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Despite the whole ending of the world thing, autumn still comes on time.
The leaves change like they always have, trees bleeding rust-red and amber while the world beneath them rots. Some mornings, the wind smells like woodsmoke and wet earth, and for a blink, it almost feels like before.
Kids waiting for school buses. Grocery stores with bins of pumpkins out front. People still alive enough to complain about the cold creeping in.
Getting wasted by bonfires was a particular favorite.
But now the roads stay empty, save for the occasional abandoned car gone skeletal from scavenging.
Same season. Same chill in the air to warn of winter coming. Same golden light pouring through shedding trees.
Just shining on a different world.
Rick and Daryl left on a run that afternoon, scattering leaves in the wake of the car. Now that the sun’s about two hours from set, they agree they should probably head back to the prison before nightfall.
They enter the last room in the home together for the final sweep. It’s a study. A real damn nice one too. Full sets of dusty encyclopedias, mahogany desk, ornate filigree and shit.
Daryl rolls his eyes.
Academics.
Daryl and Rick toss gestures at each other, nod, then go to work. Daryl scans the shelves, and Rick searches the desk. They rummage for a while, searching for anything useful.
Daryl just finds more and more encyclopedias, stuffy novels without sleeve covers, and like, four dictionaries the size of small children.
So honestly, whatever. They should just head back—
Rick gasps. Loud.
Daryl spins around, hand at the ready on his knife. Only to see him holding up two Playgirl magazines like he’s struck gold.
Daryl rolls his eyes for a second time, but that doesn’t stop him from snatching one from him to thumb through.
They perv out for a while, ogling their respective porn.
Dicks, dicks, and more dicks.
That’s all fine and dandy. Pictures don’t really do it for Daryl. He has a hard time taking corny porn like this seriously. All the posing and posturing—
Oh.
But, actually.
Daryl stops flipping. He stares down at the page as his pulse kicks up. It’s hard to deny that this one does rile him; because this model in particular bears a striking resemblance to the man standing across the room from him.
It surprises Daryl when words float out with a deep breath. “I don’t wanna die a virgin.”
…What?
Daryl can feel Rick’s eyes on him instantly. Always knows when he’s looking at him. Daryl feels it on the back of his neck like warm breath over cold skin.
“You know, I could help with that,” Rick provides.
Daryl’s heart leaps into his throat. He turns and squints at him, face alight like kindling. “Fuck you. Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not.”
“Bullshit.”
Rick heaves a loud and dramatic sigh. “Do you want me to take your virginity, or not?”
Now he’s just taken aback. “Fuck you.”
A breeze drifts in through the window that haloes Rick in gold. The curtains dance around behind him. Rick simply tosses his own magazine on the desk beside him and turns to look at Daryl straight on.
Mouth flattened out. Eyes locked on hard.
Daryl squirms a bit when he sees the flicker of muscles tightening in his jaw. Most folks mistake this expression for anger, like he’s two seconds from snapping a neck. But Daryl knows better.
This is when he’s being earnest.
Regardless, he still waits for Rick to laugh and admit his joke.
He waits some more.
Waits.
And waits.
Daryl scoffs. “Seriously, quit—”
“Answer me.”
It’s devastating, really, because Rick isn’t trying to charm him. He isn’t performing. The yearning sits too close to the surface for that, glowing through and burning like lanternlight under cloth.
The longer he waits, the more obvious it becomes that Rick’s potentially being serious.
“Man,” Daryl mumbles, one hand coming up to fidget with his crossbow strap, “don’t need a pity fuck if that’s what you’re doin’ right now.”
“Doesn't have shit to do with pity. So let me rephrase with your own words." Rick takes a slow step toward him. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Daryl's ears burn now, heart hammering against his ribs. Every instinct screams to say no and run, but Rick holds him in place with that fucking stare. The same one that always gets confessions in the end.
Daryl swallows the dryness in his throat. "Ain't—" His voice cracks. Clears his throat. Tries again. "Ain't built like them magazine guys."
"Didn't ask you to be."
“Rick—I’m—”
“Dixon,” Rick snaps, “just answer me before I get pissed.”
A pause. “You seriously want—?”
“Yes, dammit. I want to fuck you.”
Those words bounce around in Daryl's head. His teeth gnaw on the inside of his lower lip, hard.
This came out of nowhere, and it’s happening so fast. It feels like the room’s filling with water, which might explain that drowning sensation. Or maybe that’s why he feels so out of his depth.
Regardless, Daryl’s adrenaline is firing.
He’s had fantasies that start like this. With Rick cornering him and screwing him against the wall. Hands everywhere. Breath hot. Hand clamped around Daryl’s neck.
Fuck.
Stop.
Now’s a bad time to think about that.
Or maybe it isn’t?
“Daryl,” Rick presses.
Shit, even if it is a pity fuck, he’ll take it. He’ll take anything Rick gives him.
God.
Before Daryl can psych himself out any more, he nods. Just once, with a small and jerky dip of his chin.
That’s all Rick needs to start walking at Daryl with purpose, eyes locked on as he moves.
It’s stupid.
Dammit, they’ve fought side by side for months. Daryl’s seen pity on Rick’s face before. Like when Daryl pukes up bad water and bleeds through bandages. When he mourned the loss of his brother. When he comes back from hunts empty handed.
This isn't that.
Shit, this is an expression he's never seen before. Fury and desperation and infatuation all twisted up together.
Rick’s hand flashes out once he’s in front of him, grips Daryl by his chin, then his kiss lands like a punch.
Mm, Daryl’s first kiss, actually.
Daryl’s breath stutters out through his nose, his body locking up as Rick’s other hand snakes around him to grab his ass. Daryl’s mouth falls open with a gasp, and Rick deepens the kiss like he’s claiming the space he made there—
Fuck, that’s Rick’s tongue.
He’s seen Glenn and Maggie kiss hundreds of times, casual pecks in the prison yard, cutesy mouthing beside the fences.
Rick doesn’t kiss like that.
This is teeth and spit and eager hands shoving the crossbow strap off his shoulder like it’s the first piece of clothing to go.
Honestly, Rick kisses like he fights. All rage and no goddamn patience.
Daryl can’t keep up. Doesn’t know how to. Tries to follow Rick’s lead, but their noses bump and he can’t stop gasping and their teeth click every time he moves.
Daryl also doesn’t know if he’s supposed to push him or pull him or hug him. Or, apparently, just stand there like an idiot.
He’s still holding his goddamn magazine.
Daryl promptly drops it, but his hands still hover uselessly in the air.
Regardless of his nervous fumbling and inexperience, Rick licks into his mouth like he’s something divine. Daryl goes for a groan, but a whine comes out instead. He’d care more if he wasn’t stuck between his grasp and the shelf right behind him.
But then Rick fucking growls, all low and possessive, and Daryl’s knees wobble.
His hands finally move, fisting in the back of Rick’s shirt. The fabric wrinkles under his grip, and Rick doesn’t seem to give a shit. He just keeps kissing him as he shoves Daryl backward into the bookshelf.
A puff of dust rises around them when a few novels tip over—
Rick wedges his thigh between Daryl's legs and pushes up.
A moan climbs out of Daryl, and Rick groans as he swallows the sound. The muscles in his thigh flex as he presses up harder. Then he's just chuckling all self-satisfied and rubbing Daryl’s cunt with his knee.
God, Daryl’s already dizzy with it. He shudders and throbs under that perfect pressure, like his body’s already decided what his brain’s still too worried to admit.
He tears his mouth away from the kiss by whipping his head to the side. He sucks in a breath, then pants while Rick’s lips bite at his chin, his jaw, anywhere he can reach.
“Rick—” Daryl chokes out, but he doesn’t even know what he’s saying it for.
Stop? More?
Both?
There’s a strange fever blooming fast behind his ribs. Makes his stomach feel like it’s full of boiling water. It’s humiliating just how worked up he feels already.
Hell, Daryl doesn’t even think he’s ever felt this horny in his entire fucking life.
Rick kisses across his cheek, then down to his neck.
Damn, forget embarrassment, whatever the fuck Rick’s mouth is doing on his throat feels incredible. Rick grabs his hair and pulls his head to the side to attack his pulse.
It’s no secret that he’s already getting wet. Daryl knows, virginity disregarded, that Rick is good at this. He’s swept up in it, and all he really wants is to stand there and let Rick take him apart, piece by piece.
The house isn’t secure though. Missing doors and broken windows leave them too exposed.
They can’t risk a walker bite for some quick sex.
The thought is quickly forgotten when Rick wraps an arm around his waist and kisses him again.
Daryl finally starts to get the hang of kissing when Rick sweeps him up and away from the shelves. Daryl lets himself be backed up until his thighs are trapped against the edge of the desk.
God, then Daryl’s held and tilted backward overtop the surface of the desk. His spine meets cold mahogany just as Rick’s hand explores below the hem of his shirt.
Rick’s mouth takes a tour, kissing down his neck and along his collarbone.
Daryl wraps his legs around Rick unconsciously, rolls his hips against him when he sucks on his jugular.
Rick hums against his throat. “Got you that worked up already?” He grinds down between his thighs.
A shaky breath leaves Daryl when the hard line of his cock rubs against him. “You’re one to talk, jackass. I can feel your dick.”
Rick chuckles. “Oh, I don’t remember saying I wasn’t worked up.” His lips find Daryl’s neck again, kisses lingering, open-mouthed and slow.
Daryl acknowledges arousal pooling like honey in his stomach, and it’s just fucking humiliating all over again.
Rick groans against Daryl’s neck when he grinds around on his cock in helpless little circles. The pressure is right where he needs it most too.
“Desperate, hm?” Rick teases.
“Get bent.”
Rick grinds down into him this time, and he doesn’t stop moving. “That’s your job.”
It feels so good, dammit, but it only serves to remind Daryl of the compromised safety in the home.
Rick’s hands slide around his thighs, gripping tight as he hauls him even closer, until his cock presses tight and firm against his cunt.
Daryl’s head drops back with a moan and lands hard on the desk.
Then Rick stops altogether. Daryl doesn’t know when his eyes shut, but they flash open when the heat of Rick’s body retreats.
Daryl blinks at him, panting. “What’re y’doin’? Don’t stop—”
Oh.
Rick’s vertical, already working Daryl’s belt open.
Daryl stiffens, hands flying down to clutch his wrists. "Wait—fuck—jus’ wait a second—"
“Let go.” Rick whips his arms out of his grip and continues pulling leather from the buckle. "You’re rubbin’ all over me. Let’s just expedite the process.”
He gets the belt undone, and because Daryl's not sure he wants him to stop, his hands go slack when Rick moves to the button and pops it.
Daryl's pulse thrums in his throat, erratic and panicked. His shirt rides up when Rick’s calloused hands slide up over his ribs.
God. It’s too much.
"Seriously. Hold on—" Daryl chokes out.
“You were beggin’ just a second ago,” he murmurs, “now you’re all shy?”
Daryl knees him in the side. “Fuck—it ain’t that.”
"What is it, then?" His voice is all rough amusement and smoke. Rick’s thumbs hook into the waistband of Daryl’s jeans, pushing them down to the tops of his thighs. “Well?”
Daryl swallows hard, mouth opening and closing. Shit, he doesn’t even know. His fingers dig into the edge of the desk as Rick’s attention shifts down to where he’s got his jeans down, ready to keep going.
He leans forward and props himself over Daryl again.
"House ain’t secure," Daryl blurts out, hips trying to twitch away when Rick’s hand slides its way up the inside of his thigh.
Rick hums as he strokes a thumb so close to where he’s aching beneath his boxers. "And? I got a clear view and shot of the door."
“Nah, I don’t wanna risk—”
“Oh, don’t wuss out on me, Daryl.”
“I’m not! We could move to the car or something—”
“Car sex sucks. I refuse to deflower you in a Chrysler minivan.”
Daryl groans, head dropping to the desk as he deadpans at the ceiling. Rick’s thumb slides across the seam of him, feather-light and teasing.
Daryl jolts. "If a goddamn walker gets in here—"
“Aw,” Rick patronizes, “you don’t trust me to keep you safe?”
“Fuck you. I’m serious.”
"What’re they gonna do?" Rick’s grin is wicked. His thumb continues its taunt along the crease of Daryl’s thigh. "They gonna watch?"
Daryl flinches and a surprised moan flies out of him when Rick finds home, the pad of his thumb pressing right on his clit over his boxers.
Rick looks down at his hand in disbelief. “You’re already this wet?”
"Don’t," Daryl warns, hands coming up to cover his face. “Please don’t talk like that.”
"No?"
Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick’s hand takes a firm path lower, pressing against his entrance and sweeping side to side.
He can hear how slick he is, feels it.
“God, I can’t believe how wet you are.”
Daryl groans in embarrassment. "Quit mockin’ me and just do somethin’," he growls into his palms.
Rick hums. "You’re awful bossy for someone who’s worried about walkers getting in." His forefingers replace his thumb and rub him in wide, slow circles. "Thought we weren’t safe in here?"
Daryl’s face burns when his voice cracks on a moan. Everything Rick says or does just lands in his chest and travels straight south to his cunt. It’s starting to piss him off.
Made especially worse when Rick’s fingers press harder with a slow, torturous drag over his clit.
That’s what does it.
The embarrassment surges hot up his neck, flooding his face. He can’t even fucking breathe right, let alone pretend he’s got any control here.
"Shit—"
“Oh, somethin’ wrong?” Rick murmurs, all fake innocence. His fingers flex, rubbing harder. “Feelin’ needy?”
“Quit talkin’ like—”
“Hey, I’m serious. Don’t wuss out on me.”
“Dammit, I just said quit talkin’ like that—”
“Yeah? What happens if I don’t?”
Daryl’s frustration and embarrassment clashes with his arousal when Rick starts rubbing him with fervor. Until there’s too much energy trapped inside him.
Every instinct screams run.
But the longer he sits in that instinct, the more he realizes that he doesn’t necessarily want to run to get away.
Just wants to run to be caught.
He doesn’t understand it, and he definitely can’t make sense of it when he’s being touched just how he likes.
Daryl pants as he stares up at Rick, like he has all the answers. Rick just looks right back at him, flushed warm from the dim light bouncing in through the window. He’s shaking.
Daryl can’t shake the urge to run.
His fingers tighten around Rick’s shoulders.
Then he shoves him.
Hard.
Rick lets out a startled noise, then Daryl plants both boots against his chest and kicks off again with enough force to send him stumbling backward even farther.
The desk creaks when Daryl sits up and slides off the edge of the desk.
Adrenaline tears through him bright as lightning as he bolts for the hallway, buttoning his pants.
“The hell you think you’re goin’?” Rick starts. Daryl dashes past him with a quick, nervous laugh that feels too young coming out of him. “Oh, we’re playin’ games now?”
That tone sends a thrill down Daryl’s spine. He turns left down the hall, boots pounding the warped floorboards, more anxious laughter trying to climb up his throat.
He barely makes it four strides.
Rick catches the back of his vest and stops him with one hard yank.
Daryl’s laugh finally escapes him as he’s dragged backward, momentum breaking apart under him. Rick spins him and shoves him back into the wall.
The impact knocks a moan out of him.
Rick’s kissing him again before he can prepare for it.
Daryl’s hands fly up to grip Rick’s shoulders, who prepares for a shove again. He doesn’t though. Not yet, not when both of Rick’s hands slide around his waist, then down into his back pockets to grope and squeeze his ass possessively.
Daryl makes a sound he doesn’t recognize.
“You know, I never considered that you’d be a tease,” Rick mutters against his lips. “But then again, you’re always lookin’ for trouble.”
Rick gropes him again, then his mouth is everywhere.
Neck, collarbones, anywhere skin peeks through the collar of Daryl’s shirt. It’s overwhelming, the way his lips move from one patch of skin to the next, biting, sucking, marking.
Daryl’s head thumps back against the wall.
Rick starts yanking at his vest with an urgency that disarms him. Daryl lets him push it down until it falls behind his feet to the ground below.
Daryl’s chest heaves. “Shit, Rick—I’m—” He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say. The whole articulating his thoughts thing still isn’t working in his favor.
Rick licks a hot stripe from his throat to his ear, then whispers, "You’re thinkin' too damn much."
Sure. He probably is, but it doesn’t help him to hear it out loud, at all.
Rick pulls Daryl’s hips forward with his grip on his ass, and all those racing thoughts scatter in the wind, because Daryl finds blissful friction on his thigh. Rick grinds right back against him.
Daryl’s fingers flex uselessly before deciding to come up and tangle in the curls at Rick’s nape. He tugs at it a bit and gets an encouraging groan of appreciation.
Rick starts thumbing open the buttons of Daryl’s shirt.
Fuck.
Run.
Daryl shoves hard at Rick’s chest, trying to get himself free, but Rick’s arm bands around his waist like a steel trap.
“Still wanna bolt, huh?” One hand snaps up and catches Daryl’s chin, forcing his face forward. “You really think you can outrun me?”
“Goddammit,” Daryl spits, twisting and bucking against him, but Rick just drives him into the wall hard with a shoulder and keeps going until this shirt hangs open.
Desire sparks hot beneath Daryl’s ribs. It only makes him thrash harder, pulse hammering loud enough to make everything sound muffled. He shoves again, this time with enough force to stagger Rick back half a step.
That’s all he needs.
Daryl shoves an elbow into his chest as he tears free. Rick tries to snatch his wrist, but Daryl’s able to get away in time. He turns around and gets low, backing up and waiting for Rick to come at him again.
“You’re really pissin’ me off,” Rick warns, sounding dangerous. “You want a chase? Is that it?”
“Yeah.”
Daryl spins and moves down the hall fast, breath sawing in and out of his chest. He turns the corner at the end with a middle finger held up. He turns again and sprints through the French doors into the dining room.
He tries to slam the door shut behind him, but his hand slips on the knob. The latch barely clicks before Rick’s already shoving through after him.
Daryl curses and rounds the dining table. He yanks a chair into Rick’s path, wood screeching across wood.
Rick vaults it cleanly without even slowing down.
Of fucking course he does.
Daryl sidles through the French doors and back into the hallway. Rick’s right behind him.
The hall ends in the kitchen, and it looks like a dead end at first glance. Then he spots the back door.
Daryl pivots hard, boots skidding across the tile as he tears toward it.
He only makes it halfway.
Rick crashes into him from behind with enough force to knock the air from his lungs. One hand slides around his waist to cinch tight around Daryl’s stomach. The other fists into his hair and jerks his head back.
Oh, fuck yes.
Heat flashes through him so fast it makes him shudder. He bites down hard on the sound clawing up his throat, it comes out gritted anyway.
“Listen to that,” Rick taunts. “Knew you’d like a little hair pulling.”
“Screw you,” Daryl grits.
Rick steers him by the head toward the kitchen island like he’s got him on a goddamn lead. Daryl staggers forward until the edge of the counter digs into his hips. Rick pins him to it from behind.
Rick yanks back on his hair again. He’s clearly looking for another reaction, and Daryl hates that he gives him one. He grunts as Rick bends him forward over the island.
Daryl almost doesn’t brace himself in time, palms smacking flat against the cold, dusty granite before he’s on his chest.
Rick tugs him back to get Daryl’s jeans open again. He forces them back down to mid-thigh again. He hooks his finger into the elastic of Daryl’s boxers. He doesn't pull, just keeps it there as he leans forward over him.
It's infuriating at this point.
"What's stoppin' ya, huh?" Daryl growls. "Take 'em off."
"Nothin's stoppin' me, Dixon. I just like this little game you’re playin’ with me." Rick takes a deep breath and presses forward against his ass.
Daryl whines, and he's immediately horrified by the sound of it.
Rick seems to like it though. "Damn," he laughs, “I really didn’t think you'd sound this pathetic."
“Eat shit.”
Rick yanks his head back again. “Watch it.”
The sharp sting races down his spine, landing with a shock in his gut, and fuck, that really shouldn’t feel so good. Shouldn’t make him moan like that. Shouldn’t give him that restless feeling in his hips.
But it does.
God, it does, and the realization punches through him like a bullet.
The shame should be worse. Should claw at him, make him shove Rick off and tell him to stop for real. But all he does is press back against him, grinding like he’s got no fucking pride left.
Rick’s hand glides up to his chest, rough fingers exploring the bare skin there, then they travel back down.
Down.
His hand isn’t stopping.
Oh. Please, fuck.
Glides over Daryl’s hipbone, then beneath the waistband of his boxers.
Daryl tenses, expecting him to finally touch him where he needs it, but his hand just continues its path, gliding straight down his leg. He grips Daryl’s thigh then slides his hand along the inside of it.
Teasing.
Torturing.
Daryl grumbles a quiet, "Asshole." He twists his hips, trying to get his touch where he needs it.
“Watch your fuckin’ mouth.”
Rick’s hand leaves his boxers to instead grind forward against him with slow, languid rolls of his hips. Rick grips his hip tightly, holding him still as he starts to rock against him. The way the rough denim of Rick’s jeans teases the heat between his thighs is maddening.
Daryl arches, tilting back to meet his rhythm. “Please.”
“Please, what?”
Daryl’s words dam up in his throat.
“I thought you said walkers were gonna get us.” Rick’s other hand slides up Daryl’s spine, fingers threading through his hair to yank on it again.
Daryl chokes when Rick grinds harder.
Rick goes on, “Seems like you forgot all about that.”
“Didn’t—”
“You just wanna get fucked right here on the counter, don’t you?”
“I don’t—”
“That’s a yes or no question.”
“Rick—”
“Uh-uh. Try again.”
Daryl’s fingers scrape dust off the granite as Rick’s grip in his hair tightens. “N-Not safe.”
“Still got somethin’ smart to say?” Rick murmurs. "Huh?"
"No."
"No, what?"
"I don't have—" Daryl gulps. "Don't have anythin’ smart to say."
"Glad to hear it." Rick hauls him away from the counter by his hair, turns him, then pushes him toward the back door. “Now run.”
Daryl yanks his pants back up over his hips. He shoulders the screen door open, emerging into the back yard.
The autumn chill hits him like a wall. Daryl blinks against the setting sun throwing Georgian gold across the overgrown yard. The air smells like spice and something sweet. If he squints enough at the memory, it reminds him of apple cider.
That comfort is fleeting though. The creak of the screen door behind him urges him to speed up. He breaks into a brisk jog on the patio, speeding up again when he hits the grass.
Rick's bootsteps are slow and predatory back there. It’s clear that he already knows who’s gonna win this game, and now he's just having fun with it.
Daryl glances over his shoulder. Rick follows him. He’s not running. Not yet. But he starts walking faster, gaze locked on Daryl like he’s a mark.
Daryl sees a pole barn and makes for it. He knows he’ll never outrun Rick. Knows his long legs and stubborn streak will close the gap sooner or later.
But, fuck, that just makes it better.
Daryl turns and cuts toward the vehicles just outside the pole barn. An old maple stands sentinel at the edge of the building. He ducks under a low-hanging limb, then his heart drops into his stomach.
Distantly, he hears Rick’s footfall quicken behind him. It lights a fire under his ass and he starts sprinting.
Rick does too.
No more playing. No more patience. Just the heavy thud of boots gaining ground, closer, closer, until Daryl can practically feel the heat of him at his back.
He only has enough time to run into a row of rusting cars and an old camper van.
And he's cornered himself yet again.
Daryl slows only for one second to reassess, but apparently that’s all the time Rick needs. His arms snake around his waist, yanking him backward into the solid wall of his chest.
Rick chuckles, breath coming quickly. “Doesn’t seem like you’re trying very hard to get away from me.”
Daryl grunts, twisting, but Rick’s grip is immovable, breath hot against Daryl’s neck as he navigates him toward a Mustang Fastback. With a rough shove, Rick tilts Daryl forward over the car’s hood until his palms flatten on metal, still warm from the afternoon sun.
Rick shoves Daryl’s jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh this time.
Oh, fuck, finally.
Rick smacks his ass so hard that Daryl knows a handprint is already welting on his skin.
Daryl’s barely finished reacting to it when Rick’s eager hand dives between his legs. He finds his clit with far too much finesse. Daryl’s legs snap together on instinct.
Rick tsks against the back of his neck. “None of that, now.” His boot nudges between Daryl’s feet, then kicks them apart. "Spread ‘em."
His legs obey, hips tilting forward into Rick’s touch when he finds his clit again.
"God, you're fuckin' soaked, Dixon."
Daryl grinds down against Rick’s hand, simply moving how it feels good. Clumsy and boneless, and Rick just keeps rubbing and rubbing. Daryl’s arms wobble, head dropping between his shoulders.
“Lower—”
“Oh, lower, huh?” Rick laughs. His hand follows his request, a single finger gliding through his folds before slipping right into his cunt. “This where you need it?”
With a long, affirmative moan, Daryl melts, collapsing forward onto the hood of the car.
Rick props himself over him and thrusts his index finger, slow and easy. That alone makes his knees tremble. When he adds a second and it glides in easily, they buckle.
Rick doesn’t let him fall, just grips him around his ribs and hauls him upright again, Daryl’s back pressed to his chest.
God.
“More—” Daryl cuts himself off with a gasp when Rick starts fingerfucking him with enthusiasm.
He doesn’t finish the thought. Can’t.
Won’t.
Ever.
Doesn’t need to.
He can’t think, not while Rick’s palm keeps bumping into his clit like that.
Then he’s pushing a third in, and now Daryl feels the stretch. His thighs tremble, then snap together. Rick catches them with his knees, forcing them back open. Daryl tries to resist doing it again, but his body moves before he can stop it, knees coming together.
“Did you forget what I said about pissing me off, Dixon?” Rick growls. His lips drag over the curve of his shoulder as he pulls Daryl’s shirt all the way off his arms. “Ever touched yourself like this?”
"Never that far insi—Fuck—"
"Mhm?" Rick hums. "Too chicken?"
"Go to hell."
"Damn, you got a mouth on you."
Daryl’s glad he has his legs pinned now. They really wouldn’t keep him vertical otherwise.
And before long, Daryl’s world narrows to the filthy, wet sound of Rick’s fingers fucking into him. His hips writhe, chasing the pressure, but Rick’s grip around his waist keeps him still, forcing him to take it exactly how he gives it.
It’s too much—the stretch, the burn, the way Rick’s free hand fists in his hair again and yanks his head back to look at his expression.
“Yeah, there he is,” Rick murmurs. His fingers curl inside, rubbing against something that makes Daryl whine like a fucking dog. “That’s it, c’mon. Lemme hear ya.”
Rick's hand pistons between his thighs. The rough smack of his palm meeting Daryl's clit sends him to a planet all its own.
Oh.
Wait, shit. Oh.
Daryl pants rough and ragged as he feels the familiar build. “Rick.”
“Mhm?”
“Think’m gonna—”
“Oh, not yet you aren’t.”
Rick wrenches him up by the hair. He guides him toward the camper van and Daryl stumbles around as he goes, jeans low around his thighs.
When Daryl hears the clink of a belt behind him, for a dizzying second, he thinks, at long last, Rick’s going to get his cock out and fuck him.
He hears a clink again, but it’s not Rick’s belt.
It’s his holster.
Rick steers Daryl’s head toward the camper door.
The cold muzzle of Rick’s revolver presses against the back of his skull, fleeting, before sliding away to point past his shoulder. The barrel gleams in the fading light as he aims it toward the door of the camper van.
“Open it,” Rick murmurs.
Daryl obeys without thought, hinges groaning as he swings it wide. Dust motes swirl in the dim interior.
No groans, no shuffling. Just stale air carrying the warm scent of sunbaked leather.
Rick’s gun vanishes from his periphery with a smooth click of the hammer, holstered before Daryl can blink.
Rick shoves him forward, and Daryl stumbles. The toe of his boot catches on the doorframe, and he goes down.
Daryl goes down chest-first with a grunt, ribs bouncing off linoleum. He crawls to the couch to regain some dignity, but Rick denies him of that.
Just as he makes it to the cushions, Rick drags him backward by the ankle. Daryl hisses when the skin of his stomach squeaks and skids along the floor.
Daryl twists, kicking at him with his free foot. Rick dodges and hauls him even closer. Daryl's fingers dig into the rug by the sink in vain as he’s pulled and flipped over.
Daryl starts panicking once he’s turned onto his back.
Rick pins Daryl’s leg down, his boot laces snapping under impatient tugs. Rick wrenches the first one off and tosses it behind him into the grass. The second boot follows, and his socks are gone just as fast.
Rick’s fingers hook into the waistband of Daryl’s jeans and boxers with no ceremony. One rough pull drags them down and off.
Daryl’s breath hitches. The cold autumn air hits his bare ass, his cunt, the backs of his thighs, but it’s the hungry look in Rick’s eyes that makes him shiver.
Daryl feels like he blinks. Then Rick’s naked.
All of him—
Oh.
Daryl’s breath halts and dissolves into his chest.
Rick’s cock juts out from his hips, veins snaking along his shaft to the tip,, flushed angry red. It looks like it belongs in one of those magazines they found earlier. The kind Daryl scoffed at for being unrealistic.
Well, here it is.
“Ain’t no way,” Daryl rasps. “You tryna kill me?”
Rick exhales through his nose, amused. He shuts the camper door behind him and takes a step toward the couch and sits down onto it. He slouches back, fist closing around his cock and holding it up just for show.
Rick pats his thigh and crooks a finger at him. “C’mere.”
He stays right where he is on the floor. "Nah."
Rick’s all cool nonchalance. “I'll make it fit.”
Daryl blinks. “You’ll make it fit?”
“Yeah. Now get over here before I start dragging you around again.” He spreads his legs wider on the couch, stroking his cock lazily. "You think I’m playin’ around?"
Daryl must hesitate a second too long, because Rick’s patience snaps. He sits up quick, hand shooting down to keep his promise. Daryl concedes. “Okay, fine. Damn.”
He climbs up onto Rick’s lap.
Slowly.
Fuck, he’s so nervous. He has no idea what to do or how to do it.
“There you go,” Rick murmurs. His hands slide around to the back of his thighs, coaxing him forward until he’s straddling him.
Feeling Rick’s hands gliding around on his bare skin just reminds him how unbelievably out of his depth he is. Not to mention how fucking sensitive he is.
Rick pushes down on his legs. “Lower. Yeah, like that.” He slouches even more as he readjusts his cock to lay flat on his stomach, then he tilts his hips up, dragging the length through his folds.
Daryl’s clit catches on the head with every roll of his hips. His brain feels heavy, so he slumps forward against Rick’s shoulder.
Rick exhales through his nose, amused. “C’mon, rub on me,” he coaxes.
Daryl’s hips stutter, clunky for all of two seconds before giving in to the slow roll Rick’s guiding him into.
"Fuck. Feels s’damn good," Daryl admits breathlessly.
“Good,” Rick praises, fingers digging into the meat of Daryl’s ass. “Shit, I still can't get over how wet you are.”
Daryl’s pulse thunders in his ears, heat crawling up his neck. He should be mortified, but Rick groans, urging him on. All of that chasing feels childish compared to how adult he’s being right now.
“Okay, hey,” Rick rasps, “I want you to try takin’ me.”
Daryl nods nervously and reaches down between them.
Rick’s cock is hot against his palm, thick and heavy, pulsing when he wraps his fingers around it. He’s so damn soft and smooth. Daryl floats out an appreciative sigh as he traces along a vein.
Rick scoffs. “Never had anyone look at my dick with heart eyes like that before.”
“Stop.” Daryl shoves at his shoulder, then shifts his weight forward. He angles Rick’s cock toward his entrance as best he can, but the second the head presses against him, his fingers slip.
It slides uselessly across his folds, smearing wet on the inside of his thigh.
Daryl exhales sharply through his nose, frustration already prickling under his skin. Being scrutinized is bad enough, but eyes on him when he’s naked makes him want to vanish.
Especially when he can’t get Rick’s dick inside him.
"How the hell’s this supposed to fit?" Daryl grits out. He shifts his weight again.
“It will,” Rick soothes. “Just breathe.”
Breathe?
Sure.
With a scowl, Daryl tilts his hips around in restless circles to see if he can get him inside his cunt any easier.
The main problem is that he’s still too scared to force it.
Both of them groan when the head of his cock rubs hot along the seam of him, because that alone feels pretty damn great. Daryl could just grind along the length of him until he loses it, but again, he ain’t no fucking quitter.
Rick is already wet with Daryl's slick, which biologically, is meant to ease the glide.
Clearly it ain’t doing shit.
Maybe he’s just broken or something.
At least they found a decent seat for Rick to lean back on while he twiddles his goddamn thumbs. Daryl’s been trying at this for too long already.
Nothing is working in his favor here.
Syrupy golden sunlight slants through the window above the couch, directly in Daryl’s eyes. Lights him up like a fucking exhibit. Can’t even see Rick’s face because he’s in shadow down there.
Motes of dust swirl around whenever he puffs a breath. Which he’s doing a lot of, apparently. His chest is shiny with sweat.
Fuck, it’s hot in the sun.
Daryl’s always heard that first times were awkward, but that’s the thing, it’s not just awkward. It’s straight up fucking humiliating. He’s making a fool of himself.
Obviously Rick’s not the virgin here, so he could cut himself some slack, but Daryl’s pride won’t let him do that.
Daryl exhales hard through his nose, lifts higher, tries again. Daryl bites back a noise when the head of his cock catches, thighs trembling.
Then it slips. Again. Even with how wet he is.
Hell, maybe that’s why it keeps happening.
Regardless, Daryl grits his teeth and tries again.
Slips.
"You gotta push down, Daryl.” Rick’s grip on his hips tightens and he moans, head dropping back against the back of the couch. “You're teasin’ me."
Yeah right. Daryl wishes he had that much control of the situation.
Maybe they should just stop.
"Don't think you’re gonna fit.” Daryl’s shoulders slump. “‘S fine, we ain’t gotta—"
“No, no, no.” Rick clutches the back of Daryl’s neck and pulls him down until their foreheads bump together. "Yes I will. You really need to breathe."
“I can’t—”
“Daryl.” A laugh bubbles out of him.
"Quit laughin'. You got a damn tree trunk between your legs."
Rick barely holds back his chuckle. "Listen. You’re just thinkin’ too hard." His hands leave Daryl’s nape in favor of resting on his waist again. "Please, lemme help you."
“Nah. I got it.” Daryl swallows, shifts again. Focuses on loosening the tension coiled tight in his thighs.
Tries.
Slips.
“Dammit.”
"Breathe, Dixon."
"'M tryin', man, shit."
“I know. You’re tryin’ so hard.”
Slip.
“Fuckin’—”
“D, you gotta push down harder than that.” Rick’s thumbs rub circles on his belly. “It’ll hurt, but you’ll adjust. Promise.”
Daryl knows it’ll fucking hurt. That’s exactly what he’s afraid of.
Regardless, he tries once more, because he ain’t no goddamn quitter.
Slip.
Just as Daryl’s about to start raging, Rick catches his chin in his hand and makes him focus on him instead.
Daryl melts into him a bit.
Rick’s eyes are serious. “You’re gonna stop being so damn stubborn, and you’re gonna let me help you.”
Daryl nods as best he can, then Rick’s doing exactly that. Daryl sits up as Rick adjusts the angle for him. He tilts his pelvis far more forward.
It’s shameful just how off the mark he was.
Rick holds his cock up for him. “There we go,” he sighs. “Now sit. C’mon.”
Daryl takes a shaky breath, looks up at him, then back down. Rick holds him in place and pushes up at the same time as Daryl’s weight settles.
Daryl hisses.
A little more—
“Shit, D.” Rick groans low in his throat. “Let me in.” He pushes up against him with more force.
Daryl chokes out an, "Oh, oh—"
Then his breath shatters as the head of Rick’s cock bullies its way inside him. His hand flies to the back of the couch and white knuckles it.
“Goddammit, Rick—”
His thighs tremble with the effort of staying there, of not lifting back off immediately. Everything burns. Deep, radiating pressure that makes him want to cry.
Rick looks desperate all of a sudden. “Your cunt’s tight as hell,” he rasps.
"You're splittin' me in half."
"Breathe."
Daryl starts panting.
"Breathe slowly."
"Man, quit with that meditation shit. Tryin’ not to die right now."
"Want some more help?"
“No, fuckin’, just—shit—just gimme a second.”
Rick's hands skate up his sides to rest on the dips in his waist. The warmth and tenderness of Rick’s palms is absurdly comforting, considering the rest of him is threatening to rearrange his insides.
"You're doin’ good," Rick smiles.
The praise pops like little sparks in Daryl’s chest. He heaves a deep breath and glances down at him. "Doin' good?"
“Yeah, real good.”
The sun has dipped far enough behind the trees for him to properly see Rick’s face now. Kind of wishes he couldn’t though, because whenever Daryl whimpers or gasps, he sees Rick’s expression tick, like he’s enjoying the sound of it or something.
Daryl shoves a hand into his cheek and groans. "Quit watchin’ me like that."
Rick chuckles. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“Stop.”
Daryl braces for something stupid when Rick’s mouth opens, breath held and hesitating.
"You’re cute like this," he finally says.
Yep. Stupid.
Doesn’t matter that he braced for it either. It still kicks him in the chest.
"Christ, man—Quit with the sappy shit."
“What? I can’t say you’re cute?”
Daryl slaps a hand over Rick’s mouth before he can say anything worse. “Nah.”
Rick’s lips twitch under his palm, warm and unbearably fond.
Daryl wants to strangle him.
Rick’s breath puffs hot against his palm, and Daryl can feel the shape of his smile. Sees it in his eyes.
Daryl really thought all of this taking-your-virginity shit would be rough and quick, something to get over with. Not whatever the hell this is turning into.
Rick’s breathing has gone shaky and fast. He doesn’t remember when that happened. Daryl lowers his hand from his mouth.
“Want you on your back, Daryl.”
He says it like it's already decided.
Rick's hands slide up and close around Daryl's middle before he can answer, not that he was going to argue. A startled breath catches in Daryl's throat as the world tilts beneath him.
Rick shifts his weight and rolls them sideways. For a brief second everything feels unsteady, tangled together, and then Daryl's shoulders sink into the cushions. Rick follows him down, crowding close.
Daryl’s thighs fall apart beneath the pressure of Rick settling between them. Shit, he watches Rick spit into his palm just to stroke himself all slow.
He leans forward and measures his cock against Daryl's stomach, like he's trying to see how deep he'll reach.
Daryl’s cunt pulses when he sees Rick's cock twitch and weep onto his stomach, just below his bellybutton.
“Do you have any idea what you fucking do to me, Daryl?”
“No.”
Rick leans back and drags the head of his cock over his clit, back and forth. The pressure is perfect. “Lemme show you, then.”
Daryl’s heart does a somersault, hips rolling up into it. “Please.”
“Yeah?” Rick murmurs. “You beggin’?”
Daryl’s face burns hotter. He should lie, should bite back and force his denial, but his body’s being too honest for any of that.
So, he nods.
“Then you must be ready for my cock.”
Daryl shuts his eyes tight, arm flying up to cover them. He nods again, quicker this time.
“Gonna need to hear those pretty words, Dixon.”
“Yeah. Yes, dammit,” Daryl snaps, hips lifting impatiently. “Fuck me already.”
The shift in Rick is instant—his amusement fades, replaced by something darker, more focused. Just like he was back in the study. The way Rick’s grip tightens on his thighs tells Daryl that he’s done playing around.
Before Daryl can brace himself, Rick pushes back in. The breach isn’t as jarring the second time. Daryl's wet eases the way, but when the head fully pops inside, he still gasps.
Daryl pulls his knees back so he can properly watch as Rick buries his cock deeper.
Mm, fuck.
Daryl watches in awe. He doesn't know how his body could accommodate something so thick, so long. Rick gradually disappears, stretching him open inch by agonizing inch.
A groan climbs out of Rick, like he can’t hold it in. He’s not even halfway in when he starts to thrust. Shallow, slow little movements.
In spite of the gentle slide, Daryl melts. His head drops back against the couch with a shaky moan. "Rick, please don't stop doin’ that."
Rick grins. "Well, since you asked so nicely." He obliges, each thrust reaching a fraction deeper than the last.
Daryl feels the drag of him in places he didn’t even know he could.
“Damn, Dixon.”
With a whine, Daryl lifts his head and sees Rick’s gaze locked on his lower belly. Both thumbs rub in reverent circles below his bellybutton.
Between one trembling breath and the next, Daryl notices why.
Rick’s cock is so goddamn big that he bulges him out from the inside.
With a satisfied groan, Rick pulls out until just the head of him catches inside. Then he pushes back in.
Slow as hell.
Rick’s cock fills him up. More, and more, until sure enough, his stomach bows out again.
“Fuck. Holy fuck.” Daryl quickly props himself up and slides a hand down his chest to shove Rick’s hands away so he can feel instead.
Rick laughs as he picks up speed. Daryl doesn’t even acknowledge it. His eyes stay fixed on the recurring swell of his belly, fingers trembling over it.
Shit, he’s going insane.
Rick makes it worse, fuck him, of course he does. His fingers splay warm over Daryl’s lower stomach, then he presses down just as he rolls his hips forward again.
The pressure is obscene. He feels it everywhere. Rick’s palm presses down like he’s trying to mold Daryl’s body around him.
Insane? Nah. Daryl’s brain simply goes empty. All he can think about is being speared on his cock.
Daryl’s mouth falls open around a long groan as Rick finally—finally—starts fucking him like he needs it. None of that slow, careful bullshit anymore. Just deep strokes that knock the air right out of his lungs.
"Look at that," Rick murmurs, voice gone low and grumbly, fingers digging into the meat of Daryl’s thighs. "Already goin’ stupid on my cock."
Daryl covers his face with one hand and flips him off with the other.
Rick pushes it away from his face, then his kiss lands hard.
Not careless. Not rushed.
Certain.
Daryl makes a rough sound in the back of his throat as Rick's mouth claims him, stealing every coherent thought he’s got left. One of Rick's hands slides into his hair while the other braces beside his shoulder, caging him in without actually trapping him.
The distinction matters.
Daryl feels it.
Feels the choice in it.
Still, he grabs a fistful of Rick's shirt and pulls him closer.
Like he couldn't stop himself if he tried.
Rick answers immediately.
The next kiss is deeper, slower, somehow even more overwhelming than the first. Daryl's pulse hammers against his ribs. Every nerve feels stripped bare, sparking beneath his skin.
His head sinks back into the cushions.
Rick follows.
Their foreheads knock together briefly when they break apart for air, neither of them getting far enough away to really count as separated.
Daryl's chest rises sharply when his hips pick up the pace, sliding around easily in his cunt.
Rick's gaze drops to his mouth.
Then lifts again.
That steady stare settles on him, dark and unwavering.
"Daryl," Rick says quietly.
Just his name.
Nothing else.
But it hits harder than a shove.
Daryl swallows.
His fingers tighten in Rick's shirt.
Rick's expression shifts, something fierce and fond flickering beneath the surface, and then he's kissing him again before Daryl can think of a single thing to say.
Probably for the best.
Thinking left the room a while ago.
Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick stills him by the waist and pulls out.
“No, God, fuck. Don’t st—”
Rick shushes him. “Wanna screw you from behind. Get on your knees.”
Daryl doesn’t need to be told twice. He scrambles to flip, chest pressed into the couch cushions, ass up.
Daryl blinks.
A choked noise comes from behind him. "Oh my God, Daryl."
He doesn't know what that comment's about, then his brain catches up. Both of Daryl's hands are holding himself open, presenting like some desperate fucking whore. His breath snags in his throat.
Daryl's never felt this raw, this needy, like his blood's too hot, searing through his veins like lava.
Rick exhales sharply behind him, and then—because he's an absolute bastard—he drags the thick head of his cock through his soaked folds instead of just fucking into him.
The glide is obscenely smooth, teasing, maddening.
"Rick—" Daryl’s voice cracks, throat tight like he’s about to cry. "Quit fuckin’ teasin’ me, dammit—just—" His fingers dig into the meat of his ass, hips jerking back uselessly against empty air.
Rick pushes back in without preamble, pace reckless right off the bat. Daryl groans in relief through his teeth, then he's just making sounds that scrape his throat raw.
It feels so good, fuck.
His cheek presses into the couch cushion, vision going blurry as Rick reams him open.
“Fuck, you're gone,” Rick murmurs, voice rough, hands sliding up Daryl’s back to grip his shoulders. “So pretty when you cry.”
Daryl wants to protest. Pretty ain’t the word he’d use, not with his thighs shaking, body covered in a gleam of sweat.
Wait. Cry?
He’s crying?
And Daryl really didn't think it could get better than this.
He's been wrong about that since the study.
Rick’s fingers hook over his shoulders and yank him back to meet the next thrust. The noise that tears out of Daryl is something between a shout and a sob, his hands fly up to the cushions as Rick's rhythm turns punishing, fucking into him with enough force to throw him forward with every drive of his hips.
Rick pants above him, chuckling breathlessly as his thrusts turn erratic. “And you said you couldn't take my cock.”
Daryl’s head spins. He is taking it, taking all of him. His hips jerk back instinctively, meeting Rick’s next thrust with a wet smack.
Both of them go still.
Fuck, that was incredible.
"Keep that up, D."
Rick hauls him back, grip bruising-tight on his collarbones. Daryl’s spine curves in a rigid arc as Rick starts fucking into him again—hard, merciless, no quarter given.
Daryl focuses on the rhythm, then his body just learns. He meets Rick halfway, pulls a ragged groan from both of them, sticky-wet where their bodies meet.
It’s so goddamn overwhelming.
Daryl’s hand shoots down between his thighs, fingers rubbing desperate circles over his clit.
The friction makes Daryl's spine tingle. Realization hits him like a punch because this is going to wreck him. He knows it.
Feels it.
His cunt pulses as he continues circling his clit—
Oh.
His orgasm rushes up on him so fast it gives him whiplash.
No slow climb, no warning, just a brick wall.
Only the wall isn't brick. It's velvet and clouds and warmth.
Daryl's eyes roll back, pleasure cresting when he clamps down around his cock. That's really when he feels how stuffed he is.
Squeezing. Fluttering. Full.
God, he's so fucking full.
“Comin' on my cock, Dixon?” Rick’s voice is so deep. "Shit."
Daryl’s body jerks through it, oversensitive and trembling, and Rick keeps going. The slide gets slicker, hotter as Daryl’s cunt grips around him in his aftershocks.
"So damn tight." Rick’s rhythm turns brutal—fast, sharp thrusts, chasing his own peak. "You drive me crazy."
Daryl hiccups, tranced and wrung out, but his hips still push back instinctively.
He’s boneless, pliant, letting Rick take what he needs. Helping him take it.
And Rick takes everything.
Thoughts, agency, control.
All of it. Gone.
"Close," Rick pants.
He sure is. Daryl feels his cock firm up.
Rick's rhythm fractures. Thrusts turn erratic. Breathing goes ragged.
Daryl's mouth falls open when Rick's cock pulses, spilling inside. Filling him even more, fucking it deeper into him. Then he buries himself to the hilt and stays there.
Daryl's thoughts are syrupy-slow as he drops his head down, blinking vapidly at the ground below them.
Rick's weight is a furnace against his back, panting hot and damp between his shoulder blades. They stay like that—stuck together, sweaty and spent—long enough for Daryl's daze to lift and provide more sensory input.
He's sore as hell.
He flexes his fingers against the couch cushion, throat working around nothing.
Fuck, now what?
Rick finally shifts back, pulling out. He feels it immediately, sticky warmth trickling out of him, dripping onto the linoleum below.
His face burns.
"Jesus," Rick mutters. He leans down, hands still gripping Daryl's hips, and watches. Actually watches as more of it leaks out.
Daryl twitches, tries to squirm away, but Rick's fingers dig in, holding him in place. "Quit," he snaps, but there's no bite to it. "Man, I ruined you."
Daryl’s breath hitches when Rick’s thumbs spread him open. The air feels cool against his flushed skin.
The mortification is instant, heat rushing up his neck. He tries to squirm away, but Rick holds him firm, memorizing the way Daryl’s cunt pulses around nothing.
Then one thumb drags to center, teasing the swollen seam of him.
Daryl’s hips jerk before he can stop them. "Quit—" he starts, voice cracking, but the protest dies when that thumb presses inside him.
Rick hums appreciatively.
Daryl wants to vanish.
The thumb sinks deeper, curling inside him, and Daryl’s body jerks.
"Goddamn it, Rick," he grits out, but his hips roll into it anyway, chasing the pressure.
The sky outside has bled from gold to bruised purple. They’ve wasted too much daylight already.
"We—ah—we gotta get back ‘fore it’s full dark."
Rick’s other thumb rubs slow circles around his clit, maddeningly light. "Mm. Few more minutes."
Daryl’s thighs tremble, thighs squeezing around nothing as Rick’s thumb works him open, slick and easy. It’s too much. Not enough. His breath comes in shallow hitches, fingers clawing at the couch cushion. "Ain’t got a few minutes," he manages.
Rick finally concedes with a soft laugh. Daryl turns immediately, curling inward, shoulders hunching like he can fold himself small enough to disappear. His hair hangs in a damp curtain between them—his favorite hiding spot.
Rick doesn’t let him. He catches Daryl’s chin between his fingers, tilting his face up. The kiss he aims for his mouth gets intercepted by Daryl’s palm, shoved against his lips with a half-restrained grin.
"Go get my clothes, jackass," Daryl mutters, voice rough.
Rick blinks, slow, like he’s trying to recall the layout of the room through the fog of post-coital haze. His brow furrows. "Where’d you—?"
"Outside," Daryl deadpans. His fingers flex against Rick’s chest, nails scratching lightly through the damp curls there. The ghost of a grin tugs at his mouth when Rick’s expression shifts—confusion melting into realization, then settling into something unbearably fond.
Rick’s grin spreads slow. "It was a good idea at the time," he jokes. His hand reaches up to clutch the back of Daryl’s neck, tugging him forward before he can dodge.
This kiss actually lands, square on his forehead, warm and lingering.
Rick exhales a laugh through his nose, then finally pulls away and stands. His knees pop audibly—too many years kneeling in dirt and gravel—as he stretches his arms overhead. Daryl watches the play of muscles in his back, the way his spine flexes when he bends to rifle through a nearby cabinet.
The blanket Rick pulls out is woolen, smelling of dust and cedar. He tosses it at Daryl’s head with a smirk. "Cover up before you catch cold, princess."
“I envy people who haven’t met you.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.”
Daryl flips him off but snuggles into the woolen blanket anyway, pulling it tight around his shoulders.
He watches Rick step into his jeans one leg at a time, hopping slightly to keep his balance. The sight is so goddamn domestic that Daryl’s chest does something weird and fluttery.
"Don’t go anywhere," Rick says, already buttoning his jeans one-handed like he’s in a goddamn hurry. Like Daryl’s got anywhere to be right now.
The second the camper door clicks shut behind Rick, Daryl’s face cracks into a grin so wide it hurts his cheeks. He presses both palms over his mouth, muffling the stupid, giddy noise that bubbles up his throat.
He pulls the blanket up to his chin like some chastity shield.
As if that ship hasn’t already sailed.
He slumps onto his side, hugging his knees. He squeezes his eyes shut, replaying every second.
Rick’s hands, the stretch, the way his stomach bulged. It’s all a sweaty, oversensitive blur.
His thighs stick together when he shifts, and yeah, okay, that’s gross, but he also kinda wants to rub his legs like a cricket and chase the aftershocks.
Daryl can definitely get used to this.