Girl’s Talk
check out my masterlist!
buy me a coffee ¿?
Word count: 8k
Fluff | Smut | Filth February Prompt 2
Daryl overhears a conversation he definitely shouldn’t have, but he acts on it anyways.
or
The tip of my tongue is sweet Whenever I say your name Typical conversations, the smallest feelings I keep talking about them About you
Girl’s talk Girl’s talk Girl’s talk Girl’s talk about you
“It’s not my fault!”
Daryl’s steps freeze at the sound coming from your makeshift office, your voice slightly muted by the wooden door pulled shut but still seeping through the little space which separates it from the floor.
‘It’s not my fault’?
“But it is, you idiot!”
Raising an eyebrow, he adjusts the crossbow slung over his shoulder, leaning his ear closer and trying to make out the muffled voice responding back to you. It’s wrong, he knows it is - privacy and all that shit - but, God, he wants to know everything about you.
“He gives you ‘fuck me’ eyes all the time! Ask literally anyone around here, dude. He wants to rail you.”
What?
Now that catches his attention, an undeserving flash of jealousy crashing through his body as a lump forms in his throat. His grip tightens on the strap digging into skin as he swallows it down, the thought of you with someone else making him hot with anger even though he knows you’re not his. That gnaw of privacy returns, but he wants to know who has been obvious enough that anyone can see it, and why the fuck he hasn’t noticed.
“No he doesn’t, Rosita.”
He doesn’t blame whoever ‘he’ is - after all, it would be hypocritical of Daryl to, considering he’s been pining after you for damn near a year with little to no progress to show for all the heartache he’s been through - but Jesus, if ‘he’ ends up confessing before he does, you might take ‘him’ up on the offer. You might take ‘him’ up on the offer and all Daryl will be left with would be a broken heart and many, many more cold and lonely nights.
Fuck, who is ‘he’?
“It does look like he wants to rail you.”
Another flash of anger and- wait. Is that-
“Carol-“
It is.
“No, he doesn’t. He just- his eyes are just expressive, and they’re like- they just look like that, okay?”
He promises to himself to pry Carol for answers despite the weighted drop of dread in his stomach. She knows who ‘he’ is, but chooses not to say anything when she catches him staring at you when he knows you’re not looking? God, if she’s not telling him whoever ‘he’ is, she must think he’s not enough competition to even know about ‘him’ in the first place. Did she just let him steep in his wishful thinking as a consolation prize for the fact it’ll always be a fantasy?
“You give him ‘fuck me’ eyes, too, y’know. Daryl’s smart, but he’s an idiot when it comes to you. Trust me.”
Wait.
He’s ‘he’?
“Maggie-“
Holy shit.
“Don’t ‘Maggie’ me. We all know he’d try an’ punch the ground if you fell.”
Daryl reds then, a heat of blush crawling up his chest at the realization of how fucking obvious he’s been and how, yeah, maybe he would actually try and punch the ground if you fell. He’s not moving anymore - just spun away from the door, stuck from his own shock to the floor - but when your voice muffles through the wood next, he turns towards it like a sailor to a damn siren song.
“Remind me why you’re all here again?”
He hears an onslaught of answers then; ‘you’re too hot to be pining after someone. Especially someone who looks like they would jump on you the second they can’, ‘Daryl looks at you like you’re everything, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone quite like that’, ‘Daryl told me he likes you’- thanks, Carol - and his eyes widen at the way the casualness of their words, as if they’ve been said to you a million times before.
Wait… you’re pining after ‘him’? The ‘him’ who happens to actually be him?
Jesus fucking Christ.
“It was- I- look, guys, besties, ladies, it- it doesn’t matter that I have a tiny, little crush on him.”
Now comes a cacophony of scoffs, your groan cutting through them before you speak again, and Daryl thinks something must be wrong with his circulation because his pulse is beating in his ears so hard that he leans almost comically close to the door in order to hear you over it.
But no, there’s nothing wrong with his circulation. If anything, it’s working perfectly well because the rush of blood that accompanies the realization is the only rational result of knowing about your tiny crush.
Your tiny crush.
Your tiny crush on him.
“Okay, fine, yeah, sure, maybe it’s not tiny. Maybe I’ve been in love with him for, like, months now and maybe it’s not going away, but what about it? It’s not like he thinks of me the same way, okay? Just because I want to kiss him and, like, cuddle him and, yeah, maybe get him to rail me doesn’t mean he wants to, okay?“
You.. you think he doesn’t think of you that way? You want to kiss him and cuddle with him and you want him to- you want him to-
Swallowing, Daryl wipes at his red-soaked face, his jeans starting a little too tight at the images rushing through his head like a flood. You want him to-
You want him to-
“We literally just told you he fully wants to rail you, too!”
Yeah, they’re pretty damn right about that.
He pulls from the door then, his brain clouded over in thoughts so debilitating that he thinks if he stays there too long - if he hears more than he already has - he might push all critical thinking to the side and burst through the door with everyone still in there. His hands are sweaty with want as he shifts the placement of his crossbow, and he wipes his palms on his jeans, desperately searching for anything to tie his senses back to reality.
Shit, what the fuck was he even here for?
Does it even matter anymore?
He comes to the conclusion that, no it doesn’t, rather quickly, and he massages his temples as he strides out of the hallway, quick steps covering the distance between your room and the infirmary’s entrance before the realization of his eavesdropping really, really, dawns on him.
You - intelligent, funny, caring, stupidly pretty and perfect and out of his league you - have a crush on him, and when the haze of lust finally clears from his brain, despite being much too old for things like that, his ego swells to the size of Texas and he can feel his heart doing a goddamn victory dance.
Daryl spots Denise in the corner of his eye, her hands a mess of chalk dust and she’s in a hoodie that’s Tara’s. They’ve been together a lot - he’s pretty sure he caught them kissing behind the medicine shelves just a few days ago - and they seem pretty fucking happy, too.
He’s envious of them. Envious of Aaron and Eric with how many times Aaron’s told him he ‘can’t wait to get home to Eric’, and he’s certainly no stranger to the ugly green feeling that rears its head when he thinks of Glenn and Maggie.
God, he wants that. He wants that with you. He’s wanted it with you since the cement walls of the prison, and now that he knows you feel the same, why does he have to wait?
Exactly!, he screams at himself. Why does he have to wait?
No more fucking waiting.
He glances at the window just next to one of the exam tables, and though it’s just late afternoon, Daryl crosses the distance to get to Denise, a determination in his eye that could burn down his path. He’s never been one to push his luck - that’s probably why he’d locked his lips and buried his feelings for you for all those months - but he stands tall in front of her and takes the chance.
“Got a quick question for ya.”
Denise’s eyes flick up from the sheet of paper in her hands and she raises her eyebrows as she notices the puff of his chest, the surety of his gaze making his face look meaner than it usually is.
“You can take her off her shift after your check up, if you want. I’ll just get Rosita to cover it.”
And he’s surprised for a second - half because he’d just remembered that, yeah, there was a reason to come here in the first place, and half because she’d guessed his intentions before he’d even gotten his words out. Though, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, because if today had taught him anything, it’s that he’s just that fucking oblivious to the fact he’s just that fucking obvious.
No, he’s going to change that.
By the end of today, Daryl will be able to call himself yours, or he’ll spin the Earth around himself for another chance.
Nodding, he turns towards your office and suppresses his giddiness as calls your name, long strides taking him to you so quickly he thinks he might be sprinting, and his heart is speeding up as he formulates a plan.
He needs this to be perfect.
Like you, perfect.
The second he gets to the door, it creaks open - hinges much too old for this house that he hasn’t gotten around to oiling yet, though he’d promised a week ago to do it - and he’s almost trampled by the familiar faces you’re forcing out, each one sharing a knowing glance as they pass him in the hallway.
Carol even gives him a thumbs up, and he wonders if she knows what’s running through his mind. It damn well wouldn’t be the first time.
“Hey, Daryl. Sorry about all that.”
Running his hand through his hair, he sets his crossbow down on your desk as you make your way to the bed, patting it in a much too familiar signal for him to sit.
This is good.
You don’t suspect a thing, and that’s good.
Step one is a success.
“Nah, ‘s fine, don’t worry ‘bout it.”
He eases a chuckle into his voice and waits for you to turn around, watching you close one of the drawers with those lollipops the little ones like, and when you do, you face him with a smile spread so wide across your lips, and it’s like his whole brain goes blank.
You look at him expectantly, a second passing before he remembers his fucking pulled lower back muscle from nearly two weeks ago, and his hands snap to his vest, pulling it off and setting it next to his crossbow. In his defense, it doesn’t even feel like anything’s happened anymore, so it’s not his fault that he’d forgotten about it for the past few days.
Clearing his throat, he shakes his bangs from his face and makes his way to the tiny twin bed he’s seen you passed out sleep-drunk in so many times before. He’s much too busy dwelling over that moment of embarrassment to realize that his shirt is riding up and his belt doesn’t really do shit to keep his pants above the waistband of his boxers, but you notice, and you swallow down the lump in your throat.
No, you have to stay professional. Even if he has the audacity to look like that.
“Tell me if this hurts, okay?“
Your hands are on him in a second, pressing against his once overstrained muscles, and he wonders if anything could ever hurt when you’re touching him.
“You having fun out there with Aaron?”
Letting out a silent groan, he shrugs - or, whatever the equivalent of him turning his head in the other direction against the mattress and looking at you through the overhang of his locks is.
“Nah, ain’t nothin’ really goin’ on out there no more. Don’t really take Aaron much either. Jus’ ridin’ alone. Hopin’ a deer or somethin’ worth grabbin’ passes me.”
You hum in response, satisfied at the state of his muscles and the feeling of them underneath your hands. It’s not necessary, these massages, but you’re pretty sure you read somewhere that it helps the healing, and even if you were lying to yourself, he doesn’t seem to mind, and you sure as hell don’t.
“Then come get me next time, Daryl. I would love to go ‘ridin’’.”
Those words shouldn’t light something in him - shouldn’t conjure up those fantasies of your body that he’s only ever explored alone by himself - because you’re doing that shitty imitation of his voice that usually makes a chuckle want to worm out of his throat, but it does and it makes him burn.
He takes an eyeful of you when you stand and turn towards the medicine cupboards, and he gorges himself on the sight of your thighs as they poke out through your cloth shorts. The leg holes on them are cut so damn big he swears he can see your underwear from where he’s laying, and a rush of saliva forces its way into his mouth, wet hot heat licking through him at his desire to bury his face up against you.
You want him to take you for a ride?
Daryl could do that. He’s got a couple ideas right now about riding that he wouldn’t mind acting out.
“We’re also running low on some antibiotics,”
Turning, he kicks off the bed, letting the mattress squeak and only half listening to you as he tries to hype himself up enough to actually go through with his plan. He’s gotta do this - act now and follow your dreams, or whatever the other bullshit was that he heard when he used to be in school - and he will, but he just needs a second to fucking man up.
“So when you go out with Rick in a few days,”
He takes a step then, fueled on by your wood-muffled confession that’s currently devouring his mess of a brain, and then he takes another and another, not stopping his methodical steps until you’re barely a foot from him.
“Could you keep an eye out for these…“
You spin on your heel then, hands full and halfway outstretched in order to give the pill bottles to him until they hit his chest, the sudden block of him knocking them out of your grip. They fall to the ground with a rattle, and your voice drains from your throat when you look up at him, the looming figure of his broad shoulders stretching out to steal your vision from everything but him, his face lent down just the slightest.
You should want to cower - Daryl’s so fucking big he could box you in and keep you sandwiched between the wooden cabinets and his body with little effort - but you like it. Especially the way he’s looking at you.
“Dar- Daryl, what’re you-“
And he’s so close to you, too. So close that you’re pretty sure he can hear each shaky breath you take, and when your hands go to grip at the ledge for the balance he’s knocked from you, he grabs them instead, warm, work-calloused hands wrapped around your wrist to bring them to his chest and over his heart.
“Ya feel that?”
He leans impossibly closer, taking another step forward until one of his legs is between yours, and your head swims from the thought that he really has sandwiched you in front of him. His heart pounds underneath your palm and it quickens with each passing moment, a limbo of apprehension hanging for a second longer before he bites the bullet, whispering the words to you as if forcing them out is the only way he’ll be able to say the words he’s saying.
“This, it- it beats for you.”
The second he says it, he cringes and drops your wrist - turns his face to the side and shuts his eyes as his face scrunches inwards - but despite it, a sickeningly saccharine feeling wells up in your chest.
“God- shit- sorry, I-“
This is the last time he’ll listen to any of Glenn’s suggestions. Romantic? More like fucking stupid.
Sighing, he turns around, leaving you to stare at his back even more confused at the sudden drop of tension, and you wipe your sweaty hands on your shorts, your knees needing a moment to solidify from the near jelly they’d become at his closeness.
“What was- what're you doing? This isn’t funny.”
You watch as he runs his fingers through his hair, and faces you again, a look of utter embarrassment mixed with disappointment settling in his eyes after he hears you.
“It- it ain’t supposed to be.”
And he sounds so genuine in his response - you know he doesn’t lie to you - but there’s no way he means what he’s saying. Not when he’s so quick to apologize for his confession.
“Daryl, if this is a joke…“
He can’t be serious.
But he is.
If there was one thing in the world that he would ever be serious about, it would be this. He just needs to stop thinking. What’s so hard about this, anyway? He knows you like him, and he knows damn well he likes you, too.
Swallowing, he holds your curious look, eyebrows furrowing with a newly settled determination, and the courage he needs to man the fuck up flares to fruition when he replays your words again.
“I heard ya.”
You bite at your lip then, a singular ‘what?’ falling from them no later, and a rush of something primal works through Daryl’s body at the way it looks so inviting for his own teeth to replace.
“I heard ya. Talkin’ with Rosita n’ Maggie an’ Carol.”
The ice-cold waterfall of your realization makes you freeze, and another stutter of ‘wh- what?’ breaks from your throat.
“I heard ya. Heard everythin’.”
He takes a step then, and your mind is telling you to back up and retreat from this embarrassment, but your body wants nothing more than to stay still. It burns for him, lonely nights and months of pining holding your feet down like an anvil.
“I know ya have a crush on me. That ya wanna kiss me.”
Staring down at the ground, your fists ball up at your sides as you hear him move, and he just keeps coming, pacing with wide strides.
“That ya wanna cuddle.”
Daryl’s voice is low, gravelly, sounding too fucking good for your poor brain to take - and you close your eyes, crushing your eyelids together to brace for when you eventually overheat and crash.
“That… ya want me to…”
Fuck, you know what you said. He doesn’t need to actually finish his sentence for either of you to understand what he means.
He grabs your chin then, two thick fingers and his thumb tilting your head up to him like he was holding a cigarette, and just this proximity makes him think you could overtake him. You could be his new addiction, and he’d be perfectly fine with that.
“Daryl, I-“
The second you open your eyes, his face surges forward, and you close them again, preparing for the messy press of his lips, but it never comes. Instead, he grabs both your hands in his, running his thumb along your knuckles before he overtakes your stutter.
“I wanna give ya all’a that. An’ more, if ya let me.”
His words whisper along your lips, and you nearly crumble with each syllable. He presses up against you in this bubble of intensity, and you think you might be going crazy, but you think he can hear your pulse thrum through your skin.
“So can I kiss ya?”
Nodding, your impatience drives you forward, and in a second, your lips touch his, clumsily bumping noses in your fervour before the kiss gets firmer. He drinks down the sensation like an aged liquor, and his grunt surprises the both of you, as well as the push of his leg between the two of yours.
There are no words being said when he brings your hands to rest at his waist, and he grabs yours, absentminded fingers playing with the laces of your shorts before sliding underneath the hem of your tucked-in shirt. He doesn’t mean to make pictures of him undoing your pants spark in your mind, but he just needs to touch you in whatever form that would be, and, quite honestly, he doesn’t exactly mind that you’re pushing back with so much need as well.
You’d imagined your first kiss with him to be gentle, maybe even a little desperate, but this, this lust devouring both of your brains is so loud that neither of you care about the adrenaline so high in your veins.
“Let’s get outta here.”
Only when you both pull away to breathe does he speak, and only then do you even realize you’re in your office and that the cupboard might make an indent into your skull with how long you’ve been resting your head against it.
“Daryl, I- I can’t. I need to be here for a few more hours. But if I didn’t, I would go with you. I- there’s a lot of things I want to do with you.“
He knows what you want. You’ve been pulling his hips against yours by the leather of his belt, and though he’s made no indication that he knows, he does nothing to stop you.
“You can go. Come with me, I mean. I, uh, I asked Denise. She said it was fine. That- that Rosita’ll cover your shift.”
He mumbles as he presses himself back down, just against your chin. Just until he feels you smile from the tickle of his stubble and he flames alight with the affection steeped intimacy.
“You planned this? Wanna take me home that bad?”
Giggling, you thread your fingers through the mess of his uncut hair, and you catch the way he blushes red despite the fact you’re happy about his… proactivity? He wants you like you want him, and you kiss him again, feather-light to the corner of his lips.
“I ain’t gon’ lie to ya. It’s, uh, it's been- I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout it since the prison.”
A boyish smile works its way onto Daryl’s face, and you slip from his hold, ducking down and around him when he dips his face down to yours again, crouching down and pulling open a drawer before grabbing a string of condoms and stuffing it into your pockets. It doesn’t take much time for him to turn around and see what you’re doing, but before he reaches you, you’re back on your feet.
“Then c’mon. Take me home.”
He speeds up his steps at your words, and he grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before slinging his crossbow over his shoulder as he cuts his path to the door.
“Ya sure ‘bout this? Hundred percent?“
Just before he crosses the threshold into the hallway, he looks back at you, almost blinding with how radiant you are, and you squeeze his hand, a grin so wide it makes his heart want to explode.
“Let’s get outta here, Daryl.”
That’s all he needs.
Months of loving you in silence makes him delirious with anticipation, and he has half the mind to throw you across his shoulder and carry you back to his house, but he settles for quick strides of his long legs, his hand held firmly in yours.
He doesn’t care that everyone can see. No, maybe he wants them to see, but that doesn’t matter as he occupies himself with how perfect and soft your fingers feel in his. Neither you nor him notice the fact that Rosita and Carol have hung back, or that the former notices the holographic gold peeking out from the pockets of your shorts and slaps the latter’s shoulder with an excitement that could rival yours, because the only thing on his mind is you, the same way he’s on yours.
Your body is practiced to the way he moves - the runs you’ve been on with him and the countless times sneaking around with him makes his steps a familiar rhythm - and you match him until you both get to his house.
Even before Daryl manages to control his nerve-shaking hands and open the door, there’s a tension so thick in the air that it’s threatening to suffocate either of you in it, and when you finally manage to get some privacy as the door finally closes the two of you in, both his hands are on your body. There’s no escape from him as he presses your back against his closed door. Not that you want one. God, you don’t want an escape from him.
“Tell me to stop. Tell me ya think we’re movin’ too fast. Tell me to stop an’ I will.”
No.
Shaking your head, you look back up at him, threading your fingers through his hair and pushing his bangs from his face as he leans on his arm to your right. He’s so handsome like this - looking at you so reverently - and it makes you choke on your own words, stuttered through a consuming wave of pure affection.
“I want you, Daryl. I don’t- don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”
He lets every damn syllable sounding from your voice sink into his brain, and Jesus Christ can you do things to him. You make him feel in a way he’s never felt before, and he could fucking cry at the way your eyes round in a plead.
“Thought everyone was goin’ fuckin’ crazy thinkin’ you wanted me, too.”
Leaning up, you press a kiss to him, so intoxicating you make him want to chase your lips like a lush, but he pulls away in order to put his crossbow somewhere. He loves it - cherishes it - but right now, it’s just a fucking nuisance.
“I want you. You’re- you’re everything I want.”
Does your voice have to sound so good?
It all happens in such a flurry of need - you’ve both kicked off your shoes, you’ve wrapped your fingers around his wrist and he’s wrapped his around yours, he’s whispered a confession about how long he’s waited to hear you say that, you’ve beamed and kissed him and touched him - and when he finally opens the door to the basement, you’re giggling at how he almost trips the two of you over trying to keep his lips on your neck as you descend the stairs.
“You’re so cute, Daryl. Has anyone ever told you that?”
He has his chest pressed up against your back, arms linked across your waist and at the front of your stomach before you spin around to face him, and he holds you gently by the small of your back, drawing random shapes against the fabric of your shirt.
“I ain’t cute.”
But he can’t deny the pleasant feeling wading through him, nor can he hide the fact the corner of lip pulls upwards just the slightest.
“You are.”
Heated hands grab at you, and he kisses you into his bedroom, your fingers restless at his shirt buttons. Quickly, so damn quickly, each rush of adrenaline driving the both of you towards each other, he finally gets to his mattress, and he crashes down to a sit, bringing your knees to either side of him and pulling you into a straddle as the poor springs threaten to buckle underneath him for a second.
“Still think I’m cute?”
You nod, shakily since your brain is too preoccupied with telling you not to squeal at the sudden movement, but you fail, your thighs closing on either side of his body. Your hips move in a jolt, unintentionally rubbing against him for just a second before his big hands coax more movement out of you by the careful kneading of your ass, and you do it again and again, spurred on by the warmth of his overheated skin as you unbutton his shirt.
“D-Daryl-“
His large hands return to you just after he chucks his shirt in the other direction, and he swears when he feels your thighs start to quiver around him, your pelvis bucking in a desperate rhythm he’s more than happy to be a part of. He’s firm, pressing up against you through his jeans, and you can feel him, especially when he lifts his hips up against yours in reaction and pulls an intoxicating little whine from you.
“Tha’s it. Tha’s it. Feel good, huh?”
You can’t remember what you were going to say - thoughts wiped clean from your head with each roll of him - and you’ve bitten your lip so hard it flashes white indents when your mouth drops open slightly to feed your lungs’ burn for oxygen. Daryl watches each movement of yours in admiration, fascinated and wholly captivated at the fact he can render you into this with a precarious flex of his thigh and the rough of his jeans against your cloth shorts, and his ego grows tenfold.
“Feels good, then?”
He grinds you down on him as you nod, encouragement dripping from his chapped lips that have no right being as soft as they are, and with each movement of him - with each devastating push and pull of his hands, a pressure growing in the base of your stomach that you want to take over your body and you want to dissolve into - you breathe out his name, two simple syllables making him throb under the confines of that stupid zipper keeping him packed down tight.
You’re beautiful, he praises, and your body burns and burns with his words, the gravelly twang setting deep in your body and making heat flush up your face.
“D- Daryl, I think I’m-“
He knows how close you are - he’s close too, a damp mess in his boxers that probably mirrors your own underwear despite the chaffing from the thick layer of denim that covers him from you - and he hitches you over his thigh instead, digging his fingers into the give of flesh and groaning into your ear afterwards.
He’s obsessed, the feeling of your body in his hands, and when you moan out his name, leaning forward and pressing his head into your neck, his heart races from his chest and he wants to put it in your hands. He’s being overwhelmed in the best way - he breathes you in, letting you settle in his lungs while you make those pretty little noises next to his ear that almost make him unravel from them alone - and when you press your chest up to his, dragging yourself along the length of his muscular thigh and whine, the rope of tension tightens and tightens.
“God, you’re fuckin’- fuckin’ beautiful like this.”
You’ve learned rather quickly that, for a man who speaks in grunts and glares, Daryl’s rather talkative when you’re in a selfish search for your own pleasure, and damn it if it doesn’t catapult you to the snap in the base of your stomach. But there are too many layers of clothing separating you from him. It’s muted those sensations - made them plateau to a dull ache - and you think you might cry as you slow down.
“Daryl, I can’t- it’s- it’s not enough.”
He hears the way your voice breaks - watches you tilt your head down as if you’d expected him to scold you like those days back at the Greene farm, when his mouth ran angry more often than not, and he had a heart filled with too much emotion to understand what to do with it - and he lifts his hand until it’s below your chin, gently tilting you to look at him.
“Hey, hey, ‘s okay. If ya don’t wanna do this, then don’t.”
And Daryl’s so fucking tender, big puppy eyes staring up at you like you’d hung the stars into the sky, and your hips stop, instead leaning your face forward until your forehead rests against his. A small smile spreads across your cheeks at the clumsy little knock of his nose against yours, and you press a quick kiss to the corner of his lips.
“No- no. I want to do this. I just- it’s not enough.”
Nodding, he lets you pull your face away before reaching down and taking the knot keeping your shorts up along your waist between his fingers. He raises an eyebrow at you, watching you for any signs of hesitation or discomfort, but when he sees none - when you bite your lip and nod for him - he undoes it, watching you get up and slip your hands underneath the hem.
He’s a little obvious with how excited he is to see you slide them off, but it only feeds your own excitement. It’s endearing, this broad-shoulder hulking man crumbling for you, and when you finally step out of your shorts, your underwear has such a wet spot it could be embarrassing had your mind not been so preoccupied by a desire to please him in any way you can.
“I want this, Daryl. As long as you still want this.”
With each step you take, his throat closes up more and more, and when you grab his hand, placing it against the bottom of your shirt, he pulls it off of you, your eyes brimming with so much warmth he truly thinks this might be heaven on Earth.
“Then would it, uh, would it be alright if… if we, uh, try somethin’ else?”
When your shirt joins your shorts just a few feet away, you nod, stripping your bra from yourself as well before breathing forward a ‘yes’ that makes him want to claw at his jeans. Though, when your hands reach for his belt, he grabs your wrist, stopping you in place, his grip unmoving and firm. Only when your eyes flick up to meet his does he run his thumb across your skin, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth quirk upwards.
“Sit on my face.”
His words are so abrupt that it takes a second for you to register them, and when you do, a giggle bubbles up from your throat, stuttering a ‘what?’ before kneeling between his legs on the mattress. You expect him to join you - to hear that grumbling chuckle before he lays you on your back and pull the leather off - but when he doesn’t and starts slowly moving the two of you up towards his headboard, you realize he’s serious and a pang of arousal shoots through you.
“Daryl, I- I’ve-“
It’s silly, the way you lower your voice to almost a whisper before speaking again, and if you didn’t look so fucking good with each of your movements - all beautiful body and beautiful face - he might have laughed. Just the tiniest bit.
“What if I kill you?”
Oh, no, that makes him chuckle - the sound blossoming through his chest - and he brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing kisses against the skin before looking up at you through his bangs. God, you’re so fucking pretty it hurts.
“Ain’t the worst way to go.”
There’s a boyish smile on his face as he speaks, but you’re still looking at him with those sloped eyebrows that scream concern, and evidently, joking was not the best way to handle this situation.
“Just- I jus’- I wanna taste ya. An’- an’ I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout this. A lot. Too much.”
He lets go of your hands at that, letting one of his rest at the crook of your neck and the other on the outside of one thigh, and his thumb caresses at your jawbone before he opens his mouth again.
“Wanna do this so fuckin’ bad, but- but ya don’t gotta if ya don’t wanna. There ain’t a lotta things I won’t do with ya. Or- or for ya.”
Daryl’s expression turns bashful at his confession, but he elates when he feels you nod against his palm, spreading your hand over his before pressing a kiss to it. He’s god damn buzzing with excitement when your movements become more sure, leading him up the bed before his back hits the headboard.
“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”
He nods then - maybe does it too quickly, honestly - but he can’t bring himself to care as he feels you press him down against his mattress. His cock is throbbing at the surety of your actions, and he’s in a haze of mind-numbing lust until you’re straddled over his lower stomach, fully naked now if the slick heat of you there means anything.
“How will- how will you let me know? ‘Cause you won’t exactly be able to talk.”
Your thighs rest flush on either side of him and his hands gravitate to them before you can even finish your first sentence. Daryl’s tongue darts out when he sees that patch of wet curls sat below the rise of his ribcage, and, yeah, this is heaven on fucking Earth.
“I’ll tap out right like this. Scout’s honour.”
He taps on the outside of your thighs once, then twice before he spreads his palm across your ass and lifts you towards him. The bed squeaks as you shuffle closer and closer, and he swallows down the rush of saliva racing up his throat, half in anticipation and half in how fucking good you look. He’d stare forever if he could.
“You were never a boy scout.”
Scoffing insincerely, he watches in awe as you rise to a kneel, and his fingers spread you open, nearly groaning himself at the way you moan when he brushes against your entrance. There’s a sneaking suspicion in him that, even if it gets too much for him, maybe he never would tap out. Maybe he’d spend eternity between your thighs and overwhelm himself with you. He’s certainly not opposed to it now that you’re so close.
“Jus’ take what ya need, y’understand? I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
You might still be a little too sensitive from just moments ago, but you push through the slight shake in your thigh as you near his face. Daryl doesn’t seem to be on your side, though, because his tongue darts out between his lips and he stares at all of you - like he wants to fucking devour you, a 12 course meal after months of starvation.
“Dar- Daryl, don’t look at me like that.”
Heat blankets you from neck up and you grip the edge of his headboard to get yourself out of your head, patting yourself on the back for making it just below his chin.
Stop overthinking this. Just stop.
“You’re soakin’. Worked up, ain’t ya? Jesus, you’re so pretty it hurts.”
You wish you could hate him. You wish you could hate the tiny, miniscule lilt of amusement in his voice, but then he drags his pointer and middle fingerpads against your entrance, gathering the evidence of his observation with palms still spread against you, and there’s no way to hate his stupidly handsome upturned lips.
“Shut up.”
His grin only grows at your words, and when one of his eyebrows rises, you’ve played enough children’s games with him to know what he’s going to say.
“Make me.”
And you do.
Sinking down on him, you tighten your hold against his headboard and nearly keel forward when he tightens his hold against you, pulling you down further until you’re sure you must be suffocating him. But when you go to lift off him, he grunts into you, keeping you in place so he can flatten his tongue against you and encouraging you to grind.
It’s a little awkward at first - the bed is squeaking with the uneven rock of your weight-bearing knees and there’s no fucking way he thinks you look good from that angle - but his stubble rubs against you just right, and when he grabs your hand, letting you thread your fingers through his hair so you can angle him and take your pleasure from him, your forehead thumps against the drywall, the thud of it reverberating with your moan.
Your abdomen flexes as you rut into him, your eyes falling closed though his stay open to watch. He’d gone too many nights thinking about this - the sounds you would make, what you would like and how you would like it - and when he moves you just the slightest bit upwards, his nose drags against you and his tongue presses in, lighting your nerves on fire and rubbing against something fucking devasting, you think you might have cried out his name loud enough for the houses across the street to hear.
Or, at the very least, his neighbour, whose name escapes you because the only name you can think of is Daryl, Daryl, Daryl.
His eyebrows are furrowed beneath you, deadset in determination and concentration as his fingers dig into your inner thighs, palms resting at the tops of them to keep you from moving up too much and letting any of you escape him. He’s making as much of a ruckus as you are - less, considering he has you muffling him - but when you moan, he moans, the sound reverberating through you and making the cycle repeat itself.
He’s a quick learner; it didn’t take a genius to know he's observant, or that he’s damn good with his hands, but what you didn’t know was how easily he could pull your noises until your throat felt raw. You’re not sure if the person you’re hearing is even you, but then again, who else would Daryl even let do this to him?
“Daryl- Daryl, oh my god.”
Nor does it take a genius to know how close you are, a precarious lean over a cliff’s edge. Just a breeze could knock you down
He pulls you away then - just a bit, kissing the inside of your thighs after obscenely licking his lips and swallowing - and his words are less coherent sentences than they are half-formed, love-drunk mumblings, but they’re just as sure in his intent.
“C’mon, give it to me. Be a good girl ‘n give it to me. So fuckin’ pretty like this, ya got no idea. Ain’t got no right lookin’ like this.”
His praises are all you need to succumb, another flick of his tongue and grind of your hips making you spasm as he holds you, your legs pressing against him and sandwiching his ears as the tension in your stomach rises and snaps. You didn’t know you could feel like this - that someone could make you feel like this - and you coat him, running down his cheek and his tongue and his stubble as he tries to catch as much of you as he can.
You clench around nothing as he mouths at you, eager and sloppy with his movements, and your hand in his hair keeps him in place. You feel like you might float away from Earth if you weren’t holding onto him, and even as you start to slow down, bangs fallen into your face and sweat stuck to your forehead, he keeps you rocking against him. It’s wholly selfish, he knows it is and he would confess that if you wanted him to, but he wants to see you do it again. He wants to see it so fucking bad.
“Daryl- I- it’s too- it’s too much.”
He lets go of his grip then, pressing kisses down your thigh as you rise up off him, but as he watches you clench, his spit and your own arousal a slick mess against you, his biceps flex to keep you in place again. The dig of his nails makes you mewl, and when your hand unthreads from his hair and goes to grab one of his, he links his fingers with yours, holding you against your own thigh.
“Jus’- jus’ let me look for a second. Jus’ a little longer.”
And when he sounds like that, who are you to say no? Your whole being’s belonged to him for months now.
So you let him stare - even bring your other hand down from the headboard to clear his stray strands from his eyes so he can see you better.
“Was that what you thought it would be like?”
Humming, he kisses your legs once more before letting you go, wiping at his stubble with the back of his hand before sitting up against the headboard. You’re to the side of him, perched on those pretty knees that were around his head just minutes ago, and for a second, he’s stuck replaying, half-lidded cerulean staring back at you.
“Was more’n I could’a thought. Was fuckin’- you were- you were so fuckin’ hot.”
He feels like such an idiot when he says those words, reduced to a hormone riddled teenager because he can - shit - he’s pretty sure he can still taste you, and he brings the back of his hand to his forehead, closing his eyes and pulling breaths from the air. He needs a second to process and pick up the pieces of his lust-crumbled brain, and even though he tries, it slips from his grasp like sand.
You shuffle towards him then, your weight leant on your arms to give him a quick kiss, disarming in its charm, the heat of your fingers beneath his chin still lingering even after you’ve moved. His lips stay puckered for a second longer, and when he feels you grab at his belt, an interested raise of his brows accompany the opening flutter of his eyes.
He watches enamoured as you unclink the buckle, a spectator in your erotic display as you slide the leather from their loops and unzip his too fucking tight jeans, and he audibly groans when you pull them off him, the sway of your chest making too many late night thoughts lurch forward.
“Think you can keep goin’?”
Smiling, you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making an audible noise when you finally pull his boxers from him. He’s red - so red and angry, jutting against Daryl’s stomach as if screaming at you to look - and just the sight of his cock is enough to have you reaching out to palm at him.
“Yes. Yes. I can keep going. I wanna do everything with you.”
He nearly melts into a puddle from your voice - raw from calling out his name and the haze of desire from feeling him leak viscous against your palm - and in a fluid motion, he has your back pressed against the mattress, only the squeak of it even making you realize he’s moved you. Well, that and the fact he’s propped himself up on both elbows and has your body beneath his.
“Then let’s keep goin’.”
Daryl sinks down then, and when you feel him smile against the skin of your neck, you wonder if, after you’re both sated and heaving breaths to fill your lungs from the exertion, you’ll ever want to be anywhere else but his bed.
Either way, you won’t hear a complaint from him.
»»———— ⊱
comment to be on my taglist! (some of these tags don’t work and i don’t know why???)
@daryldixonluv @pulplorrd @fuseburner @hells-mistress @maria--grey @marylimlp @pncnsc @tinachristeen @hail-yourselves @whimsicallymad @just-always-tired @phoenixblack89 @in-ky @riverscyberwife @jocyc1997 @avesxtxnas @candice666 @angryunicornlady @caelys @akilababs @rhyrhy462 @strawvberrymilktae @queendragon0614 @howdoiwork @ancientbeing10 @ruinedbythehobbit @xxtinasxxblog @strongest-avenger @sgtapepper @shizkayo @howboutwedont @poisonmenegan @burritoplant @huntressknight @ellerelly @mariannambl @dftblood @beatitlikeabongodrum @cranberrypills @januarymaebell @potplantbedspread @greeneyedladysthings @gemathewitch @wolfmoretti @normangf @atlanticstarr @candycuckoo @hottestchickatthebakery @deathishereditary @shittyoudidntneedtoknow @srhxpci @raine-frog @heretosimponly @decendingfromgrace @badfvith