quick 3am thought!!! this def isn’t polished so don’t expect any literary masterpiece😭 maybe i should elaborate and write something fr about this later
BUT,,,
thinking about old man daryl with a younger reader who is extremely eager and being an absolute brat about it !!
he isn’t exactly as young as he used to be, and his stamina clearly reflects that. so his new method? trying to tucker you out early on so he can finally take his time with you. fingering you, making you ride his thigh, anything to drain some of this energy from you— and boy, was he getting a mouthful for it.
“daryl pleaseeee”
“c’mon gimme your cock already… need it so bad”
“been waiting forever dare…”
“hmph. such an old man… didn’t realize you couldn’t handle me anymore…”
oh. that was enough for him alright. you think he can’t handle you? he’s starting to think getting a head start on wearing you out wasn’t such a bad idea.
—
after getting his cock driven into you at a brutal pace for what felt like forever, you finally begin to plead with him.
“p-please, dare… ‘m sorry… so sorry- mphhh, fuck, i can’t take anymore!”
daryl grips a fistful of your hair— not tight enough to hurt, but enough to pull you back toward him, his warm breath tickling your neck, “oh c’mon, doll. you needa watch your mouth with all that running its been doin’. the least you can do is take my cock real nice for me, yeah? ain’t no one teach you to respect your elders?”
NOTES: well well well, here we are again. based on this ask
TW: no walkers au, no smut but suggestive themes, younger!reader (over 18, but no age stated), Shane is your moms boyfriend and you live with your mom, kind of girly!reader but not too bad, that’s all I think, this is pretty tame but yummy don’t worry
MASTERLIST
You love your mom in the same way you love rainstorms. Both are loud, familiar, occasionally a little destructive, but still part of the landscape of your life. You do not, however, love her taste in romantic partners. She means well. She always does. Her problem is that she falls in love fast with men who take up too much space and give nothing back. Men who needed managing. Men who treated you like an unwanted accessory to the relationship instead of a person who existed independently of it.
There had been Chris who played Xbox at least 6 hours a day. Then there was Milo who tried to convince your mom to kick you out during the first week of their relationship. And then there were the two Scotts back to back, both equally awful. Next was Phil- or had it been Frank? Maybe Fred?? Whatever his name was, he had perpetually smelled like pepperoni. And that was just this year.
So when Shane moved in, you braced yourself for another round of your least favorite game: dodging the new boyfriend.
All this meant another loud voice in the house. Another man with unwarranted opinions. Another temporary fixture.
Except Shane didn’t feel temporary at all.
He didn’t arrive with declarations or empty promises. He just… folded himself into the rhythm of the place. Mornings smelled like strong coffee and toast. Evenings came with quiet routines—greasing squeaky hinges, changing lightbulbs, tightening screws on things that rattled. He didn’t ask for praise. He didn’t even announce what he was doing, he just noticed what needed doing and handled it.
And then there was the way he treated you.
Not like a kid. Not like an obligation. He remembered the little things—the way you hated the radio talk show host on the local channel, the way you liked your eggs for breakfast, that sometimes you just needed a minute to get things off your chest when you got home from a bad day.
When your mom would snap too sharply or come home looking to pick a fight, Shane would intervene with a steady voice and an even expression, “hey, cmon now, y’know that ain’t fair.” As if defending you was instinctive.
That alone would’ve been enough to soften you.
Unfortunately, he was also devastatingly handsome in a way that snuck up on you. Nothing flashy. Not even polished. Just broad shoulders and rough, capable hands and a smile that felt earned instead of practiced. His voice—low, drawling, unhurried—had a way of wrapping around words like he was taking care with them, like he knew the effect they had.
From the very beginning, there had been a current between you. Not sparks. Not fireworks. Something slower and more dangerous. A gravity you couldn’t quite explain. Glances that lingered a fraction longer than they should. The way his attention found you in a room without any effort. Inside jokes meant just for you two. A sense that he was always very… aware of you.
And you were aware of him right back.
Which was why you’d done the sensible thing and started dating a man who was aggressively unremarkable.
Evan was… fine. Evan was harmless. Evan was what you were supposed to want. He texted you good morning and good night every day. He showed up when he said he would. He thought romance was consistency and sex was something you completed rather than participated in. His idea of being spontaneous was getting Panda Express last Friday instead of the usual pizza.
You told yourself that was enough. You told yourself that passion had to settle down eventually. This was just part of growing up and you’d get over it.
But there were only so many nights you could lay there staring at the ceiling, your body pursed for a release with nowhere for it to go. Only so many you could sit awake at night thinking about how you felt so lonely despite the man sharing your bed.
That was when you decided to end it. Well, to make him end it. You hated breaking up with people. You hated how the guy would always make you out to be some kind of evil psychopath, all the while leaving out the many ways he fell short leading up to the split. So you’d put that burden on Evan, it was the least he could do.
It didn’t need to be dramatic or cruel, you just wanted him to lose interest. Simple enough, right?
So you built a plan.
Step one: stop being appealing.
No more effort.
No more flirting.
No more carefully chosen little sets with meticulously paired accessories. Oh no, Evan was getting loooooow maintenance. Messy, even.
The main issue you’re facing now is that you don’t own a single thing that would fit that category. This is glaringly clear as your hot-pink tracksuit clad reflection stares back at you from your full body mirror and, damn, does it fit you well. You almost hate to push your fashion sense aside, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
This was how you end up standing outside your mom and Shane’s bedroom. The door was ajar and there sat Shane, folding your mom’s laundry, because of course he was folding her laundry. He’s perfect. You bit the inside of your cheek as you knocked on the door frame.
His eyes lifted to meet yours almost immediately, brow lifting in mild surprise. “Hey, darlin’. Everything alright?”
“Oh yeah, toooootally great,” you said brightly, forcing a reassuring smile to your lips. “I just need to ask an itty bitty favor. Can I borrow something?”
He set the sweater in his hands down on the comforter, standing from the bed. “‘Course you can. Whatcha need?”
“One of your sweatshirts.”
The pause was subtle—but it was there.
“…Mine? You sure you don’t want one of your mom’s cardigans or something?”
“Noooo, I definitely think I need yours,” you nodded. “The biggest one you have, if possible. Something that looks like it’s been through a war. OH- that police academy one you wore the other day, maybe? With the stains?” You tried to tamp down on the giddiness you were feeling at the thought of how frumpy you’re going look. This was going to be great.
Shane laughed under his breath. “That thing’s gonna swallow you, darlin’.”
“I know, it’s perfect.”
He disappeared into the closet and came back with a hoodie that looked soft and worn and unmistakably his. When he handed it over, your fingers brushed the soft, piling material. He cleared his throat.
“I hate to break it to ya, kid, but that things nowhere near fitting you.” He was clearly very amused with this whole occurrence.
“Exactly, that’s the point.” You tugged it on right there, fabric sliding down your arms, sleeves hiding your hands, hem grazing the hem of your shorts on your thighs. It felt absurd and comfortable and, strangely, a little intimate.
Shane stared.
Not rudely, but openly. Just long enough to tell you something wasn’t lining up in his head.
“And you’re plannin’ on wearin’ that out the house?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Shane knew you well enough by now to have picked up on the fact that you never left the house looking short of perfect.
“Sure am,” you chirped excitedly, unable to help yourself from primping in the mirror against the far wall.
“…Why? You going to some kind of themed party?”
And, for some reason, you didn’t lie.
You laughed first—too fast, too light—like maybe if you said it casually enough it wouldn’t sound insane. “Okay, well—this is going to sound terrible, but I’m kind of trying to get my boyfriend to break up with me.”
That earned you a real laugh—startled, loud, completely unguarded.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“I wish,” you blurted, and then it was like the dam broke and you couldn’t stop the words pouring from your mouth. “He’s just—Shane, he’s so boring. And I feel awful saying that, because he’s technically nice, but it’s the kind of nice where there’s nothing underneath it? Like beige walls. Or unseasoned chicken. And every time we hang out I feel like I’m doing homework instead of… I don’t know, living my life?”
You waved a hand, already spiraling. “And I keep telling myself that this is what being an adult is supposed to be like, right? Stable, predictable, whatever—but I’m just sitting there thinking, is this it? Is this what I’m signing up for forever? Because that feels like a trap.”
You sucked in a breath, face warm now.
“And—oh god—this is where it gets really tragic,” you rushed on. “He’s terrible in bed. Like not even awkward-because-he-cares terrible. Just… bad. Like he thinks effort is optional. Like he pats my hip after like he’s done a good job and I’m lying there staring at the ceiling wondering if I’ll have to fake a headache for the rest of my life.”
Shane turned his head away, coughing into his hand to cover the laugh that bubbled up.
“Alright,” he said, laughing harder despite himself. “That’s enough. Way more than I needed.”
You clamped your mouth shut, mortified, tugging the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands. “Sorry—sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking so much. I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m silly for wanting more.”
“So anyway,” you continued, lighter and matter-of-fact, “I figured if I stopped dressing like myself, he’d finally lose interest and break up with me.”
Shane leaned back against the wall, arms folding, gaze drifting over you again. Slower this time. Warmer. Locked in fully on you.
“Sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head, “that ain’t how men work.”
Your eyebrows furrowed together, “it’s not?”
“Nope.” His mouth tilted into a half-smile. “A man loves seein’ his woman in his clothes.”
Your stomach flipped, sharp and sudden.
“And,” he added, casual as could be, “he really hates seein’ her in someone else’s. Makes him territorial.”
“Oh,” you said slowly, glancing down at the sleeves pooling over your hands, “territorial is bad?”
Shane huffed a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “Sweetheart,” he said, “wearing another man’s clothes doesn’t make you less appealing. It makes a man notice you more.”
You looked back up at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he replied, voice easy but unmistakably warm, “it makes a guy picture things. Wonder things. Start thinkin’ about you wearin’ his stuff instead. Maybe even start imaging you with nothing on at all.”
Your breath caught—just a little.
“Oh,” you said again, trying for casual and not quite landing it. “So this isn’t reading as ‘unattractive.’”
“No, ma’am,” he said softly. “Not even close.”
You tugged at the cuff again, suddenly very aware of how familiar the fabric felt. “Guess I picked the wrong strategy.”
Shane’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Guess you did.”
“Okay, well, I’ll… rethink things, I guess.” You backed away before either of you could say something worse, smile soft but pulse skittering. “Mind if I keep the sweatshirt for the day anyway?”
Shane didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “Be my guest, darlin’.”
Something warm flickered low in your chest. You turned and walked down the hall.
Behind you, Shane exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, voice barely audible—
“Lord help me.”
read more of my work here
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"I just saw Y/N going past with the biggest stack of novels and a grin on her face to match," Carol said, stopping beside Daryl. "She told me you happened to come across them when you were out scavenging, completely by accident." One of Carol's eyebrows cocked up, but Daryl's hands were still busy at work sharpening his bolts and he didn't even look over at her.
"What's yer point?" he drawled.
"Happened t—Daryl! We both know you've been purposely out looking for those books for her for months! And you're not even gonna take credit for your good deed?!" she asked, flabbergasted. "Explain that to me! Do you like her or not?!"
"Shush!" Daryl snapped at her. "I—I didn't wanna make a big deal outta it." At that moment you happened to come walking by with your nose already buried in a book and that same smile fixed on your face. Daryl watched you passing with a flush in his cheeks.
"So, you lied to her? Instead of just telling her—"
"Shush!" he said again. "Goddamn, woman! Alrigh', so I lied, just a little bit! But—look how happy it made her," he said. "S'just a little white lie, anyway..."
"Listen to me—if you don't tell her how you feel, I damn well will." She ruffled his hair to annoy him and walked off. And Daryl didn't doubt for a second that Carol would.
Prompt: "Alright, I lied! But—look how happy it made her!"
PAIRING : : daryl dixon x female reader (platonic/romantic)
CONTENTS : : reunion , short n sweet :)
GENRE : : fluff & humor
NOTE : : just a lil silly something i thought up. . . no idea what this is really </3
SONG : : wherever you will go — the calling.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 : : i. more daryl fics ii. mlist menu iii. navi
“psh, figures.” you grumble, dropping the empty granola bar box at your feet. your stomach growls in protest and you rub it solemnly, then press on to peruse the other shelves.
nothingness litters them—save for dust bunnies and bugs. a certain someone you used to know would snatch up one of those grubs and chow down on it as if it were a tex-mex. you shiver at the thought and continue aimlessly, poking your head around every aisle; but somebody else had the same idea, clearly. each one has been ransacked, and you curse whoever got here first.
with a weighted sigh, you heave yourself against the empty alcohol fridge and slide down it. the boniness of your ass against the tiled floor really drives your hunger home. that, and your skinny bitch insecurities.
it’s then that your wallowing is interrupted by the doors creaking on their rusted hinges. funny, your joints make the same noise.
anchoring yourself closer to the unit behind you, your hand gravitates to the knife at your hip. the entourage of footsteps that follow are calculated and cautious—the distant sound of instructive whispers rolling across the empty store. well, it was empty.
you bide your time—fingers itching to spring into action and unsheathe your blade; but you’re lethargic, hunger rioting within you. your hearing isn’t so ignorant, though; so when the click of a gun’s safety flips beside your ear, you spring onto your haunches.
“don’t.” the wielder warns. “what’s your name?”
you glare up at them, frozen in a rather uncomfortable position. “you first, highwayman.”
they tilt their head exactly 45 degrees. it’s almost funny, except for the other 45 staring you down. “name.”
“why? so you can carve it into my headstone? just get it over with.” you gripe, a little surprised by your own brass. might as well go out wittily, you suppose.
they take a step closer, purposeful yet slightly wary. “how many walkers have you killed?”
your face scrunches, but that might just be the thigh-burn. “the fuck is a walker?”
they adjust the gun in their hand, expression twitching irately. as their lips part to respond, a gruff voice that isn’t theirs but prevails all the more familiar, halts their tongue.
“leave ‘er be.”
you both turn toward it, and there, behind the glide of an-also-familiar crossbow’s limb, peaks a pair of blue eyes—the home where you hung your hat. they’re looking beyond you to confront billy the kid fiercely, and far narrower than you remember.
“you know her?” asks dummy, the eighth dwarf.
“uh-huh.” the former leans forward on one bent leg, stirrup raised. “put’cha gun down, man.”
‘man’ observes the way his arms flex—stance unyielding. “she good?” he looks between you. “ain’t gonna try anything funny?”
don’t count on it.
“wouldn’t count on it.”
aw, jinx.
after a minute, the cylinder of the man’s barrel disappears from in front of your face. as it does, your white knight’s crossbow lowers its aim from his face.
those blue eyes slide to you, then; unreadable.
a cheesy grin splits your face. “daryl dixon, is that really you?”
he grunts with a clipped nod of his head, hand gesturing. “just gonna sit there?”
but when you launch yourself to your feet, some other bozo joins the party.
“woah, woah, woah!” he skids to a stop at the end of the adjacent aisle, gun raised.
daryl’s crossbow flies upward again. “aye, get back!”
gunman numéro uno raises a hand. “easy, now—”
“what the hell?” the moment-ruiner who could pass for twelve scans you up and down, then glances quizzically at daryl. “she was coming at you!”
“glenn, they know each other.” diplomat derek tells him, inching forward.
glenn eye-darts you, the grip on his gun loosening. “wait, what?”
you roll your eyes. “if i give my friend here a hug, should i expect a bullet in the back?”
neither utter a word, probably don’t dare. not while the shaggy-haired archer has the beak of a blood-encrusted bolt pointed at them, anyway.
and no answer is good, right?
with a scoff, you make your way toward daryl who still has glenn pinned beneath a hard stare, watching him like a hawk. “your turn, dumbass. put it down.”
daryl looks at you sidelong, then lets his crossbow drop to his side. “a’right, c’mere.”
finally, you close the distance and leap into him, winding your arms around his neck. after a second, his crossbow clatters to the floor and his arms wrap around your waist.
behind you, glenn shuffles over to rick. “what am i witnessing right now? is he. . . hugging her?”
rick shakes his head, aghast.
“does this mean we have to take her back with us? are we gonna have. . . two of ‘em?”
rick squeezes the bridge of his nose. “i’m gonna need some air before i tackle that question.”
warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut under the cut, perv!daryl (not really, he just has a lil crush), male masturbation, unprotected p-in-v, oral f!receiving, mutual pining
a/n: i have never written something so descriptive ohmygod. do be warned lol, hugs and kisses byeee <33
Daryl knew there were unspoken boundaries when it came to you.
A thin line of loose salt, that whispered to him. Beckoned him huskily to dust his fingers through and have a taste, but daunting enough for him to keep his soles rooted in the dirt, salivating from a distance.
It wasn’t because you were already spoken for in any way; if anything, you kept your romantic interests simmering farther on the back burner than he did, which spoke volumes in itself. Or because you were younger than him, a couple of years wasn’t anything to turn a nose up over, especially nowadays.
It was, however, the place you held amongst your people. You were like bright, shiny gold within the group, dared not to be corrupted or led astray. The heart that kept everyone’s beating, even in the darkest of times, soothing hope into the atmosphere with your infectious smile.
Oh, and you were Rick's younger sister... which he hated to admit, only tempted him more. And he wasn’t quite sure as to why.
He’d mulled it over too many times to count, noting everything about you that allured him so intensely.
He liked the contrast between you two; like sun rays peeking through the clouds after a mid-summer storm. You were soft, fresh as clean linen and he was dark, brooding. He often fantasized about taking that sweet innocent nature of yours and painting it with his essence. He knew it was wrong and constantly shamed himself for having such perverted thoughts about his best friend's sister. But, god, how could he not?
Not when you pranced around him daily, teasing him with your velvety, feminine voice and kind touches. Touches that sent brisk shivers down his spine, sure to leave him breathless and bothered — another thing he secretly liked. You were addictive in that sense, he’d distance himself the minute he felt the familiar rush coursing through his veins and then crave it immediately once it was gone. A drug he couldn’t help but relapse from.
And it didn’t help that you were always so keen to assist him, doting on his every injury or problem with such gentle attentiveness and sincerity. That might be what he liked the most. It was fascinating how pure you remained in a world so plagued, always ready to nurture. It soothed a deep, restless, and scarred part of him, finding solace in it.
He'd come to learn you were like that with everyone though. So, he found himself grappling with things to deter your attention his way, playing dumb and clumsy just to have your sweet scent fill the nearby air. He felt like a horny teenager with a hopeless crush. It was absolutely ridiculous and yet, here he was once again, feet dangling off your kitchen counter as you searched the cabinets for some aspirin to aid in his 'headache'.
It wasn't a complete lie per se - his sensitivity to light gave him troubles quite often but, whether it was enough to complain about or not, could be debated.
Nonetheless, he sat for you patiently, listening to your quiet humming as you searched about. He loved when you did that, singing your soft melodies under your breath mindlessly. It was such a girly thing to do, but it was comforting in a way, an airy blanket warming the silence.
"Ah, here it is!" drew him out of his thoughts, and he cast a glance at your bright smile of accomplishment. You popped the cap open swiftly, shaking out 2 little white pills, and handed them over with a glass of water.
“Let me know if you need any more. They should kick in soon, but I know how tough migraines can be,” you soothed, your sympathy never faltering. He bowed his head quickly, not wanting you to see the flash of guilt that surely crossed it. "Thanks," he mumbled as he tossed his head back, swallowing them both with a shivered grimace.
Wiping the water droplets from his chapped lips, his eyes found yours again and noticed a small smirk hidden in your features. “What?”
You let out a chuckle, reaching for the glass he held to wash, “Oh nothin’... just don’t think I’ve seen you cringe like that before, is all.”
His brows furrowed at your statement, “So?” he questioned further.
“Walkers, blood, rotting flesh… never. But an itty bitty pill?” Your laugh grew louder, finding the situation even more amusing as you explained it to him. “Whatever,” he scoffed, hopping off the counter with a smirk. He knew you would be expecting him to leave after that, you had helped him with his ‘issue of the day’ and there was no reason to linger any further. But he did.
Daryl scanned your frame as you washed the few dishes that were in the sink, chewing on his thumb habitually. You wore a white, long-sleeve shirt with a faded band logo printed on the front and some beaten-up blue jeans that seemed to cup your ass perfectly.
His mind wandered before he could stop it, imagining how soft and warm your skin must be underneath all those clothes. How soft and warm your hands would be wrapped around him, or better yet, your pretty lips taking him deep with a moan. He felt his own jeans tighten slightly and quickly diverted his gaze to the floor, clearing his throat as if it would erase those thoughts from his brain.
“Something else you need, Daryl?” You glanced over your shoulder, wrists deep in soapy water.
“Nah, uh, thanks. I’ll see ya later,” he said and beelined for the door praying to god you didn’t see his flushed face and half-hard cock poking through his pants. He was so fucked. Couldn’t even look at you anymore without sprouting boners and picturing you on them, milking him greedily.
He rushed down the porch and across the lawn, bursting into his shared house with Carol just next door. He didn’t even glance toward the kitchen to see if his friend was home, desperate for a cold shower to level him out. The house was dead quiet anyway, leading him to assume Carol was out for the day.
"Such a fuckin idiot," he cursed himself under his breath as he made his way down the stairs to his room. You probably knew honestly. Could tell how pathetically bothered you got him, and just put on a friendly face to keep from embarrassing him.
He left the bathroom door open in his distress and hastily shed his clothing, stepping into the tepid water. Immediate relief flooded his senses, feeling the cool stream wash away the sweat and grime the day had caked on. Pouring some homemade soap he was given into his hand, he scrubbed at his skin, determined to rid himself of your previous interaction along with the dirty thoughts that plagued his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking about you that way, it just wasn’t in the cards.
For starters, you would have to want him too, (which he knew would never happen), and even if you did, how the ever living fuck would he explain that to Rick?
‘Oh hey Rick, I have a massive hard-on for yer sister, you okay with that?’ Fuck no. Just thinking about that conversation had him cringing in awkwardness and he shut the idea down instantly.
But there you were still, invading his thoughts with your dreamy laugh and perky attitude. Why did you have to be such a goddamn tease?
He leaned forward, resting his hands on the wall trying to regain some composure. He gulped down deep breaths of moist air, willing his body to calm itself down, but it was fruitless. The image of your body, pushed up against the wall under his hands, wet and flushed, bubbled to the surface. He groaned. Daryl knew what he had to do. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten off thinking about you, and he damn well knew it wasn’t gonna be the last, but it still felt wrong each time, pumping his cock when you were just next door. His body craved the relief though, relief only indulgence could satisfy.
He hissed as he dragged his fingers along his shaft, gripping at the base and beginning to pump slowly. He was painfully hard at this point, each squeeze raking shivers over his damp skin while he choked out quiet moans. With his opposite hand, he flicked the water to a warmer setting, pitifully hoping the heat and steam would resemble something close to your body against his. God, if only you were here.
He sped up, swiping his thumb over his sensitive tip with each pass, sending jolts throughout his body. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned deep and husky, not a care for the noise filling the empty house.
You were there, clear as day in his mind, moaning along with him as he pounded into you, cunt gripping him like a vice. Your breath was hot and pitchy against his ear as you begged him to fuck you harder, to go faster, to cum deep inside you. His cock twitched at that, he was already so close.
“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he whined, humping erratically into his long-forgotten hand. The muscles in his stomach quivered in bliss as he stroked himself, lost in his detailed imagination. You were cumming, trembling around him in languid spasms with his seed spilling out of you, and Daryl was over the edge, tossing his head back moaning your name as he unloaded, letting the steamy water wash it away.
It took him a few minutes to recover, catching his breath slowly and trying to avoid the guilt that would soon be settling in. What would you think of him if you knew what he did behind muffled walls? How he thought of you in such dirty ways, when you’d only ever see him as a dear friend. He wondered what you might be doing now. Traipsing around your cozy home, oblivious to his rapid, lustful heart meters away.
The water was beginning to run frigid and he let out a defeated sigh. Absentmindedly, he reached past the curtain for a towel and stepped out, drying his hair off roughly and then wrapping the towel around his waist, turning to the bedroom for fresh clothes and much-needed sleep. His mind ached to be thoughtless, consumed by the abyss of unconsciousness.
He should have known the world stopped playing fair long ago.
In a single moment, his heart stopped and his stomach dropped to the fucking depths of hell.
There you stood, feet frozen to the floor with his crossbow in hand, like he willed you into existence. He stuttered, his mouth opening and closing like a blubbering fish. He was sure his eyes were the size of saucers, he could feel them ready to pop out of his skull and run away. There was no fucking way this was happening.
Several beats passed. The silence deafening between you both and for a moment, he honestly debated stepping back into the shower. Pretend you were a figment of his tortured imagination and just hope you’d go away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen ghosts.
“You uh- you forgot your crossbow when you rushed out today,” you finally broke the silence, solidifying your genuine presence. He glanced down to the bow and then back at you, lost for words. Did you hear him? He moaned your goddamn name, quite a few minutes ago though… had you been standing there long? Were you angry?
His racing thoughts were interrupted when you stepped towards him, leaning the bow against the doorframe and moving closer. Instinctively, he took a step back, “Thanks,” he replied shakily, but you kept moving closer. He noticed your gaze then. It wasn’t on his face, but on his abdomen, at the hem of the damp towel hanging off of him. Your eyes had a gleam to them. Something dark and lustful.
No. Surely, he was reading you wrong.
“Daryl,” you spoke, and he audibly gulped, nervousness and absolute embarrassment flooding his system, “is there something you need to tell me?”
He didn’t answer you, instead deciding to burn a hole into the floor with his shame. He couldn’t look at you. You knew. You had heard him and were teasing him about it and here he was, a coward who couldn’t even admit to it. And you had every single right. He crossed that salty line years ago, with his first sinful thought about you. Feasted on it, deluding himself into thinking all was okay as long as his actions didn’t physically involve you.
He barely registered your advances when he finally raised his head. You were so close he could feel the heat of your breath against his burning skin, the luscious scent of vanilla and pine filling the air.
“Can I see?” you asked quietly.
He nearly choked on his own spit. Your hand was skimming along his stomach lightly, suggestively toying with the towel that covered him up. “Huh?” His mind was blank.
“Can I see you?” you repeated, and all he could do was give you a curt little nod, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to just yet, but rendered acquiesced. Your hand pulled at the fabric softly, letting it drop to the floor revealing his manhood to your hungry eyes. Nothing was making any sense. Surely, you did not feel this way too. Surely.
There were those whispers again. He shouldn't have let you do that. He should be recoiling, shielding himself from your gaze but he was statuesque, like you had drank the life out of him with one simple look.
"Were you thinking about me touching you?" Like you had to even ask. The answer was written in plain sight, right there on his forehead and in his bashful eyes.
"M'sorry, I-" he had no clue how to even begin this kind of apology, remorse coursing through his veins rapidly. The dots weren’t connecting, not yet. "I know it's wrong, I shouldn't have-,”
And then he felt you, pressing your lips against his softly — timidly as gentle hands feathered across his waist, coaxing him into you. Your kiss was buttery, lips so smooth and sweet he wanted to drown in them. You tasted like fresh honey and vanilla ice cream, hints of minty toothpaste caught on your tongue. It was intoxicating to say the least, swarming his brain with a muted buzz and he whimpered, much to his surprise, melting into your touch quicker than he would like to admit.
“Y/n, y/n, nah we can’t,” he heard himself say as he came to his senses slowly, but he wasn’t pushing you away. Why wasn’t he pushing you away? You couldn’t, right?
“Please,” you whispered against him, low and sultry. Who was he to deny you? God Daryl, get a grip.
“Y/n, no,” he repeated, allowing his tone to take some authority even if that was the last thing he truly wanted. You stepped back from him then, a hurt expression painting your features and he felt his heart squeeze. “Why?”
His brain was scattered. This felt like a nightmare; another cruel joke sent his way to haunt him for the rest of his life. There just always had to be a price, didn't there?
"He doesn't mind, you know?" you whispered and his eyes were on yours instantly. You traced soft shapes across his stomach, sending those shivers down his spine and effectively turning him into putty.
"What’re ya talkin' about?" He needed to regain his composure, he could barely breathe with you this close, eyes raking his naked frame with desire.
"Rick... you and me. He doesn't care," you stated, "thinks it's cute actually... my crush on you."
Your crush on him?
"He trusts you, Daryl, with everything. You're pretty much the only person he would want me to be with." He hadn't thought of it that way, only ever assumed voicing his attraction to you would result in his head on a platter, or his dick… or both.
You began peppering his neck with small kisses, trailing them down his chest and over his puffy nipples. He hissed when you nipped at one, licking over it after, soothing the burn. "Ya sure?"
You nodded.
"Ya sure ya want me?" he asked dubiously. His question was answered when you grabbed his hand gently, guiding it inside your cotton underwear, letting his calloused fingers trace your soaked folds. He could have cum then and there, spreading your slick up and down between his fingers like it was liquid gold. Fuck me.
"This all fer me?" he panted, succumbed to a state of disbelief at your evident arousal. You were so wet around his fingers, pulsing and bucking slightly with each feathered stroke. "Were ya listenin' ta me?"
Hair fell over your face as you nodded sheepishly, gazing down to watch his fingers massaging you. You bit your swollen, cherry-red lip, “Couldn’t help it, you sounded so- so good.”
Now that... that got him going. Imagining your pretty cunt dripping in your panties, listening to his gasps while he fucked himself to the thought of you. Who knew the golden girl would be so naughty?
Daryl felt his confidence build, watching you fall apart for him from such simple touches. The last wire holding him back snapped and he needed more. He had waited for this moment for so fucking long.
You whine as he retracts his hand, only to be completely shut up when he places the thick digit on his tongue, sucking greedily and sloppily. It was better than he ever could have imagined, similar to the honey of your lips but so much more sweet. He went back for seconds. And thirds. Until he was dropping to his knees, deciding to lick the goddamn plate clean.
You enveloped him in the best way possible, lifting one of your thighs over his shoulder as he tugged on your tight jeans, pulling them down enough to fit his head. His tongue pressed flat against your clothed pussy, and he sucked, tasting a mixture of your sweetness and residual laundry detergent on his tongue. His moans burned the back of his throat, desperately trying to hide them but you weren’t having it, tugging on his chocolate locks for more. “Don’t do that. I wanna hear you, honey.” Good lord. He silently thanked each lucky star of his that the house was empty before emitting a guttural groan between your thighs. If this was all he got from you, a little taste of the sugar you were made of, he would die a very happy man.
He took your clit between his lips, rolling it with his tongue. Your underwear was so wet with your arousal and his spit that it was practically see-through, just calling for him to pull aside. “Please,” you gasped.
“Hm? Wha’s that?”
He’d heard you just fine. He wanted to hear you again, and again. He was greedy and you were so damn sinful, “Please, need them off, need you.”
So, he complied, as any sane man would, shimmying them down your hips as he sucked and nibbled each inch of newly exposed skin. You watched him intently with half-lidded eyes, rocking slowly to let plush skin engulf his senses like a cloud. He felt you playing with his messy hair, taking small strands between your fingertips and moving them behind his ears to see him better. The gesture struck something deep within him. You were so kind, so focused on this moment and him, he’d be damned if he let it continue on the hard damp floor of his bathroom. No fucking way.
He stood abruptly, catching you off guard. “Bed,” he muttered, capturing your lips again in a haste. He couldn’t get enough. He didn’t want a minute to pass where he wasn’t tasting some part of you. Any part of you. Sweet, sweet honey.
You led your bodies backward till your knees hit the mattress, wasting no time as you crawled up to his pillows, taking him with you.
This moment right here, this feeling… he wanted to bottle it up. Freeze time and just stare, immerse himself into every tiny detail. It felt almost criminal to continue. You were a vision, panting and squirming beneath him; so much electricity and anticipation bouncing between your yearning bodies. Could you really want this just as much as he did? Was he truly that oblivious, all these years? Whatever that answer may be, he wasn’t gonna fuck this up. Not with you.
Your hands on his face coaxed him back to reality, molding into your touch like clay. Eager lips chased his as he pulled your shirt off and as much as he wanted to freeze time and memorize each freckle of you, the more skin each other touched the more obscene the kiss became. An unartistic jumble of spit and hands and moans and thrusts.
In all the time spent pining silently for the other, you both could care less about grace.
No, he needed to hear you. Listen to every octave of moan you had in you, all at once. He needed to know each and every spot that had you whimpering and begging, this second. If time did decide to stop at any given moment he needed to have you, be you, feel everything you had to offer, and soak in it till his skin pruned.
His lips sucked and bruised their way down to your navel, and then past, kissing up your folds with lustful intent. The sounds you made above him had him seeing stars and he wanted more. His tongue slipped past your lips, finally diving into the hive of your sweetness, rolling his tongue languidly over your clit. Your hands were everywhere around him, fisting at the sheets, the pillows, and then his hair as you desperately tried to push him closer. He didn’t mind. He’d gladly suffocate between your thighs, a death he’d welcome compared to the ones he fought from outside every day.
He dove lower, smoothing his tongue over your entrance but not delving past quite yet.
“Daryl,” you gasped above him.
Looking up between your legs, he caught a glimpse of your face tossed back in pleasure and he groaned, having to ground his hips into the mattress below to relieve some pressure. “What d’ya need, sweetheart?”
He’d give you anything. The moon if you asked for it — anything to keep those pretty sounds coming from your lips. “You, you, please you.”
“How so?”
He knew he was teasing you. He’d drawn back from your glistening slit, pressing little pecks everywhere that he could reach. Your hips, your pelvis, the little crease between your thighs and your cunt. That spot drew a deep moan from you, so he focused on it, sucking and licking till it was bright red and your hips were rolling so violently he wasn’t sure how he kept his lips on you.
“In, please,” you choked out, tugging him by his shoulders to move back up. He wasn’t done yet.
“What? Ma fingers?” he toyed further, continuing his kisses everywhere but where you wanted him. “Hm?”
He brought his thumb up to your clit, pressing lightly at first, rubbing lazy, torturous circles. His lips were on the inside of your thigh, so close to your entrance but seemingly so far. He knew you wouldn’t take much more of this, you were practically sobbing above him blubbering nonsensical curses about how much you ached.
“This pretty cunt wanna be filled, that it?”
His thumb pressed firmer.
“Uh huh,” you nodded, begging him. Oh, that sound would surely be the death of him.
He finally brought his lips to your supposedly aching entrance, delving deep with his tongue. The noises he made as he lapped on your honey were flat-out pornographic, and you writhed below him, drinking everything he was giving to you. Honestly, he didn’t know how much more he could take. He wanted to draw this out for hours, make up for every bit of lost time but seeing you like this, so needy for him had his resolve shattering by the second.
With a final peck to your weeping folds, he crawled his way up back to your face. You latched on to him instantly, sensing his give and taking absolute advantage of your moment. His hips rolled into yours slowly as your tongues danced and he hardly had to guide himself with how wet you were, his tip finding your entrance easily and slipping past. You moaned rolling your hips again and he nearly bottomed out, a long deep groan ripping out of him. If he thought your lips were buttery, lord save him.
Perching himself on his forearms, he held still, watching for any signs of discomfort. He assumed you hadn’t been with anyone in a while and he certainly knew he wasn’t small, if he’d grace himself with any sort of compliment.
Sensing nothing but pleasure as your walls pulsed around him, sucking him in further, he gave, snapping his hips harshly into you. Your moans were lewd on his lips, traveling down his throat and feeding the fire that burned in the pit of his stomach.
“Fuck, y/n, baby,” he groaned again, spiraling from the fact he was actually inside you this time. Not in his hand, pretending you were fucking shower water.
No, you were beneath him, latching onto his muscles like your life depended on it. He drove deeper, hitting a spot that had you gasping for air. He hit it again, and again, needing to feel you explode around him. He watched as your face contorted in pleasure as he pounded into you. God, you looked so pretty like this. All cock-drunk and needy.
He brought his thumb back to that spot on your clit. He needed you to cum soon, he wasn’t gonna last much longer seeing you like this and there was no way in hell he was going to finish before you. Your hips stuttered beneath him, walls squeezing around him and he knew you were close.
“Come on, pretty girl, you got it,” he whispered in your ear, sucking the lobe gently between his teeth. That must’ve broken you, because then you were cursing, spasming for him which triggered his own orgasm. Your cunt milked him, his seed spilling down your thighs exactly how he had pictured earlier and it was a fucking sight. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he had imagined this whole thing.
He fucked out both through the waves of release, and a bit past, dropping his head into your neck to muffle the obscene groans coming from his lips. He didn’t want it to stop, but your overstimulated senses ached for reprieve.
“Dar?” you whispered once you'd both caught your breath, guiding his stubbled cheek from its hiding spot. When his eyes met yours, they were filled with so much adoration and happiness he had to hold himself back from whimpering. Never in a million years would he thought he’d get you, and here you were, looking at him like the sun shone out of his ass. The same way he looked at you for years, it was jarring to see it reciprocated. How had he missed it?
You leaned forward, tenderly capturing his lips with your own, soothing him as you always did. He knew there was so much you wanted to say, that he wanted to say, but you didn’t need to talk about it tonight. Tonight you would simply soak in each other, a gift you both thought you’d never get and one you would never let go.
He felt you giggle against his lips, and he pulled back with a lazy, fucked-out smile, "What?" he mumbled curiously.
"How's the headache now, big guy?" you teased playfully and he realized then, you'd known he was fibbing today. Saw right through his measly excuse to spend time with you.
He blushed to the tips of his ears, bowing his head to hide it, "Oh, shuddup," he mumbled, attacking your neck in kisses and nips.
Classification and content warnings: Fluff | brief mention of scars
Temporal setting: Season 2
Word count: 0.5k
Divider by me ;)
The muffled clatter of dishes from the dining room faded behind you as you slipped away, murmuring excuses about a headache. You padded down the dimly lit corridor, your footsteps silent against the worn floorboards. You hesitated in front of the door for mere seconds before knocking softly.
A grunt followed.
You pushed inside, the hinges whispering. The sight of him half-dressed, scars bared before he jerked a blanket over his chest, sent a flicker of something reckless through you. His eyes, sharp even in the low warm light, tracked your every move.
“How are you feeling?” you asked, voice hushed as you set the tray of food on the bedside table. The steam curled lazily between you.
“‘Bout as good as I look,” he rasped and you snorted quietly.
You closed the door and perched on the edge of the bed, the silence wrapping around you both like an old, familiar cloak. It was easy, this quiet. You were the outliers, the ones who’d always hovered at the edges of belonging, circling each other like stray dogs, wary but drawn all the same.
“Didn’t eat?” he asked, nodding toward the tray.
You hummed. “I’m taking my portion outside. Not really one for…family dinners”
He huffed dryly.
“How’s your head?” you pressed.
“Poundin’” Daryl shifted in bed, wincing. “I’ll live”
You exhaled through your nose. “Right… Next time you wanna pull a stunt like that, maybe give a heads-up”
“'n why’s tha’? Gonna protect me?”
You shook your head, huffing humorlessly. “You can do that yourself. Just wanna prep the funeral speech in advance”
“Oh yeah?” He tilted his head, challenge glinting in his gaze “Anythin’ in mind tha’ ya wanna share with the future deceased after t’day?”
You waited a beat, then sighed, scratching your temple. “Not for the eulogy, but uh… remember that ammo stash that went missing from your tent in Atlanta?”
He stilled, then hummed softly for you to continue.
“That was me.” You chuckled dryly “First time I ever heard full sentences from you. Just a bunch of curse words strung together directed at anyone in your path”
His glare lacked heat “Ain’t had a reason t’ talk ‘til now”
“And what’s the reason?” You tilted your head, baiting him “Near-death experiences soften you up?”
He blinked then scoffed. His fingers twitched against the blanket, betraying the itch to reach for something. “Ya tryna rile me up so my stitches pop open?”
You stood, slow and deliberate, before leaning down, close enough to feel his breath hitch. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth, featherlight yet enough to taste the smoke scent of him.
“Whatever keeps you alive, Dixon. Live to see tomorrow, and you can come argue with me in the morning”
By the time he processed it, you were already at the door. The last thing you saw were his stunned eyes before you slipped into the hall, heart pounding. You recognized it as the look of a man who’d just realized the game had changed.
ok so I saw this mouth watering gif and wrote a small drabble for it but with Negan instead of Jason Crouse
(warning: kinda nsfw)
“What are you reading?!”.
You stand in the doorway of the bedroom, mouth agape at the confusing sight you’re met with. In front of you is Negan, still in bed after your morning romp, but with an old newspaper in his hands from when the world still worked.
Negan gives a slight shrug. There’s a mischievous smirk on his lips that tells you he’s pleased with your reaction.
“What?" he replies innocently, pretending to not understand your surprise. "I'm just keeping up with what’s happening in the world, Sweetcheeks" Negan casually flips to the next page, acting as if the newspaper isn’t at least a couple years old.
“But where did you even get that?” you question, coming closer to the bed “Do you have a stack of old newspapers just laying around?”.
Negan adjusts his glasses as he responds, "One of my men found it on the last supply run. Why, you interested in giving it a read when I'm finished?".
You decide to play along, lounging across the end of the bed and propping your head up with your elbow. "Anything interesting in there?" your tone is one of mock curiosity.
Negan thinks for a moment, skimming the contents of the page in front of him. “The Yankees won again, a murder here, another war there,” he says uninterested before slowly trailing off “and… oh shit…”.
As much as you don’t want to give him the satisfaction, your head perks up as he hesitates.
Negan's gaze slowly shifts from the newspaper to you, his expression growing sombre. In a quiet voice you ask, "Yeah... what else?". Your question hangs in the air, a few beats of silence passing before Negan answers you.
“... Stock market’s down”.
You immediately scoff, realizing you've been duped. "Well, damn. I fell hook, line, and sinker for that one," you mumble, shaking your head.
"I don’t know how I’ll go on," Negan declares dramatically, fully committed to maintaining his facade. He knows he’s got you right where he wants you, unable to hide the amusement in his eyes.
You stretch out before slowly crawling closer to him, a teasing smile on your lips. "I’m guessing you’ll need some time to properly process this heartbreaking news, huh?" you quip, moving towards him with a hint of playfulness.
"If only I had some kind of distraction..." Negan laments, pretending to be lost in thought as he continues “Some kinda hot distraction that has a nice ass…”
Acting quickly, you straddle him and swipe the newspaper from his hands, tossing it aside onto the bedroom floor. “Stock market might be down but I can definitely feel something else coming up” you grind your hips against him, feeling his stiffening arousal.
Negan grins widely as you continue to move against him. "You think this is gonna make the headlines?" he teases, his hands cupping your ass and slowly kneading the soft skin.
You roll your eyes, already anticipating the barrage of puns that are sure to come. "Don't even," you warn and before he can speak, you lean in and kiss him passionately, effectively silencing any further attempts to make a joke.
Negan eagerly returns the kiss, savoring the sensation of your lips. Without hesitation, he cunningly slides his tongue into your mouth, the taste of him making your body ache for more.
As you bring your hand down to grip him, Negan resists the temptation to make another pun just yet. Instead, he decides to hold off on the inevitable one-liners until afterwards, unable to stop himself from giving you his full attention.
Summary: You remember the night Daryl showed you his scars for the first time, while you were patching him up from a failed supply run.
A/N: guys i am so sleep deprived and swamped with work and coursework but i really wanted to get back into writing for the new year and revive my page, so sorry if this is absolute dogshit I honestly cant tell!! As always my asks are open and any spelling errors or critiques pls let me know! Happy New Year Lovelies!!
The archer was simply not what many people had preemptively assumed. He shouldn't be defined by his exterior or the way he lashed out when threatened, like a wild and dangerous wolf caught in a snare, because it's simply just not him. You know that better than anyone else.
You remember the night he dropped his walls to you, back at the prison, which felt like a lifetime ago; it might as well be.
It was storming badly outside; the wind howled and thrashed against the prison walls loudly, drowning out the sounds of walkers ravenous growls, yet the noise couldn't drown out your incessant worrying for the archer who had set out earlier that very day.
The rain seemed to pick up in momentum every time your brain screamed the different possibilities to itself. You couldn't sleep. You wouldn't until you knew he was safe and sound.
Some god might have been listening that night, he might have taken pity on your poor mortal soul for all that you'd lost, maybe the higher power who sent him back to you knew you'd need him yet. The sound of the large prison gates being pulled open was the sweetest music to your ears.
You remember racing out towards the gates to greet him, your joy faltering slightly as you took in his sorry state, soaked to the bone from the unrelenting rain and some gashes that decorated his cheek and arms, but alive nonetheless. Breathing is all you can ask for in this unforgiving new world. You know that now, more than ever.
That night you took him up to your room, the small cell in the furthest corner, which you claimed the first night you all fought your way into this block, although you didn't actually sleep in it for a good while. The fear overpowering your exhaustion. You can't really remember the cell walls anymore. The memory slipped from your brain slowly the more places you sought refuge in throughout the years.
You had walked him in slowly, closing the curtain behind you to conceal you both behind a screen. It almost gave the illusion of safety, being in a little room like that, secluded from prying eyes.
"Are you hurt badly?" you asked him quietly, grabbing a small towel and filling a bowl with some lukewarm water.
He shook his head from left to right, eyeing you warily as you lowered yourself to sit next to him with the now damp towel, gently dragging it up and down his bare arms to clear the grime away, your movements featherlight as you ghosted over a gash on his arm. A silence laid between you both, heavy but not exactly uncomfortable.
"Where else are you hurt?" you whispered, breaking the fragile silence, Daryl seemed to go ridgid at the question, staring straight ahead, chewing nervously on his bottom lip, a habit you had observed from him since way back at the quarry.
After a few long seconds in silence Daryl gently makes a move, removing the soaked leather vest, which fell to the ground with a wet plop, and slowly unbuttoning his dark grey shirt to reveal his back to you.
You held back a shocked gasp as you took in his back, long deep scars stretched across his back, colouring him in deep purples and reds. The scars have ragged and angry edges, and your body nearly ached at seeing them, mirroring his own pain in yourself. There was a new cluster of gashes where he must have skinned his back falling today. You gently shook yourself for pausing so long and sprung back into tending to his wounds. Thinking better than to acknowledge the blatant vulnerability in the moment for fear of scaring him off.
You reached out slowly to press the damp towel to his back, wishing desperately to somehow absorb the years of pain from his body, to take it into yourself and erase this past from him. However, as much as you wanted it to be possible, it wasn't. So you had to make do with easing the pain of his newest wounds, hoping to god you could convey the affection you held for him.
You cleaned his wounds with the utmost care that night, gentle movements that ensured the sting of the antiseptic was numbed, as you contemplated breaking the long, vulnerable silence.
"Daryl?" you had whispered attentively, the end of his name lilting up into a slight question. You weren't exactly sure what you were going to say yet.
"It's fine" He replied quickly, practically cutting you off, his tone gruff and almost defensive.
"it's not... it doesn't have to be fine" You whisper back, a small correction, desperately wanting, needing him to know that you cared.
The silence afterwards was long and painful, you were scared to move in case he snapped out of it, snatched his shirt back and left. in case he never spoke to you again after this, in case you pushed too far, crossed some line, some barrier he had.
What happened next was what you had least expected at the time. His shoulders, imperceptibly, started to tremble. it was such a slight movement that you could have missed it had you not been paying such close careful attention to the man before you.
You lay your hand carefully on his shoulder, offering him the slightest physical reassurance, the movement unsure and hesitant. You gave him space and time to flinch away, to turn sharply and tell you off before leaving.
But he didn't go. He didn't snap or shout or push or shove.
You kept your hand steady on the archer's back, slowly leaning forward to wrap your arms around him carefully, slow and steady in a deliberate effort not to startle him. After nearly a year in his company you had learned that Daryl startled easily, lashed out quick, and now you were beginning to understand the root cause. You cursed yourself for not seeing the signs sooner, for resenting his attitude in those first months, for arguing when he pushed you away.
It made sense now, and it broke your heart.
He let out a broken, shaky sigh as your arms wrapped around him, his breaths coming faster and irregularly as he finally let every defense crumble. In that moment nothing could have pulled you away from him, nothing at all. You were consumed by the need to comfort him, to soothe his aches and pains, to take the unbearable weight off of his shoulders.
After what felt like an eternity, and simultaneously not nearly long enough, the archer finally spoke.
“S’a hell of an ugly sight” He mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically broken, soft.
“No. no it's not… it… you could never be.” You whispered back, your voice hushed and gentle. You pulled back, gently beckoning him to turn to face you, desperate to tell him to his face.
“You're perfect, scars and all.” you whispered, grabbing his face up in both hands, urging him to believe, to understand. He just stared back stunned, his eyes searching yours long and hard. For a fleeting moment you were worried you had once again overstepped, that he would push you away and leave, running from you and the prison walls.
All doubt left your mind when he leaned forward, the horrific world surrounding you was suddenly forgotten as his lips met yours in a soft, gentle manner. It caught you off guard before you softened against him, giving in to the magnetic pull between you both. The world turned off around you, the horrific, awful things you'd seen, and done, together became irrelevant as he pulled you in. Your hands stayed cupped around his jaw as your other went to tangle in the hair as the back of his neck.
When he finally broke the kiss, he leaned back to give you a long, meaningful look, his eyes taking in your facial features, your short and rapid breaths mingling with one anothers in the inches between both your faces.
The storm raged on outside the prison walls, but the threat that night had been swiftly forgotten as you curled up in the Archers arms, so naturally it was as if you had been doing it your whole life.
That night will never leave your mind even now, when youre looking at him from across the room in your apartment in the commonwealth, watching him chasing RJ about the house as laughter fills the air, or when you're standing in the doorway, listening to him read to Judith.
It was the night he dropped his guard, the night he was brave enough to rip down the walls he had built to keep you out. The night he became yours.
