed at him earlier was still echoing in his head and he was gonna fuck them all back out of yours.

You didn’t get the chance to answer. You didn’t mean to moan—it just ripped through you, sudden and aching, the kind of sound that broke without warning, clawing its way from your chest before your brain could catch up. Your head fell back like it wasn’t yours anymore, the cry already echoing, too loud in the small space, too raw to take back.

Daryl reacted instantly. His palm slammed over your mouth, broad and hot, swallowing the rest of the sound before it could betray you both. But he didn’t stop. Not even a little. His hips stayed locked into you, deep and steady, grinding into the softest part of you like he didn’t hear a thing.

“Sshhh,” he rasped, low in your ear, the breath of it rough and wrecked. “Y’gotta be quiet, alright? Real quiet for me, baby.”

You whimpered beneath his hand, your thighs twitching around his waist, every inch of you wound up like a wire ready to snap. You didn’t want him to stop. Couldn’t let him. You’d die if he did. You were shaking already, half out of breath, half delirious, hips rising to meet every thick, perfect thrust like you were starving for it.

His other hand slid up your waist, slow and open-palmed, until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast, where you were still flushed and damp from the mouth he’d had there minutes ago. The fresh bruises on your chest jostled with every thrust, rising and falling with the bounce of your breasts, and the sight had him practically drooling—lips parted, eyes fixed, like he couldn’t decide whether to fuck you harder or just stare. He looked down at you then, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, taking you in like he couldn’t get enough—like the image of you laid out under him, back arched, legs trembling, was something he’d hoard forever in the deepest part of his memory.

He groaned low, almost a growl, his hand flexing over your mouth as he pushed deeper, chasing the way your back arched beneath him, the way your slick heat clenched around him like a fucking vice. His other arm was still holding you in place—not just to keep the cot from creaking, but because if he let you go, he wasn’t sure either of you would survive the fallout.

“You’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good,” he muttered against your cheek, voice fraying at the edges, hips rolling deep and hard like he meant to ruin you.

“Mine,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you, voice wrecked. “All fuckin’ mine.”

Your eyes were rolling, your vision shimmering around the edges as you tried your hardest to not make a sound but it was useless, and all you could do was moan against his hand as his cock hit so deep you could feel it in your stomach. Every slam of his hips pushed you higher, tighter, more strung out than you’d been all morning, your hands clawing at his back like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. Your muscles were burning, your toes curling, your body arching off the cot with each snap of his hips until the cot frame itself trembled against the concrete, squeaking just once before he gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip, curling his arm tighter under you, pulling you against him like his goddamn life depended on it.

While his hand stayed firm over your mouth and his arm hooked beneath your ass kept the cot from giving away your rhythm, there wasn’t much either of you could do to muffle the wet, unrelenting slap of skin on skin. The sound echoed low and lewd in the tight space of the cell, rhythmic and obscene, like a metronome counting down how long you had left before someone walked in and found you like this, each sound a filthy, unmistakable announcement of exactly what he was doing to you, of how deep he was buried, of how fast he was moving. Daryl didn’t slow down. Couldn’t. The thought of easing up—of giving you less than everything—didn’t even enter his mind. Not when you were like this under him, writhing, breath hitching against his palm, your legs still shaking where they were perched on his shoulders.

And still, even with his whole body trembling above yours, even with sweat sliding down the side of his neck and his breath dragging raw from his lungs, he lifted his head for just half a second, glanced toward the cell door as if the shadow of earlier still loomed there, waiting.

Though his body never slowed, never faltered, you immediately sensed the shift in his focus—and feared he might stop his blissful motions. Your breath hitched, a desperate sound trying to escape around the edge of his hand, but he was already leaning closer, his chest flush to yours, his pace unrelenting. You could barely speak, but you managed one broken plea—“Don’t stop.”

His eyes snapped right back to yours, but he didn’t slow down, not even for a breath. His rhythm stayed hard and fast, hips driving into you like a man possessed, like the thought of stopping was more dangerous than getting caught.

His mouth was on yours before the words had fully left, not soft, not slow, just hot and open and messy as he swallowed the sound like it fed him. He didn’t pull back, just shifted enough to speak against your lips, his voice so low it vibrated through your ribs where his weight pressed you down.

“Ain’t stoppin’,” he muttered, the words blurred by the kiss, breath pouring straight into your mouth. “Not a chance.”

Your leg slid halfway down his shoulder with the force of his thrusts, too numb and trembling to hold its place. Daryl didn’t miss a beat. He reached down between your bodies without slowing, his hand slipping beneath your thigh, curling around the soft underside as he hoisted you back into place, thigh snug again against his chest, foot dangling behind his back. His other hand braced your hip, holding you down like he knew exactly how much more you could take—and exactly when you’d start to fall apart.

Which, judging by the way your back was already arching, wasn’t long.

You barely got a breath in before he adjusted his angle, tilting his hips and driving deeper—deeper—and your mouth flew open, the noise already clawing its way out before you could even warn him. But Daryl was faster. His palm slapped over your mouth like muscle memory, muffling the cracked, broken moan that would’ve echoed down the cell block if not for his hand.

“Knew it,” he growled, voice thick with pride and sweat and something wrecked, leaning down just enough to speak against your jaw, his breath flooding hot over your cheek. “Knew you weren’t gonna keep quiet.”

You could hardly breathe. You could hardly think. All you could do was feel—feel the sweat sliding down your spine, feel the ache building like a scream in your throat, feel the pressure coil sharp and brutal low in your belly.

Your voice cracked as you tried to speak, a slurred mess of words slipping out in gasps, every thought melting around the thick, rhythmic press of his hips. His cock dragged against that spot deep inside that made your toes curl, your body already spiraling, too gone to be anything but his. Your brain was mush, words sputtering out in muffled whimpers against his palm; “Yours… M' yours… love your dick so much, fuck Daryl—”

That did something to him.

He groaned at that like you’d punched the air out of his lungs, his teeth scraping your cheek as he hissed, “That’s right, baby. Say it all you want. You’re mine.”

You noddded your head franticaly and his chest rumbled with a breathless little laugh, not loud but full of heat, and his mouth dipped to your jaw, then lower, skimming kisses over your cheek, your neck, the edge of your collarbone like he didn’t know where to start with all the places he wanted to worship.

“Yeah?” he murmured, low and lilting, the kind of teasing that didn’t need volume to hit its mark. “That right, baby? Funny… don’t sound like what you were sayin’ earlier. What was it you said? That I lost my edge?”

You moaned in response, not because you meant to, but because you couldn’t help it- the stretch of him was unbearable. The sound shattered somewhere beneath his palm, swallowed by sweat-slick skin and the euphoria of him driving into you again and again, harder now, like he was chasing that sound. Your eyes fluttered open, only to roll back almost immediately, the coil in your stomach drawing tighter, your limbs seizing up like your body couldn’t decide if it needed to run or come undone.

He felt it. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he rasped, voice vibrating straight into your throat where his mouth hovered at your jaw, tongue flicking the sweat pooling in your skin’s hollows. “There she is.”

Your legs twitched against his chest, trembling messes with no strength left to hold. Your hands clutched uselessly at his wrists, your whole body bucking helplessly beneath him. And still he didn’t slow. His pace was ruthless now, relentless, hips slamming into yours with brutal efficiency, chasing every broken sound from your throat like he was hunting them down one by one.

His hand didn’t leave your mouth. Not yet. You were too far gone, your thighs shaking, your stomach tensed, tears pricking the corners of your eyes as the pressure grew unbearable. He knew. He could feel it. And he wasn’t stopping until he ripped it out of you.

“Gonna cum for me, baby?” he panted, rough and reverent, the rasp of it shaking against your jaw as he pushed deeper. “Yeah? I feel it, pretty girl. You’re right there—c’mon. Give it to me.”

You couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even think. Your words broke into nothing behind his hand, your nod frantic and shallow as your body seized up beneath him, everything inside you narrowing to the brutal rhythm of his hips and the unbearable pressure building between your legs. Your spine bowed hard, thighs drawn tight and locked over his shoulders, heels pressed into the small of his back, clinging like it might keep you anchored as everything inside you began to come apart.

And then it hit.

Your orgasm crashed into you like a freight train, sharp and deep and catastrophic—an electric snap through your core that hollowed you out with the force of it. You clenched around him, pulsing hard, your whole body locking up, chest stuttering as you tried to scream and couldn’t. Your head jerked back against the mattress, mouth opening under his palm with a muffled sob as your legs spasmed and your hips jolted beneath his grip.

It was too much—too full, too intense, too fast—and still, he didn’t let you breathe. He kept moving through it, dragging it out, every stroke driving impossibly deeper, grinding hard into the aftershocks until your body shook with overstimulation and your nails clawed helplessly at his back, his shoulders, his hair. Your toes curled tight, your chest shuddered, your tears spilled down hot and silent from your temple, and still he held you there, thumb stroking your cheek, murmuring low against your skin like a lullaby in the chaos.

“There you go,” he whispered, barely audible through the haze, watching you unravel like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted. “Fuckin’ gorgeous, baby. Just like that.”

He was close. You felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, not from fatigue, but from the sheer effort of holding on, of staying inside you just a little longer, like his body couldn’t decide whether it needed to finish or fall apart trying. His hips rocked forward in messy, uneven thrusts now, sloppier than before, like he’d been wound too tight and the coil was starting to snap. His breath hitched with every push, pouring hot and desperate against your shoulder as he buried his face there, one hand fisting the blanket beside your ribs, the other gripping your thigh so hard you knew you’d bruise.

“Say it,” he choked out suddenly, the sound barely a whisper, more breath than voice. “Fuck—say it again, baby, I—” His words faltered, teeth gritting like the effort to speak was pulling him apart. “Please. Jus’—please, I need—need to hear it—can’t—shit—.”

You blinked hard, body twitching beneath him, barely coherent through the noise in your skull—but God, the sound of him like this, all broken up and pleading, shot through you like a live wire. He was still pumping inside you, grinding deep with every stroke like he was trying to chase the echo of your orgasm, but now it was different—now it was for him. For the release, he couldn’t reach without you.

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb dragging along the flushed heat of his cheekbone, trying to find your breath in the chaos of his. His voice cracked open against your jaw like it was the only thing holding him together, and your lips curved, wrecked and breathless and just a little smug.

“I’m yours, baby,” you rasped, the words frayed at the edges, half-laughing through the ruin of your throat.

Your lips were barely moving now, wrecked and shaking against the damp skin of his jaw, every syllable catching on a breath you could barely hold.

“Fffuck—just do it,” you gasped, the sound trembling up from somewhere deep, raw. “Make me yours, big guy. You know where I want it”

The words hit him like a lightning strike straight to the base of his spine. You felt it—the full-body shudder, the way his hips stuttered mid-thrust, a guttural moan spilling from somewhere between his teeth like he hadn’t meant to let it out. His forehead dropped hard to yours, sweat-slick and flushed, mouth trembling open like he needed to breathe you in just to stay conscious.

“G-gonna—fuck—fill you up, baby,” he gasped, the words barely hanging together, all breath and desperation, “gonna—shit—gonna stuff you full, m-make it—make it stick—prove you’re—”

His breath caught, teeth clenching like the pleasure hurt. His whole body twitched.“M-mine—fuck—mine—m’fuckin’—mm-mine—”

His whole body jolted like he’d been struck by lightning, every sinew pulled taut as his spine arched and his forehead slammed down against yours, pressing so hard it almost hurt, like he needed the contact just to hold on. The sound that tore from his throat was ragged and broken, somewhere between a growl and a whimper, low and guttural and utterly undone. His hips snapped forward once—deep and punishing—then again, grinding in tight as his whole body seized, and then he was spilling into you with a full-body shudder so violent it felt like he was coming from somewhere deeper than just his cock. You felt him throb inside you with dizzying force, pulse after pulse of hot, thick release flooding your cunt in heavy, desperate spurts that left you raw and gasping. It was relentless, obscene, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to—his hips jerking in short, helpless thrusts as his cock twitched and kicked deep inside, filling you so full just like he said that the mess started to drip out around the base, your slick mixing with his and running down between your thighs in slow, warm trails. His breath hitched sharp against your cheek, his voice breaking on a cracked, guttural moan as he stammered something incoherent—nothing but shattered syllables and praise and filth spilling from his mouth just as fast as he emptied himself into you.

His breath came shallow and high and still—still—he didn’t stop. The rhythm slowed, sure, but it never ceased, his hips rolling in tight, sticky circles that rocked his softening cock deeper into your slick, swollen heat. He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop, not when you were still fluttering around him like that, when your thighs were starting to shake again and your mouth was parting like you were about to fall apart a second time.

“Shit,” he panted, forehead resting against yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You—fuck, baby, you gonna give me another one?”

You couldn’t answer. Not with your lungs knotted and your thoughts frayed, not with the way your body was already coiling again like a live wire in his arms.

And he knew it. Knew your tells—how you twitched under him, how your breath caught, how your hips tilted even when you were already wrung out. His hand moved on instinct, sliding between your bodies with effort, fingers slippery with both your slick and his come as he found your clit again, thumb circling with maddening care while his hips gave one more shallow thrust, then another.

He was spent. Too sensitive, too soft, every grind of your cunt around him making his whole body jerk with the ache of it—but he kept moving anyway, fucking you through the overstimulation with soft, deliberate thrusts like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

“C’mon,” he whispered, breath hot and broken against your ear, his voice wrecked but worshipful. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Gimme one more. You can do it, pretty girl. That’s it.”

You whimpered. That voice—that voice, warm and cracked and coaxing—went straight through you. It made your eyes sting and your thighs quake, made your chest cave in on itself like you could melt just from hearing him say your name like that. Your clit throbbed beneath his thumb, hypersensitive and slick with both of you, and every lazy thrust dragged your walls tighter, overstretched around the length of him, making your whole body twitch like he was rewiring your nerves one spark at a time.

Your head tipped back, breath ragged and thin, and you felt it begin to crest again—your second orgasm pulling free from the mess of trembling muscle and too-hot pleasure, blooming sharp and dizzy behind your ribs like it had been building from the moment he started whispering to you.

It wasn’t something you chose—it was something your body did in rebellion, wrung loose from the mess of pulsing nerves and soaked flesh and the dizzy haze clouding your brain like static.

It started with a gasp that never quite made it out, your mouth dropping open but no sound escaping—only a shudder that ripped through your ribs like a second heartbeat detonating in your chest. The pressure hadn’t been building steadily—it had been lurking, low and forgotten, smothered beneath the burn of overstimulation until the moment you saw him unravel, chasing his own release with blind, stuttering thrusts. That image alone—Daryl fucking Dixon wrecked and helpless above you—shoved it loose without warning, exploding like a bomb behind your navel and seeping through your body with a force that made your teeth clench and your legs seize.

Your cunt clamped around him so hard it was borderline painfull; it made him moan, a ragged little noise that barely registered over the roar in your ears. Your thighs twitched violently against his chest. Your hips bucked once, then again—your body fighting it even as it surrendered, unable to choose between pulling him in or shoving him away.

The pressure that had been coiling deep inside you exploded like a fuse blown clean, your head dropping back against the thin pillow as your spine bowed, your mouth opening on a gasp so sharp you couldn’t even make a sound. You convulsed around him, your walls clamping down in helpless spasms that dragged another shattered moan from his throat, the overstimulation painting white-hot streaks of pain through pleasure so thick you almost couldn’t tell the difference. His cock was still twitching inside you, still thick and spent, and you were so fucking full, the heat of him seeping out even as he stayed buried.

And all the while his thumb kept circling, slower now, but firm—like he wanted to feel it all, wanted to help you ride it all the way through. You sobbed into his shoulder, the overstimulation turning everything sharp, every pulse of pleasure edged in pain. It felt like too much—too much pressure, too much heat, too much him—and yet you never wanted it to stop. You were crying again and didn’t even know it, your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails dragging down his scalp like you couldn’t bear to be tethered and yet couldn’t stand the idea of being let go.

Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably, still hooked high around his shoulders, still wide open and straining, the angle so deep you could feel him in your gut. The contrast of his jeans against your skin, the cold metal of his belt buckle brushing your hip—only made it more visceral, more real. Your whole body was slick, wrecked, shaking beneath him, and you didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too deeply in case it shattered the fragile, feral stillness of the moment.

Daryl didn’t move either.

He was still slumped over you, panting through the open heat of his mouth against your cheek, dazed and flushed and entirely undone, his heartbeat hammering against your chest in a rhythm that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with surrender. His hand lifted, trembling, to cup your face—thumb brushing your cheekbone like he still didn’t believe you were real—and he blinked slowly, like coming back to his body was the hardest thing he’d done all night.

He barely had the strength to hold himself up, but the second he felt your body shake beneath him, really shake—something sharp and jagged, the kind of tremor that didn’t come from pleasure alone, he snapped out of it.

Your thighs were still locked high against his chest and slung over his shoulders, trembling hard, your whole body slick and spent and shaking like the air had been knocked clean out of you. You weren’t breathing right—your chest was rising too fast, too shallow, like your lungs didn’t know how to catch up, and Daryl’s heart just about dropped out of his chest.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed, voice still rough with the echo of everything he’d just poured into you, but laced now with something quieter. Steadier. Concern. “S’okay, baby. Look at me.”

He eased your legs down first, one at a time, careful with the back of your knees like he knew they ached. You whimpered from the stretch, and he whispered a soft apology, kissing your calves as he eased them down, hands smoothing down your thighs in apology. His touch stayed slow, grounding, reverent.

You couldn’t answer. You were trying—your mouth opened, jaw slack, chest stuttering—but the breath wouldn’t come right. That terrified look hit his eyes for a second, just a flicker, and he leaned in quick, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing sweat-soaked hair from your temple.

“Breathe with me, alright?” he murmured, forehead touching yours. “Just like this. In—real slow.” He inhaled, slow and deep, exaggerating the movement so you could follow. “Now out. You got it.”

You tried. Failed the first time. But he didn’t move, didn’t rush you. Just stroked his fingers through your hair, guiding you again. And again. Until finally your lungs caught—stuttering, then settling—your breath easing out in a shudder that broke something inside him.

“There you go,” he whispered, brushing his lips to your cheek, to your jaw, then finally to your mouth. “Atta girl.”

You melted beneath him, limbs too heavy to move, heart still rattling somewhere against your ribs like a trapped bird. His body was still flush against yours, dick soft now but still buried, your bodies locked together by heat and slick and everything they’d just endured.

He stayed right there. One hand on your hip, gently rubbing warmth back into your skin. The other cradled your face like you were something breakable—and maybe you were, just a little. He kissed you then, slow and soft and unhurried, nothing like the frantic heat from minutes before. His lips moved over yours like a promise.

You whimpered against him—this time from the weight of emotion, not overstimulation—and he caught it in his mouth, swallowing the sound like it was sacred.

He didn’t move far—just enough to slide his hand down between your bodies and gently ease himself from you, hissing softly at the sensitivity, his other hand still stroking slow circles into your hip. You winced, breath hitching as the emptiness hit, sudden and raw, the wet heat of it slicking down your thighs like a reminder of how deep he’d been, how much he’d given you.

“Easy,” he murmured, all gravel and reverence, like the moment had burned the growl out of him.

His hand kept stroking slow along your sides, fingertips trailing through the sweat that cooled faster than you could stop shivering. Every so often he’d press a kiss to your temple, your cheekbone, your jaw—never in the same place twice, like he was trying to ground himself with the taste of your skin.

He looked down to look over your body again, and that's when he saw the flush of red, high along the inside of your thighs. Angry friction-burn streaks that bloomed deeper in patches, painted into your skin by the hard grip of his belt, the denim that hadn’t fully come down, the relentless drag of his hips when neither of you had been able to stop. They stood out stark against your skin, wet and raw, already darkening with the threat of bruising.

He stilled completely.

One hand, the one still curled at your hip, loosened its grip, the tension leaving his fingers like the guilt had drained it from him. He glanced up at your face again, searching for the shift—the furrow of your brow, the wince, the sharp inhale that usually came when the comedown set in. But it wasn’t there. You were still gone. Still floating.

You didn’t know what he’d done to you.

And that was what made his gut twist like he’d been sucker-punched.

It would’ve been easier if you had noticed—if you’d hissed through your teeth or shoved at his chest, if you’d blinked hard and looked at the red blooming down your thighs and said What the fuck, Daryl. But you hadn’t. Because you trusted him. Because even wrecked and trembling and strung-out, your body let him do whatever he wanted without question, without fear. Because you’d gone so pliant for him, so soft, that you hadn’t even noticed he’d left marks behind.

Still breathless, still fogged from the comedown, you reached for him anyway—your hand brushing gently across the back of his neck, threading into his hair as if that might anchor him.

But he was already sliding down.

Carefully, reverently, he shifted his weight away from your chest, his palms moving slowly down your outer thighs, thumbs stroking softly over the trembling skin, until he could cradle one of them completely in his calloused grip.

Then he dipped forward.

His mouth found the inner seam of your thigh with no hesitation, and he kissed it—slow and warm and deeply apologetic, like he thought the softness of his lips could undo the imprint of his roughness. He didn’t stop there, either. His head tilted slightly as he kissed lower, then higher, then pressed his mouth directly over one of the deeper bruises forming near your hip. His lips lingered there, barely moving, just resting against your skin as he exhaled, slow and uneven, like he could feel the ache blooming in your flesh and wanted to take it into himself.

You felt his breath stutter against your thigh—hot, humid, remorseful—and your stomach pulled tight, not from pain, but from the sheer gravity of his tenderness. The contrast made your throat close. The same man who’d just been wrecking you into the mattress now held your legs like something breakable, his body curled low and close as if to shield you from the mess he’d made. You watched his brow crease against your skin, watched his jaw flex like he was chewing on guilt he didn’t know how to name.

“Daryl,” you whispered, or maybe whimpered, fingers curling tighter in his damp hair. Your hips twitched, still faintly overstimulated, and his hands smoothed over them without thought—grounding you, soothing you, even as he kissed the other thigh with just as much care, just as much quiet reverence.

“…Shit, baby I’m sorry,” he muttered quietly, eyes raking ouver your coloured skin.

You blinked, breath stuttering in your chest as your brows pulled together. “What?”

His arms tightened around you just a little, and his next breath came slower, but rougher, like it scratched on the way out. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing soft beneath your ear.

“Was too rough,” he muttered. “Got riled up. I—I didn’t mean to push you that hard. You were shakin’ like a damn leaf, couldn’t even breathe right at first, and—” He swallowed, nose brushing yours as his eyes dropped closed.

You smiled before you even meant to, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, because you could feel the guilt blooming under his skin like heat—could feel the ache in him, that quiet fear he’d broken something delicate.

You blinked slowly, eyes still hazy as your fingers found his jaw and gave it a lazy little tap. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, voice low and hoarse but smiling all the same. “Don’t go soft on me now, Dixon. You rocked my damn world.”

He didn’t open his eyes. Just let out a rough breath like he wasn’t sure whether to believe you.

You nudged your nose against his, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “I mean it,” you whispered, each word deliberate. “That wasn’t too rough. That was—shit, that was perfect. You didn’t push me too hard.” Your thumb stroked along his jaw, grounding him as your voice dropped to a low, tender murmur. “I wanted it. All of it. I always do.”

You felt him watching you, brow furrowed like he still wasn’t sure if he was allowed to believe you—so you leaned in just a breath closer, your lips nearly touching his, and finished, “And that’ll never change. Ev-verrr.”

That got him. The faintest huff of a laugh escaped him, cheeks flushed under the scruff as he buried his face deeper into your neck, arms curling tighter around you like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting you go.

And then, quieter: “You sure?”

“You always do this,” you added, your voice softening as your nails scratched lightly at his scalp. “Start mopin’ like I didn’t just get the best dick of my life."

“Newsflash, lover,” you murmured, voice still wrecked and lazy as your fingers idly traced the sweat-damp line of his jaw, “if you didn’t fuck me that good, then I’d be upset.”

He let out a breath that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan, like your words knocked the wind right out of him. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, nose brushing yours again as he tried to hide the pink dusting his cheeks—but you felt it. Felt the way his whole body softened at your words, the tension melting out of his spine as you pulled him back into your arms like he was home.

You tilted his face up with a hand to his cheek, kissed him slow, real slow, until he stopped breathing like he’d broken something. He blinked, brow twitching, mouth twitching too.

“You—” he started, but you didn’t let him finish. Just leaned in and kissed him slow, mouths sliding together with the kind of lazy confidence that only came after being thoroughly fucked and adored.

His protest died under your lips, swallowed whole as your mouth moved against his—soft and unhurried, your tongue brushing his in slow, drugged sweeps that left him shivering. His stubble scraped gently against your chin, grounding you in the raw, lingering friction of everything that had just passed between you. You could feel the heat radiating off him still, his breath catching every time you shifted, your bare chest pressed to the rough cotton of his shirt, nipples sensitive and swollen from his earlier attention.

And God, the warmth. The weight of him. The heat still trapped between your thighs, the slick mess where your bodies joined, the faint ache starting to curl in your belly—it all just made you kiss him harder.

When you pulled back, your grin was crooked, eyes half-lidded but bright.

“You really showed me, huh?” you whispered against his mouth, and then let your nose bump his. “Next time I doubt you, you’ve got my full permission to prove me wrong again. As long as it is exactly like that.”

A short huff of laughter escaped him—relieved, grateful—and he dipped his head, hiding his smirk in the curve of your neck.

He didn’t pull back. Didn’t shift. Didn’t check the door again. He just melted downward, letting his full weight settle over you like a human blanket as the last of the tension drained from his limbs, muscle by muscle, breath by breath. His arms slid low around your waist, wrapping tight beneath the arch of your back, holding you so close your ribs ached from it—but you wouldn’t have traded that pressure for anything in the world.

Your skin tacky with sweat, your legs splayed boneless and wide, too worn out toyou. do anything but let him cocoon. You felt every inch of the difference between you—his worn denim jeans scraping lightly against your thighs, the cool fabric of his shirt sticking to the slick between your bodies, while you lay there in nothing but your own skin, flushed and raw and claimed. He was fully dressed, save for the undone fly and the mess smeared low between you both, and yet somehow he looked more undone than you’d ever seen him.

He buried his face in your neck, arms locked around your back so fiercely you almost couldn’t move. Your own arms curled up around his shoulders, fingertips smoothing beneath his collar, tracing the lines of muscle beneath fabric and sweat and heat.

“You ain’t gonna suffocate me, are you?” you mumbled against the top of his head, though you made no effort to shift. Your fingers drifted toward the scruff at his jaw, nails gently grazing over the stubble like you were testing its sharpness.

“Nah,” he said, voice gravel-thick and slow, muffled in your throat. “You’ll pass out long before that.”

He didn’t move for a long time. Just laid there, blanketing you completely, your skin fused together by sweat and everything that had just passed between you. His breathing was low now, heavy and even, and every time his chest rose, it nudged your ribs in a way that made your body relax even more deeply beneath him. His arms stayed wrapped around your middle, keeping you close, possessive without pressure, his weight grounding you like a promise you didn’t need to hear out loud.

Eventually, his mouth started to wander. Not with any urgency—just the soft, reverent sort of drifting that came when he didn’t quite know what to do with all the emotion still buzzing inside him. He kissed your neck first, then your collarbone, then lower, brushing his lips along the curve of your shoulder like he couldn't get enough of the taste of you, one freckle at a time. His lips weren’t searching for anything; they were just loving you the only way he knew how—with his mouth, with his silence, with his hands splayed warm across your back.

You sighed, content, your fingers already lifting to his hair by instinct, weaving slowly into the strands at his nape. You didn’t even have to think about it. Just like breathing.

A few strokes passed before you started doing what you always did—absently curling a small section around your finger, letting it spring free before twisting it again. Except this time, your fingers didn’t stop at idle. They got ideas.

A lock near his temple caught your attention, and you gathered it gently, twisting it into another. Then again. A few moments passed, and he shifted slightly, pressing a lazy kiss just over your breast before mumbling into your skin, “You doin’ weird shit to my hair again?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, way too pleased with yourself. “Braiding it.”

“Thought so,” he grunted.

“Your hair was begging to be played with,” you defended with a smile. “You’ve got Viking hair now, baby. You should be proud.”

“Shit,” he muttered into your chest, but it wasn’t angry—just that low, gravelly grumble that meant he was tired and content and pretending to be grumpy because the alternative was admitting how much he liked being doted on. His voice vibrated against your sternum as he shifted, one arm pulling tighter across your back while the other anchored itself beneath your ribs, locking you against him like he didn’t plan to let you out of his hold till noon.

You smiled into his hair, fingers carding through the dark, damp strands now curling messily at the nape of his neck. The braid you’d twisted near his temple still held, wonky and loose but unmistakably yours. You couldn’t help it—you started tracing the shape again, teasing another tiny coil into place.

He groaned quietly, shifting against you, face still buried between your breasts. “Swear to God, you braid one more piece, I’m gonna end up lookin’ like a damn horse.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you murmured, kissing the crown of his head.

He sighed, loud and theatrical, like a man forced to carry an unbearable burden—his girlfriend’s affection. But he didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. If anything, he nuzzled closer, arms winding tighter around you like he was folding himself into your skin.

“You braid it again,” he mumbled, tone flat and unimpressed, “’m cuttin’ the whole damn thing off.”

You snorted. “Sure you are.”

He didn’t even argue, just buried his face deeper into your neck to hide his blushing face, sucking and kissing like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that he was supposed to be annoyed.

“You leave your hair long and expect me not to braid it?” you teased, voice honey-sweet. “That’s unrealistic.”

He groaned. Not from discomfort—just the resigned groan of a man whose fate was sealed and knew it. “Never gonna hear the end of it, walkin’ around with your damn arts and crafts hangin’ off my head.”

You giggled, nuzzling your nose against his temple. “You’d still wear it, though.”

His silence was telling. He just grunted, a sound that somehow meant shut up and fine, maybe at the same time, arms squeezing tighter like he was too tired to fight you—or maybe just didn’t want to.

“Don’t make a thing of it.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely gonna make a thing of it.”

His breath huffed against your skin, his fingers flexing at your spine. You could feel the smile he tried to hide, crooked and soft and buried beneath the pretence. For all his gruff talk, he was clinging to you like he might fall apart if he let go. The contrast made you ache—his fully clothed body wrapped protectively around your bare one, jeans still open, belt hanging loose, and not an ounce of distance between you. You could feel his heartbeat in the cage of his ribs, every breath pressed close, every shift of his hips pulling you deeper into his hold.

You let your fingertips play through his hair again, slow and tender, twisting another lazy braid just behind his ear.

“Love your hair long,” you said softly, lips brushing the side of his head. “It’s hot. Rugged. Kinda feral.”

He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt the tell—his shoulders stiffened for a beat, breath catching just slightly before he huffed a quiet, grumbly “Mm,” like maybe if he kept his face buried in your neck long enough you wouldn’t notice the heat crawling up the back of his ears. His arms tightened around you subtly, and when he finally spoke again it was muffled into your skin, short and blunt and just a little too defensive to be convincing—“Stop it”—which only made you smile wider, fingers slipping back into his hair, twisting a slow braid near the base of his skull while he sighed through his nose and tried not to melt at the way you held him, every stroke of your touch sinking deeper than he’d ever admit, each word making his chest pull tight in that soft, stupid way it always did when you said shit like that and actually meant it.

“Gonna get you all kinds of attention,” you murmured, lazy with affection, your lips brushing the top of his head as your fingers continued threading through his tangled hair.

He snorted—low, unimpressed, muffled somewhere against your sternum—and for a second you felt him go a little still, his breath stalling just long enough to make you smirk. Then came the scoff, rough and dismissive, like the very idea physically repulsed him.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really,” you went on, grinning now, dragging it out just because you knew exactly how much it made him cringe. “You keep walkin’ around like this—lookin’ all broody and hot and apocalypse-dirty—gonna have a line of women throwin’ themselves at you. All fluttery lashes and damp panties and oh no, mister Dixon, I twisted my ankle—can I lean on your weirdly toned forearms?”

That got him. You felt it—his fingers, already splayed warm across your back, dug deeper into your spine like he could anchor himself in you and disappear altogether. He shifted slightly, nose brushing your collarbone, and mumbled the words like they hurt to even say out loud.

His hands flexed around you, just a small twitch, but enough to feel it down your spine, and you didn’t miss the small, frustrated puff of air that broke against your skin.

“Ain’t interested,” he grumbled, a little lower now. “Only woman I see.”

You hummed, pleased, but you weren’t done—not even close. “Mm, sure, sure,” you mused, stroking slowly through his hair again, your lips brushing his temple as he buried further into your neck. “But y’know, I’m just one woman. One chaotic, loudmouthed, occasionally homicidal woman. Wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to play the field a bit—see what’s out there. I mean, maybe there's someone out there that don’t steal all your jerky or gaslight you into thinkin’ that shirt's always been hers.”

His groan came first, muffled into your throat, followed closely by a kiss—, pressed with purpose to your skin like he could shut you up with sheer proximity. You felt the heat of his breath when he spoke next, right against your skin, low and frayed and curling with something a little too serious to be just a joke. “Tempting,” he murmured. “Like I said, ain't interested." You smiled, smug and deliriously warm, tilting your head just enough to catch his mouth when it dragged higher toward your jaw, your hands sliding down to cradle the nape of his neck like maybe, if you held him just right, you could keep the whole damn world at bay.

“You’re gonna have to beat ’em off with a stick,” you murmured, still petting through his hair like he was some wild thing you’d tamed. “All them ladies seein’ you in your rugged, road-worn glory, stridin’ through the cellblock with that broody lumberjack energy and your little braid glintin’ like a mating signal—phew. Honestly, I might get jealous.”

Daryl didn’t answer right away. Just let out a long breath against your skin, like he was trying to decide whether to entertain you or just smother himself in your chest until the teasing stopped. His thumb stroked absentmindedly at your waist, slow and steady, like he couldn’t not touch you.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, still grinning. “I mean the least you could do is flirt a bit, babe. I mean, why waste all this hotness on me?”

That’s when he shifted, just a little—just enough to glance up at you through the mess of hair you’d been playing with, his eyes half-lidded and soft but still sharp enough to cut through your bullshit.

You were smirking, ready to lob another tease, but he beat you to it.

“Yeah, well… you’re it for me,” he muttered, like it was obvious, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could stop a heart mid-beat. His voice was low and scratchy, lips brushing your collarbone as he said it, almost like he hadn’t meant to speak at all.

Just a fact. Just… truth.

You blinked, breath catching stupidly in your throat as your fingers stilled in his hair.

He nestled back into your chest like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just said the one thing that could flatten your entire nervous system in a second.

“That so?” you managed eventually, your voice a little higher than before, a little breathier, as if your lungs were still trying to remember how to work.

You smiled so wide it hurt, your cheeks aching with the kind of giddy warmth that only ever came from this—him, wrapped around you like a human blanket, too tired to tease, too soft to let go. You hooked your legs back around his hips like a smug little octopus and felt the weight of him shift, arms sliding beneath your back, pulling you tighter until your chest was pressed flush to his. He didn’t even pretend to mind. Just melted into the shape of you like it was his natural form, head buried in the crook of your neck, the warmth of his breath fogging against your skin as sleep tugged at the edges of him.

“Mhm,” he mumbled simply, his voice thick with sleep and something quieter, heavier—the weight of everything he didn’t say out loud but always meant.

You let your forehead drop gently to his collarbone, your grin still glued to your face like it had nowhere better to be. “You sure?” you whispered. “’Cause I’m kinda messy.”

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t even flinch—just grunted, low and blunt against your throat. “Uh-huh. You’re my mess.”

“I talk a lot.”

“That’s how I know you’re still breathin’.”

You snorted at that, clearly proving his point. “I leave bobby pins and hair ties everywhere.”

He let out a warm breath, all smug and lazy where his face was still tucked against your temple. “That’s your callin’ card,” he mumbled, voice slurred with sleep, “helps me track you down… so i can do this-” Then, without shifting more than a fraction, he dipped his head and closed his teeth gently around the shell of your ear, nibbling right where he knew it’d make you twitch. You jolted beneath him with a startled squeak, laughter bursting from your chest before you could stop it, and he just hummed, pleased as anything, arms cinching tighter to keep you from wriggling away. He didn’t even lift his head again—just stayed buried there, smug and exhausted, clearly proud of himself for ruining the moment and making it better all at once.

You barely had time to breathe before continuing, your words slurring softly against his mouth. “I steal the blanket.”

“You’re always cold,” he muttered, not the least bit annoyed. “Deal with it.” Another kiss, this one against your cheekbone, rougher with the scratch of his stubble.

“I snort when I laugh too hard.”

His response came fast, simple. “Yeah. ’S cute.”

“I always want sex.”

That earned a pause. Then, muffled against your neck, a lazy, unimpressed, “…And?”

“I use your toothbrush sometimes.”

“Knew that.” He exhaled slowly. “Been usin’ yours back.”

You gasped in mock betrayal, and he chuckled sleepily.

“I have RBF. Everyone thinks I hate them.”

“Good. Means they don’t talk to ya. Saves me the trouble.”

“My boobs are weird.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah. Weirdly fuckin’ perfect.”

You huffed out a breathy laugh, eyes fluttering. “My boobs make you almost kill people.”

“Damn right they do,” he said, still buried in your neck, not even trying to sound sorry.

“You nearly murdered a man ’cause I was walkin’ around with no bra.”

“Wasn’t murder if I stopped.”

There was a beat.

“...Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoed, gruff.

“All my bras were in the wash,” you added, defensively. “It wasn’t like I wanted to start something.”

“Wear whatever you like,” he murmured, voice gone all gravel again. “Or don’t. I can fight.”

You giggled so hard you felt your ribs ache.

“I change my mind every two seconds.”

He shifted slightly, not enough to open his eyes, just enough to press a kiss to your jaw. “You ain’t changin’ your mind ’bout me, though. That’s all I care about.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your smile trembling now in the most dangerous way.

You grinned. “My thighs are too big.”

His hand slid down without thinking, landing right on said thighs, as if to prove a point. “They’re perfect,” he muttered. "Don’t talk dumb.”

“I keep knives in stupid places.”

“That’s why I love sleepin’ next to you,” he said, deadpan. “If someone breaks in, you’d kill ’em with a butter knife in your bra.”

You snorted again, full-bodied and loose and gleeful, and felt him smile against your skin in that tired, crooked, entirely-in-love kind of way.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine.”

That shut you up. Only for a second—but long enough for him to press a kiss to your smile like he wanted to live inside it. His breath warmed your skin. His thumbs stroked your back.

You hummed, dizzy with the kind of joy that sat low in your belly and high in your throat. "Oh well. Guess it's you n' me. Doesn't sound so bad.”

He didn’t lift his head, didn’t open his eyes—just exhaled slow and deep against your neck like every inch of him was made to rest right there. “Could be worse,” he mumbled, lips brushing your skin. “Could be just me.”

And then, after a beat—so quiet you almost missed it:

“Wouldn’t be much of a life, though.”

You felt your heart thump hard beneath his cheek, the weight of those quiet words slipping beneath your ribs like a secret. It caught something tender inside you—something raw and aching and soft all at once. Your arms curled tighter around his shoulders, fingers threading into his hair as if to tether him even closer, even though there was nowhere left to go.

You didn’t say anything. Just kissed the crown of his head, slow and lingering, like a vow made flesh. Your smile was barely there, but it curled into your skin anyway—low in your belly, warm in your chest—settling into place like it belonged.

You stayed there in silence for a while. Just the hum of early morning noise outside the block, the creak of pipes and distant murmurs of life moving on beyond the curtains.

The knock came just as Daryl had started to slip toward sleep, that heavy, boneless kind of doze that only happened when every muscle had been wrung dry and every ounce of tension had bled out into the sweat-slick skin beneath him. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, breath rising and falling steady against your collarbone, and your arms were still wrapped around his shoulders like they were made to be there.

The door creaked open anyway.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice drifted in, casual, half-distracted. “Hey, we’re switchin’ towers. You’re needed at west now. East’s covered.”

Daryl didn’t lift his head. Just grunted low in his throat, the sound muffled into the warm curve of your neck.

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Y’ mind givin’ us a minute?”

Rick took a few steps in, still not looking too closely. “Hershel’s talkin’ with Nick, by the way. Might want to keep an eye—”

Then he stopped.

You felt it—that moment when Rick’s eyes landed on the way Daryl’s body was blanketing something—or someone, rather. His mouth paused mid-sentence. His posture changed just slightly, not quite shock, not quite embarrassment—more like a man slowly realizing he had walked straight into something he didn’t have the clearance for.

The realisation landed all at once—Daryl’s dishevelled hair, the way his shirt was bunched at the back, his jeans hanging low on his hips. And more damning than anything: your very bare legs hooked around him like vines, your arms wrapped up around his neck like you’d grown there. His whole body was draped over yours like a damn tarp, arms banded around you like the bars of a cage, your legs pinned comfortably beneath his.

You offered no mercy.

“Heyyyy Rick,” you chirped from beneath the tangle of muscle and denim, voice warm and just a little too smug.

Rick blinked. “Shit—didn’t even see you there.”

You grinned into Daryl’s hair, arms tightening around him like you were proving a point. “Yeah, I’m a good hider.”

Daryl groaned again and finally stirred enough to lift his head a fraction, glaring toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a man two seconds from pretending this was a fever dream. One of his hands shifted over your thigh, casually pulling your leg higher to make damn sure there was nothing for Rick to accidentally notice.

“Rick. Get out, man,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded, voice hoarse and sleep-soft but edged with that quiet Daryl don’t-fuck-with-this tone that got the message across.

Rick coughed and turned on his heel. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t see anything. Just west tower. That’s all.”

“Good,” you called after him, loud enough to carry. “You may wanna shut the curtain before you see something that scars you for life.”

It shut instantly.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Just lay there with his full weight pressed into you, his arms tightening slightly, like maybe if he held you hard enough, time would bend to his will and Rick would forget all about that west tower.

But eventually, with a reluctant grunt and another warm brush of his nose against your throat, he shifted—just enough to kiss your collarbone, then your jaw. His hand slipped down your side in a slow, grounding stroke before he finally eased his weight off you, propping himself up on his forearms.

You frowned. “Wait—what’re you doing?”

He stood, tucking himself back into his jeans like it was nothing, adjusting his shirt as he muttered under his breath about being late. His belt clinked softly as he fastened it one-handed, the other dragging through the tousled mess of hair you’d braided earlier, fingers pausing for a second at the little plait like he was debating whether to take it out—then didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You blinked up at him, stunned. “You’re leaving?”

His boots scraped against the concrete as he bent to grab the knife from beside the cot, slipping it back into the sheath on his hip with the kind of fluid, practiced ease that came from years of muscle memory, though his limbs still moved like he was underwater—slow, loose, reluctant.

His eyes drifted back to you, drawn like gravity to the mess he’d made of you, still sprawled exactly where he’d left you, your skin flushed and dewy with the afterglow, one knee tipped outward in lazy surrender. The inside of your thighs, bare and parted, were marked with the dusky bloom of friction burns, smeared with the sheen of both of you, glistening in the low light like some kind of proof. His breath caught before he could help it. That small, unguarded ache flared behind his ribs—guilt, awe, possession—all tangled up in the sight of you laid out and pliant like that, completely fucked-out, hair wild and lips kiss-swollen.

He swallowed hard and dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. The urge to crawl back on top of you and lose himself all over again hit sharp and sudden.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose and looked over his shoulder, deadpan.

“Yeah. Got watch, remember?” he muttered, but his voice was hoarse, his face still turned slightly like he didn’t quite trust himself to look at you again just yet.

“You literally just railed the soul outta me and now you’re off to do security like it’s a nine-to-five?”

He shrugged, “Can’t exactly call in horny.”

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair a mess, thighs still sticky, blanket barely covering anything, and scowled at his back as he did up his belt like he hadn’t just ruined you six ways from Sunday. “Wow. Not even a pat on the ass. You’re really leaning into the whole hit-it-and-quit-it thing, huh?”

Daryl didn’t even flinch. Just glanced back over his shoulder with that aggravating little smirk of his, like he knew exactly how wrecked you were and liked it that way. “Ain’t quittin’ nothin’. You’ll still be here when I get back.”

You scoffed. “You don’t know that. Maybe I’ll pack up and elope with someone who doesn’t abandoning me after rearranging my guts.”

He tugged his shirt into place with all the urgency of a man late to brunch, not post-coital bliss. “Ain't abandoning no one. Besides, you’d get bored in five minutes.”

You grabbed the nearest sock—his—and threw it at his head. Missed.

“You’re the worst,” you muttered, slumping back against the pillow with a dramatic huff.

He lingered at the threshold, one hand braced against the frame like it might collapse under the weight of his hesitation. His back was half-turned, but you could still see the tension in his shoulders, like he was trying to walk off a tether that wouldn’t snap.

“You know I don’t wanna leave,” he said, voice low and a little rough around the edges. “But it’s what we do. One of us goes, acts like nothin’ happened. Other one waits. We always come back.”

You turned your head into the pillow like the act of looking at him might physically wound you. “Fine,” you muttered, loud enough to carry but muffled just enough to be petty. “Go on, then. Abandon me in my time of need.”

That earned a low scoff from across the room. “Your time of need?” he repeated, and even without looking, you could hear the smirk forming.

You didn’t dignify it with a response. Just curled a little tighter, clutching the edge of the blanket like it might save you from this tragic betrayal.

You felt the shift in the air before the cot dipped under his weight, and then suddenly—an arm snaked around your waist. You squealed in protest, trying to writhe away, but he was already dragging you backwards against the heat of his chest, locking you in tight.

“Daryl—” you tried to snap, but then his mouth was on your temple.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing another kiss just below your eye. Then one to your cheekbone. Then the tip of your nose. “This is what you get.”

“For what?” you demanded, breath catching as he kissed the corner of your mouth with the kind of smug, lazy persistence that always made your brain melt.

“For actin’ like I ain’t gonna miss you,” he muttered, nudging his nose into your hair. “Tryna guilt-trip me into stayin'.”

You twisted, squirming, kicking a bare foot at his shin, but he caught your chin and kissed you straight on the mouth—slow and smug and so soft it made your teeth ache.

“Stop it,” you mumbled against his lips.

“Nope,” he muttered, already kissing down your jaw like it was his goddamn mission. “You started this.”

You tried to roll again, but his arm just cinched tighter, pulling you right back into his grip.

“You are so annoying,” you huffed, though you were smiling so hard your face hurt.

“Get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and worn soft around the edges. His hand skimmed gently down your side, grounding rather than possessive. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, your lips barely twitching around the grin you tried to suppress. “You say that like I’m not already devastated.”

That earned a quiet chuckle—more breath than sound—as he leaned in, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and lingered there for a second longer than necessary, like your skin might convince him to stay.

He finally pulled back with a low groan, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it gently over your body like he was tucking in something precious. His palm smoothed it over your hip, fingers pausing at your thigh for one last squeeze, one last touch to anchor himself before he left.

He was halfway through the curtain when your voice followed him, warm and dripping with amusement.

“Uh, Dixon?”

He paused with a hand on the edge of the fabric, his head turning slightly, the curtain still clutched in his fingers.

You were propped up on one elbow, buried in the blanket except for a bare knee poking free—just enough to keep things questionably decent. Your chin rested on your palm, gaze sharp with affection and something smug curling at the corners of your mouth.

“…You forgettin’ something?”

He blinked once. Then again. Brows pinched.

“…Uh.”

You lifted both brows and waited, giving him nothing.

He stepped back into the room slowly, like you were some kind of puzzle he hadn’t been briefed on—his eyes scanning you, then the floor, then the table in the corner, as if he might be able to track down whatever vital thing he’d missed.

“…Thought I said I’d be back,” he tried, cautious.

You rolled your eyes, groaning softly. “Not what I meant.”

Daryl looked down at himself like a man running a mental pre-flight checklist. Belt? Buckled. Shirt? On. Knife? Holstered. Boots? Laced. Gun? Holstered.

Still nothing.

You snorted under your breath and shook your head. “Unbelievable.”

And that’s when you saw it—the flicker of clarity breaking across his face like dawn creeping over the mountains.

“Oh,” he muttered, sheepish now, and crossed the room again in a few quiet steps.

You thought he’d make a joke about it. Thought he’d grumble or say whoops or my bad or something equally Daryl. But instead, he reached for your face, cradling your cheek with one rough palm, and leaned in to kiss you. Not a quick peck. Not a teasing brush. A proper kiss. Slow and deep and full of everything he didn’t always say out loud. The kind of kiss that made your breath hitch even though your thighs still ached and your body was already wrecked from him.

He pulled back just enough for his lips to hover against yours, his breath warm as he murmured, “Love ya.”

You blinked. Then grinned, a little dazed. “Aww. I love you too, baby.”

A pause.

“…But I meant your scope, you actual dumbass.”

He froze.

Then glanced over his shoulder, following your eyes to where the long, matte-black rifle scope sat forgotten on the crate beside the bed.

“Shit.”

You were practically beaming now. “Real romantic though.”

Daryl shook his head, scooping it up and slinging the strap over one shoulder with a muttered curse. He was already halfway back to the curtain when your voice trailed after him, sing-song and gleeful:

“Can’t believe you almost strutted outta here half-cocked and scope-less.”

But his shoulders were relaxed, that little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again.

And he didn’t even bother pretending not to smile as the curtain slipped closed behind him.

#(god damn)

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