Written For: tigereyes45
Title: A Dreamy Christmas Author: @breb23 Rating: Mature- language, sexual situations, and lots of references to alcohol (lighthearted!) Summary: The gang is all here, cozied up for Christmas in their warm Alexandria home. But a drunken Glenn can't quite keep his mouth shut when it comes to a secret of Daryl’s. A/N: Merry merry Christmas, Tigereyes45!!! I hope this indirect reference to Terminus is something you'll enjoy!! 😉❤️
“Okay, okay, okay- but that was taken out of context!” Glenn argues, his hands thrown up defensively as the rest of the room cackles, wine sputtering out of Maggie's nose as she ducks her face into Michonne's lap, hiding her reddened cheeks.
“Yeah, I'm sure the noises me an' Rick heard that night were real outta context,” Daryl rolls his eyes, a little twinkle of mischief lightening them in a way Carol hasn't seen in a long time- if ever. They catch on Carol, his mouth pulling to a sheepish grin, and she can't help but notice the way his tongue glides across his lips, red stained from his drink.
“Okay but there really was a mouse in the guard tower!” Maggie laughs, wiping her face as tears of laughter collect in the corners of her eyes.
“So you're telling me that scream was a mouse? Is that what I'm hearing you say, Maggie?” Rick questions, tilting his head at Daryl like, are you listening to this, too?
“Yeah, except that mouse was definitely moanin’ on about Maggie this and Maggie that,” Daryl jabs Glenn in the side, face twisted in disgust.
The living room fills with laughter again, the warm fireplace brightening as if laughing right along with them. They are all cuddled up on the floor, propped up on plush pillows with blankets strewn around their legs. The room smells of wine and cookies and popcorn, the blustery winter air whistling loudly outside, but Carol feels nothing but coziness as she curls her legs into herself.
This winter has been particularly cold, and she can't help but dwell on how things might be different if they hadn't been led to Alexandria by Aaron, if they hadn't all found each other at Terminus.
But she has her own stocking on the mantle this Christmas, between Judith's and Daryl’s, stuffed to the brim with little goodies and trinkets that magically appeared after Daryl’s last run.
She has her own room, too, in a house she shares with the people she loves most, with blankets that smell of the eucalyptus soap she now has time to make. Her eyes suddenly fill with gratitude, her lips a bit wobbly with emotion, and again Daryl’s eyes catch her from across the room, this time in concern.
She shakes her head with a smile, then blows him a kiss, which rewards her with a deep blush along his high cheekbones. He lifts his glass to his mouth, finishing the rest of his drink in one gulp, holding her eyes as he swallows.
It's more flirtatious than Daryl’s typical response, and she halfheartedly wonders if it's the wine that gave him the courage or her butter-rich cookies that seem to have an aphrodisiac effect on him.
“Daryl, do you really want to talk when you know the dirt I have on you?” Glenn slurs, pushing him back playfully, and with that Carol's interest peaks, sitting up with excitement.
“Ooo please, do tell!” She laughs, her sock clad feet twisting against the plush white carpet in anticipation.
“Nah, m’ gonna need to be a lot drunker to talk about that,” he says, suddenly very interested in the fire, adjusting the wood with his callused hands, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he adds a fresh piece to the pile.
It's practical, she tells herself as he kneels to the floor with a grunt, shifting the crisp remains of an old log beneath the replacement wood, sparks spitting in his direction as the hot coals reignite.
Adding firewood to a fire is a means to keep warm, a way to cook food. It's the millionth time she's seen him like this, propped up on his hands and knees in front of her as he blows strong, low pulses of air along the embers, strengthening the flame.
It shouldn't affect her anymore. But the site of his bare hands, the way his back curls as h-
“Pleeeease!” Carl begs Daryl, bringing Carol's thoughts to a screeching halt.
Jesus, she thinks, folding her arms over her chest, putting herself in time out.
Carl folds his hands dramatically towards Daryl as he bows his head in mock prayer. “At least tell us what it's about!”
“Or who!” Michonne chimes in, wiggling her eyebrows.
“If it's what I think they're talking about you certainly don't get to hear it,” Rick says with a finger pointed to Carl. “Off to bed now before I have to scrub your innocent ears with soap.”
“Oh c'mon, Dad! I'm 15 years old, which means I'm basically a freshman in high school!”
“In that case, go to your room and do your homework,” Rick smirks at his son, and Carl rolls his eyes back, grumbling as he goes upstairs.
There's silence for a beat, before Michonne stands up, clapping her hands together with her lips pursed as she grabs the fifth that sits half empty on the counter, taking a sip from the bottle before offering it around. “Fireball anyone?”
“M’ gonna need some more of that to survive all of Glenn's yappin’,” Daryl grunts, getting up and snatching it from her hands before plopping back down, this time taking Carl's spot beside Carol.
The others continue chatting amongst themselves, their voices a muted hum as she focuses on Daryl, her drunken haze only allowing for one conversation at a time.
“This seat taken?” He slurs in an exaggerated country accent, tipping his imaginary cowboy hat before taking another swig of the fireball. She laughs, shaking her head.
“No, sir, it's not,” she drawls, batting her eyes playfully. He slides himself under the blanket that rests on her lap, scooting even closer until their sides are flush against each other. He smells of cinnamon and wine and firewood and snow, the tops of his cheeks pink and his hair mussed from the wind.
“‘Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house. Not a creature was stirring-” Glenn projects drunkily, far louder than necessary. Daryl leans back on his hands, propping one foot over the other as his leg relaxes heavily against hers.
“Are you seriously about to make a mouse joke?” Daryl asks Glenn in disbelief, his face screwed up in horror. “If you have a kink for that shit just tell us.”
“Ooookay, Daryl, it's freaking on,” Glenn teases, his eyes darting to Carol for just a moment before landing back on Daryl.
Daryl tenses beside her, and she sways into him, giving his side a nudge before tucking her cold toes beneath his legs playfully.
He inhales sharply as soon as she makes contact, wrapping his hand around her icy, sock clad feet.
“Your toes are freezin’ cold,” he says gruffly, glancing at the raging fire before returning his gaze to her, kneading his thumb against the inside arch of her foot. “I'll find you some thicker socks on my next run.”
These socks were only a few months old, infused with aloe or lotion or something magical, making them her absolute favorite pair he's ever found for her.
“You just got these, though! And they're so cozy…”
He reaches over and grabs her other foot, too, rubbing slow deep circles. Her body sways with the movements of his hands, languid beneath his touch.
“Honestly, at this point I'm pretty sure my feet are incapable of warming until spring,” she adds, wiggling her toes. He smiles, giving her feet one final squeeze before letting go.
“You comfortable? Need another pillow?” He asks, grabbing a stray one before she can answer, wedging it behind her.
“So what's this little secret you have?” Carol pries quietly, taking the bottle from him and drinking her first and last gulp of Fireball, her throat burning sharply before the heat spreads to her chest. “Oh that's so bad. Oh my god how do you drink that without making a face?”
He takes it back from her lap, tilting his head back once more before exhaling a slow, reluctant sigh of cinnamon.
“Glenn's gonna tell ya ‘bout when I somehow got your underwear in my laundry back at the prison ‘nd I cleaned them,” grumbled Daryl, not meeting her eyes. “Wasn't bein' pervy, I swear. Just figured they got mixed in and went ahead and washed them with the rest of the clothes, that's all. Put them back in your cell right away. ”
Shame fills his features, and she finds herself softening as she reaches for his arm, fingers squeezing him gently.
“Well, I'm certainly not going to complain about someone else doing my laundry,” she laughs, and he grins back at her, relief evident in his features. “Besides,” she continues, then whispers low, settling a hand against his knee as she leans towards him, whispering in his ear, “-you can be as pervy with me as you'd like.”
Her mouth pulls into a playful purse as she leans back to see his reaction, to watch him watch her, chewing his bottom lip. His eyes flick lower.
“As absolutely precious as this moment is,” Glenn interrupts, startling them away from each other. “No, Daryl, I'm not talking about your little panty secret. That's rated G compared to what I'm thinking of.” He laughs, rubbing his hands maniacally.
Rick groans, shaking his head. “Glenn how ‘bout you cut the crap and get on with it?”
Glenn shushes him in response, bringing his attention back on Daryl.
“Do you remember that little dream you had?” Glenn taunts, and immediately Daryl is standing, his body tight with stress, Carol's legs now uncovered and chilly from the loss of his heat.
“Nah, nope. Party's over, shut the fuck up Glenn.”
“Now okay, okay, everyone settle down,” Rick says, putting a hand on Daryl’s shoulder. He huffs, shaking Rick's hand off, taking another swig, this time from the whiskey on the counter.
Rick continues. “How ‘bout instead of yelling at each other, we have a good old-fashioned competition, and whoever wins gets to spill the beans,” he says.
“Spill the beans?” Michonne laughs at his choice of words, and Rick gives her an exasperated look.
“Oh shut your mouth,” he teases her, pulling her against his side. Everyone in the room is cheering, clearly all drunk out of their minds.
“C'mon man!” Glenn taunts Daryl. “You know you'll beat me in whatever we play! Let's see if you can win when it counts!”
Daryl, apparently too drunk to resist Glenn's childish game, nods his head.
“Alright, but jus’ know I got a bigger list on you than you even know,” Daryl quips back, rolling his shoulders in preparation.
“Michonne, what do you think of a quick game of flip cup for these two?” Rick asks, a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Hmm,” she replies, sizing up the two men in question. “Glenn is agile, Daryl is sharp, both have had at least seven shots in the past hour…yep. I think that's a fair fight. Come help me set it up.”
What Michonne hadn't seen was the bottle of wine that he and Carol had shared before everyone else gathered in the living room, sipping away as they discussed a new hunting route, marking various stopping points on a map where the group could take breaks along the river.
It was just enough to give Glenn an upper hand, enough to win it all.
Daryl’s face burned the moment he realized he had lost, although the alcohol had seemed to loosen him up a bit more, playfully shoving Glenn as he demanded a rematch.
“Noooope, a deal's a deal! Spill the beans, Daryl! Don't even worry, she won't mind a bit, man,” Glenn teases, earning another glare.
Daryl sighs in defeat as he takes a seat beside Maggie, as far as he can possibly be from Carol. She tries not to notice the way her leg feels cold in his absence.
Maggie pats his arm.
“It's not even that bad, Daryl, don't worry,” she whispers, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “If you ask me, I think it's pretty hot.” She laughs as Daryl groans in horror, burying his face in his hands.
“Does everyone know this secret but me??” Carol questions, biting into another Christmas cookie angrily. Nutmeg and orange fill her senses and she moans, distracted, just as wasted as the rest of them. “I am so good at baking cookies,” she sighs.
“I had a sex dream of you and me in the forest at Terminus.”
Daryl’s voice comes out of nowhere, his secret spilling so quickly she can hardly make out what he's said. He doesn't meet her eyes.
“AND?” Glenn pushes.
Daryl huffs, glaring at Glenn before slowly shifting his gaze to Carol.
“And it involved that AR-15 you were wearin’” he murmurs, his voice breaking roughly, and she feels a chill run through her.
“AND?” Michonne says.
“...and you were,” another sigh at his feet, and then he meets her eyes again, lips parted. “You were wearin’ my vest.”
The whole room erupts in whistles and hoots, and Carol can't help the smile that tickles her lips upward.
“Don't mean t’ objectify you or anythin’, just…” he trails off, his eyes filled with doubt, with hesitation, with…
What is that?
His eyes are almost hooded as he watches her scoot closer to him, closer and closer until their knees are touching, watches as she leans forward dizzily, just enough to leave a chaste kiss against the stubble of his cheek.
Her lips burn as she gauges him, licking her lips to calm the tingling burn, to taste where his skin had been just moments before.
He's watching her mouth, watching her tongue against her lip, his eyes darker, heavier.
Desire, she realizes.
“Daryl,” she whispers, her head swimming and she knows what she says now is pivotal. Knows he's been as vulnerable as he's ever been with her just now, and this is her one chance. This is it.
“I've dreamt about you, too.”
She hears his breath halt in his throat- as a matter of fact, it sounds like everyone in the room has stopped breathing altogether, none of them daring to move.
She can't bring herself to care about their audience, about the repercussions of what she's about to do.
She's drunk and he's drunk and he's just admitted he's dreamt about something that she would very much enjoy trying right now. She leans closer, her hand atop his, making reassuring circles against his dry knuckles.
She kisses the corner of his mouth and he exhales shakily, his breath tasting of her cookies she can't help but part their lips together, dizzy with emotion and alcohol, tipping herself into his chest. Where his breath is shaky his hands are steady, heavy at the base of her spine as he leans back with her, his eyes hungry.
His thumbs press into the soft give of her hips as her tongue grazes his lips, then his teeth, his tongue cautiously meeting her own.
It's as if the taste of her sends him into a frenzy, a sound of disbelief coming from his chest as he gasps into her. She whimpers right back as he pulls her closer, climbing to his knees as he sweeps an arm across the small of her back and she is boneless as he presses her flush against his torso.
She hears the others giggling, sounding muffled beneath the roar of her pounding heart. Someone dims the lights, and then they're gone- some to the basement, some upstairs. She doesn't even care, and shockingly, Daryl doesn't seem to, either.
His head dips just enough to break their lips apart, trailing lazily along her jaw, his stubble so familiar and yet so new, so new to feel it against her pulse, such a sensitive and private place, thrumming wildly against his lips.
She is warm, so pleasantly heavy against his body where her breasts press against his chest. Her ear is hot from where his breath slides along her skin, and behind the cinnamon on his breath and the smoke in his hair, she smells something so personal and erotic, so them, their pheromones combining into their own heady scent.
“Is this real?” She asks, sounding like a woman she's never heard in her life, breathy and needy.
“I have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice desperate against her skin, returning to her lips for a moment before she urges him back, their weight falling on his elbows as she swings herself above him. “Jesus, Carol,” he murmurs, his eyes heavy with arousal as he appraises her, as he watches his fingers rub the tops of her thighs.
His hands continue their journey, roaming back towards her hips, the tips of his fingers tickling the sliver of skin where her shirt has ridden up, his pinkies just beneath the elastic of her pajama pants. “Shit, I'm so drunk,” he whispers, leaning up to nuzzle her cheek, catching her ear between his teeth before nibbling there.
“Me too,” she breathes, hands shifting from his chest to his arms, roaming up and down, curving until her fingers settle in the divot of his triceps. How many times has she suppressed the urge to do exactly this?
“This feels good though, right?” She asks, pulling away reluctantly, watching for his reaction. To make sure he wants this as much as she does.
“Yeah,” his voice is thick, his adam's apple bobbing as he looks up at her, curling a strand of her silver hair out of her eyes and around his finger. “I feel really fuckin’ good right now.”
He doesn't let her dwell on what those words do to her, the taut muscle of his arms rolling beneath her hands as he shifts them closer to the fire. He kisses her cheek, an open mouth kiss that draws another shiver from her.
“Is that your subtle way of telling me my feet are still too cold?” She gasps, his tongue returning to the hollow space above her jaw. Her nails dig into the tops of his shoulders.
“Always so damn cold,” he breathes, now against the curve of her collarbone. She writhes against his hips, not quite able to get that closeness her body is seeking. “Watch you shiver all damn day and can't do a thing about it,” he grumbles, threading his fingers through her hair as he aligns her against him, a ragged sigh leaving his lips.
Control slips through their fingers, their bodies responding like they've done this before, as if she's used to hitching her thighs around his hips. As if he's used to her nipples pebbling against his palms.
Her back bows in response to his touch, pushing herself closer into his hands, sitting squarely against him now. The feeling of him, even through their clothes, is indescribable.
“That's what this was, huh?” She says, her hands wrapping under his arms, looping around until they are flat against his shoulder blades. He lifts his hips to meet hers, eliciting a whimper from the friction against her center.
“-just a way for you to get me warm and cozy,” she continues in mock horror, and he chuckles a mhm, mirroring the movements of her body with his own, his legs threading between her knees before he flips them slowly, so she's nestled between a thick duvet and his body.
He peppers small kisses against her chin, her shoulders, exploring the expanse of her arms, suckling the tips of her fingers. Her hips raise into the air futility as he slides lower and lower, kissing her hips, teeth nipping her skin softly.
Her fingers twitch in anticipation, a desperate plea of his name on her lips, and he pauses, his head dropping against her stomach, his breath a teasing tickle.
And then he groans, frustrated.
“I want to do this,” he whispers, pulling himself up, his arm encircling her waist as he tugs her close, chest to chest, pulling a quilt over their tangled limbs.
“Okay,” she nods, nuzzling her nose against his neck, struggling to breathe through her arousal. “Please, yes, do,” she gasps.
But he shakes his head, fingers tickling beneath her shirt, his nails grazing along her spine, drawing out a tremble.
“-but I wanna make sure you don't regret this, wanna make sure you're thinkin’ straight, that ‘s not just the cookies talkin’.”
She laughs, throwing her head back and he chuckles with her, fingertips massaging along the ridge of her shoulder blades.
“They really were the best batch I've ever made,” she brags, grinning at him.
“It was the extra nutmeg you added,” he murmurs as he settles his head lower, closer, until his ear is pressed against her heartbeat. His mouth is hot against her breasts as he speaks, and she struggles to think straight, to focus on the cookies and not the throbbing pressure between her legs.
“Please don't regret this,” he repeats, voice so vulnerable, like another secret.
She wraps her hands around his face, tilting his gaze up at her. “Daryl,” she smiles, flirt still in her voice. “I am very happy right now, and I'll stay that way in the morning, too.”
“Yeah?”
“I mean, you can check if you want to make sure I'm telling the truth,” she wiggles her eyebrows.
“Stop,” he grunts, closing his eyes momentarily before looking back at her, heat dilating his pupils. “Trust me, I wanna,” he huffs, and she kisses his mouth, just once, on her best behavior.
“We'll wait,” she says, resting her hand against the side of his face, pressing him closer to her chest. “You won't forget this, right?” She asks, kissing his messy hair, fear creeping in.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “I coulda had that whole bottle of Fireball and I wouldn't forget tonight. Best night of my damn life.” His nails trail lazily beneath her shirt again, fingers dancing along the curve of her hip, the dip in her waist, the outside swell of her breast, before teasing back down. She arches against his hand.
“Daryl, if this is your way of trying to make me sleepy you're failing desperately and, in fact, just turning me on more,” she squirms.
He laughs into her neck, nodding with an apology, and she snuggles up against him, sliding her knee over his hip, his hand falling to the top of her ass.
He groans and she stifles a laugh, this time staying very still. “Okay, I'm done, too, I promise. I have to sleep like this or I get a kink in my neck!”
He hums his response into her hair. “Oh, so we're sleeping together now, huh?”
“Well how else am I going to stay warm on this chilly winter night?” She retorts, and he huffs a laugh, kissing her hand.
There's a long silence, his breath slowing just enough to know he's starting to slip into sleep, but Carol can't help herself.
“So, when can I try on your vest?”