Work Text:
The incessant buzzing of the cicadas droned on with the ringing in your mind, and the warm grass and wet dirt were only meager offenses against your numbed senses. The sun was too bright and then night was too dark and everything was too easy and too hard. Too much had been happening lately, the infighting about the barn and the ensuing massacre, if you could call killing a bunch of those already turned into walkers by that term. The fallout from that was just as bad, the tension in the group, the smell of iron that seemed to seep into every corner of the world, the empty gaps which the loss of Sophia left in not only Carol’s heart, but the whole groups. It was all too much and you couldn’t handle it, understandably. But at the same time there was no escape, nothing to be done about it except turn into yourself or to someone else, as others in the group had already done, which in turn only made your situation feel more isolating. That is the context within which you find yourself sitting on the edges of the Greene family’s property, planted on the ground with your knees pulled to your chest, a rapid heartbeat playing beneath your skin, a combination of sweat and shivers dancing through your body. You’re tough, but there’s still only so much you can take, and this is far an escape as you can manage under the current circumstances.
With cracked lips that burn and skin so dry it tingles you squint out at the fields and the hills visible beyond their expanse, but no serenity can be found there. The worse part is that it isn’t even all of the violence that’s upset you the most, but something much more shameful that you hope only you know. What a stupid thing to dwell on, what a silly way to live you think, but it is no sooner that you think these things that a cracking sound close – too close – startles you. As a reflex, your hand moves to the magnum at your waist, but it only gets that far as you turn to see the source of the noise. Then, it’s no longer from fear that you stay close to the gun, but on the off chance you decide you’d rather use it on yourself than answer any of the questions you’re about to be asked by the figure approaching you. Your friend, an older man, a rival, an asshole, there’s many things that figure represents.
“Whatcha doin’ out here?” The question to you comes out cold, but softer than it should’ve, not that it makes any difference, it’s Daryl and there’s not a doubt in your head that he actually cares what you’re doing on any level deeper than surface suspicion or curiosity. “Just needed some space,” you replied shortly, though with a neutral tone. Daryl nodded, even if he wasn’t the best with emotions you knew he understood to an extent. “Do ya mind me asking what exactly you’re getting space from? Ain’t tryna be rude but this isn’t exactly far enough to get away from the scenes of death ‘been plaguing this place.” You look him in the eyes and, recognizing the truth of this, can do nothing but offer a weak shrug. “You don’t even know? Come on,” he protests. “We’re goin’ through the same things, is it Sophia and the barn? Herschel? The shit going on between Rick and Shane?” At each of these you felt something different, and Daryl, ever too observant, could tell just from looking at you what these feelings comprised. But something was missing, he could tell just as much you knew it, but what this something was Daryl couldn’t pin down. “Well, look, I dunno what it is that’s bothering you but think of it like this, with anything this commotion has bought us a bit more time here, all the better for us, best for Glenn and Maggie especially with what they got goin’ on.” At this, despite your best efforts, your expression shifted slightly, and like a hawk Daryl picked up on it instantly, in turn his face also morphing into an expression you couldn’t quite place before hardening itself again. A pause, and then the most smug fucking laugh you could imagine erupted from the man across from you. He shook his head a few times while he laughed and could barely choke out, “Don’t tell me that’s what’s got you down? You gotta be fucking kidding me!” before pressing his hand to his chest like he just got told the greatest joke ever. And this was your cue to leave. Immediately the thick soles of your boots pressed against the ground and you took off in the opposite direction of Daryl, but not before he caught his breath enough to call out to you. “Listen man, I knew you and Glenn had a thing a long while back but I didn’t expect you to still have feelings for him. Way to miss the ship,” and the laughter petered out while he said this.
You couldn’t believe how easily he could tell exactly what was bothering you, but also just how wrong he was about the whole thing. It wasn’t about Glenn, or at least that’s what you like to tell yourself. It was something else, an idea of being loveable, of falling back on those that loved you, of seeing those same people love someone else. You didn’t want Glenn, you wanted anyone, and as someone you once had and who once had you, Glenn was your best bet at a fantasy to dull the reality of life, a passion of the blood to quell its unstoppable spilling around you. But he was wrong, Daryl was wrong and that’s what mattered right now. “You’re wrong, you bastard,” you spat out in his direction, turning around fast enough to see his smirk falter, but only for a moment before it regained its position on his stupid fucking face. “I’m wrong? Fat chance. I see the way you look at him, the way you look at them, the way you look at yourself. I know that every time Glenn disappears into the house for the night you wish it was you under him, in front of him, on him,” Daryl’s tone had turned from one of suspicion to jeering, and it was pissing you off.
You walked towards him quickly, solidly, all the while spouting off at him. “You’re fucking wrong Daryl Dixon. It’s not him, or her, or any of you fuckers. I just –“, you stopped for a second. You’re supposed to be tough, able to handle anything, not privy to such emotional faults. But whatever, you’re already going off on him and him on you, you might as well get the full story out there. “It’s the feeling Dixon, the feeling of someone wanting you and holding you and for there to be something else for you in life other than a bullet in your skull.” You took a deep breath and considered your next words carefully, but not carefully enough. “Not that you’d know how that feels you sad fuck, I see how you isolate yourself, how you always sit to the side, you don’t speak unless spoken to. You want the same thing, but the difference is you never had it.” These last words came out like poison and you immediately regretted them, but not to the extent to take them back. You needed this, you’re angry and tired and sad and you’re taking it out on the wrong person but you don’t care.
Daryl’s smirk drops here more definitively, and his eyes narrow straight at you in disbelief. “You fucking with me? You must be, right? I know you’re not saying all this shit when I was just trying to see how you were doing. I shouldn’t even be here talking to your sorry ass. You act all brave and strong and shit but look at you now, moping over some dick you aren’t getting more than the death of your friends. Fucking pathetic man.” Another shake of the head, another chuckle and Daryl turned around and began walking away from you, as you knew he should. He was right and you were wrong yet, you still couldn’t face up to it. You still had an unrightful anger left in you, itching to get out, and so you did it the only way you could think of, by catching up the Daryl and socking him straight in the head, knocking him tumbling to the dry dirt below (this was only because you caught him off guard, he was stronger than you and you knew it.) Only a beat later though was he up on his feet and retaliating, just as you wanted him to, just as you knew he would, with an equally strong punch to your jaw, sending you stumbling. “Man, fuck you,” Daryl choked out in between pants, and he was soon on top of you, delivering blow after blow to your face. The pain was immense, but somehow perfect, for the first time in days bringing your bodily awareness back. And then you struck back too, with a kick in the stomach and your fist pounding onto Daryl’s head. And so it continued in this way, the one person who you could exchange real blows with without feeling horrible or guilty, strong or weak.
It wasn’t long before you could see blood streaming from Daryl’s nose and lips, above you, and the warm feeling of it dripping onto your face as he straddled you, not letting up his assault for a moment. It worked its way into your mouth and its iron tinged at your tongue, bitter and salty and gross and you felt equally disgusted and excited. Next, when you managed to regain control again it was your blood that you saw fall onto the corner of Daryl’s mouth, the image satisfying in the centre of your beginning-to-grow-black-around-the-edges vision. You savoured the picture, it fulfilled your tough-guy persona in ways you could only dream of, your blood mixing with the toughest guy in the group’s while you watched him struggle below you. That’s all you could see, red, red, and – suddenly there was something colourless falling onto Daryl’s face, and with each drop the expression on it softened. You looked up, foolishly, expecting rain before the realization hit you that it was your tears. Your tears on Daryl Dixon’s face. Your brave, strong, manly tears. Fuckkkkkkk…
This was the last thing you needed. You wanted a fight, an emotional release, not for your vulnerability to be put on display, physically making itself seen on Daryl’s face. You didn’t have to look at the sad sight much longer though before, taking advantage of your lapse in concentration, Daryl flipped you over and pushed your head against the dirt while trapping your torso under his hips. You kept fighting, you pushed your hands against his face and scratched and tried to keep fighting, but soon your hands were restrained under Daryl’s and you were forced to stop flailing and look him in the face. “Stop, fucking stop it.” He barked at you as the last bits of physical fight left your body. “What are you even doing? This fight isn’t worth it if you’re gone’ be crying over it,” he scoffed. “I don’t – I – I don’t fucking know…” you manage to get out, shameful and low. “Then stop it, let’s just talk”
You sat up as Daryl got off of you, and now the two of you sat on the ground, caked in mud and blood and sweat, facing each other with your chests still rising and falling quickly with the strain of the fight. Neither knew how to start the next conversation and a distinct silence fell upon the two of you, broken only by the droning sound of cicadas again. “Listen I- “ Daryl began, “You need help. I can help you. I don’t know exactly what you got fuckin’ goin’ on but I think I get it. You want to be held and wanted and I-,” an inhale, “I want to help you with that,” an exhale. Your eyes meet briefly and then you look away, not able to quite process what you just heard. Daryl continued, “What I’m trying to say is, fuck, maybe I want the same things too. And that if I could do those things for you, and you for me, well then maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Silence, a breath, two breaths. You open you mouth slowly, “I want you to help me Daryl, I wanna help you too,” you say, meeting his gaze as you finish your sentence. “A’right,” Daryl says and nods, and you can swear you see a smile flash across his face.
But now that its come down to it, neither of you were sure how you wanted to approach it, the only certainty being the rapid beating of your hearts filling the air now not due to physical exertion anymore but an emotional toil. You slowly move forward, scooting closer to Daryl as he looks you in the eye, and begin to remove the first layers of your clothing, stiff collared shirt, thick leather belt, and set them beside you as he does the same. Vest, belt, clinking to the side. Slowly, carefully you lower down your jeans and underwear beneath them to your knees, watching with bated breath as Daryl follows. Before either of you can move you speak up, “Listen, I ain’t easy and this isn’t the only thing I want, the only thing you can help with. I don’t want a quick fuck or anything… But what I’m saying is that it’s not a bad place to start either.” A quick chuckle escapes Daryl’s lips and a smile appears, this time staying long enough you can be certain it was ever there. “Okay,” he responds and nods as he makes his way over to you, cock red and swollen between his legs. You both get closer until your foreheads clunk together and you can smell nothing but the scent of Daryl’s sweat and blood, your legs spread on either side of his torse and his yours. Slowly, slowly, carefully and gently, Daryl reaches out and takes your smaller cock in his hand, drawing it together with his in one fistful as you press your lower halves together. He spits onto the two of you and squeezes, a trapped moan escaping both of your lips instantly at the touch.
A drop of precum drips from Daryl’s tip and you reach out, hesitantly, to wipe it off with your finger. He watches as you do so, biting his lip and looking from your finger, to your eyes, to your lips. You take your finger into your mouth and as your tongue laps up the substance you almost laugh at the situation. Who would’ve thought you, the younger, louder, brave-façade having member of the group would be tasting Daryl Dixon’s precum right now? But your feeling of incredulity is secondary to the passion you feel radiating through your whole body, pulsing in your clit, your hole, your head, at being touched and wanted, at being touched and wanted by Daryl. And you can tell he feels the same way, that he is enjoying being touched and wanted by you, his cock twitching as you pull your wet finger from your mouth with a lewd popping sound. Daryl swallows then begins, so slowly, so deliberately, to pump the two cocks in his hand together, up and down, spreading his spit and precum and sweat over the two of you. Your breath hitches as he continues, steadily, to move his hand. The two of you are both so touch-starved that each movement sends you both panting, gasping, moaning, twitching in a manner so lewd its shameful. Thank god you chose to come this far away from the camp, out of earsight and eyesight, so that the pleasure you and Daryl are getting from this belongs to you and you alone.
Surely Daryl’s pace picks up, along with the rapidity of the breaths coming from both of you. “Daryl, Daryl, Daryl Dixon, I-,” you moan softly into his ear, each calling of his name clipped with pleasure. “Shhh, shhhh, fuck, I know,” Daryl replies, his words equally laced with the ecstasy of the situation. Your words devolve into sounds as Daryl continues to jack the two of you off, squeezing and rubbing so fast, faster and faster and faster until finally – “Fuck” Daryl grunts out as he releases onto you, pattering against your lips, chest, and finally coming to cover his own hand still wrapped around the two of you with his cum, sticky and thick, just as you finish yourself, feeling your hole fill and begin to leak onto the ground. Daryl slowly pumps out the last few drops of himself before releasing his grip on you two and leaning back, chest rising and falling. You lean back too, lowering down on your elbows, and find yourself unable to look away from Daryl, the man who just now helped you, who wanted you, who you want. You lick your lips and can taste a mixture of blood and cum, what should be gross instead tasting like heaven, knowing that both fluids belong to the man across from you mixed with your very own. As you tip your head back with exhaustion and elation only one thought crosses your mind then, fuckin’ Daryl Dixon, and you hope, you know, you’re the only one on his mind too.