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Daryl pulls the cigarette’s smoke through his lips; it fills his lungs, clouding his head a little. The woods around him are calm, so quiet there’s no way a walker could get near him without him hearing it wobbling through the dry leaves that blanket the ground. So far, he hasn’t heard a single hoot from an owl, and the forest seems eerily devoid of animals. The entire day, as they hiked through this area, Daryl kept an eye out for tracks, but there was no sign of game. Maybe the walkers ate too many animals in the region, and the remaining ones are smart enough to migrate or hide. At least their group was lucky enough to find shelter for the night—a cabin falling to pieces that probably won’t stand against the next heavy rain.
Lucky—ha, as if.
He takes another drag from the cigarette, the ember’s heat now burning close to his fingertips. There’s a flu—a fucking flu—killing people back home, they’ve lost one of their best cars to a pile of rotting bastards, and Tyreese is so unhinged with Karen’s death that he’s nearly as big a threat to their safety as the herd that blocked their way to the veterinary college.
Yesterday—hell, it was just yesterday—Zach had died to the rain of corpses that poured through the Big Spot’s ceiling, and Daryl couldn’t stop wondering if he could’ve done anything to prevent the kid’s death. But now he doesn’t even get to beat himself up; he can’t pierce a fucking virus with a bolt, can’t stab it with his hunting knife. It’s something sneaky, that doesn’t care whether you deserve to die or not. It doesn’t care that you’re fighting for your life every day, that you earned the right to live. It’s a Russian roulette you have no say in participating.
Back at the prison, during the months that followed the Governor’s fall, they had developed something almost like a routine. Sure it could never be an actual routine—there have been several recent additions. Besides all the folks from Woodbury, they’ve taken in a small group from Decatur and Bob the last few weeks, and each new person who arrives means a new plan on food distribution, chores reassignment, and a long time on your toes, taking measure of the newcomers, trying to gauge if they can actually be trusted. Still, something in their lives the past few months had felt constant.
Carol and Karen often cook for the group, and Daryl’s best friend also takes care of the kids with the “book club” she has going. Daryl had encouraged her when she came up with the idea. Fuck it if those parents have their head up their asses—someone needs to teach the little ones to survive. Michonne leaves the prison frequently to go after the Governor, wandering blindly after a man they have no lead of, but she always manages to bring something valuable back home. Glenn manages the patrolling parties and coordinates scavenging areas with relative success. Daryl is the best hunter they have. Hershel is responsible for their medicine stock and is always there making sure everyone stays healthy. As of Rick…
Rick had been so earnest tending to his crops and pigs, always on his feet at the first rays of sunlight and retiring at sunset, that if Daryl didn’t know him, he’d have no trouble believing Rick had been a farmer his whole life. He seemed serene in his new job—which is why it hurt so much to see the flu and the walkers amassing at the fence take Rick’s choice away. Right after the attack on cellblock D had been subdued, he and Rick walked from cell to cell putting down walkers and making sure their dead friends wouldn’t turn. Daryl could have done it alone, but Rick stepped forward to the task and Daryl just tagged along, there for Rick in case he realized he couldn’t do it after all. But the way Rick held the knife, plunging it swiftly on his targets, showed Daryl his deadly combat skills were put aside but never forgotten.
Butchering the pigs felt different, though. They were probably sick with the flu and a danger to have around, but each squeal Daryl heard, as he drove the truck around the prison’s grounds, was harder and harder to hear. It was like life was giving them a bitchslap, forcing them to stay alert—always sharp, more and more vigilant—to never trust something as ridiculous as the pretty idea of having a routine. The greatest shock, however, was parking the truck back inside the prison yard and seeing Rick’s face tainted with red, his clothes soaked. The shock itself was surprising—for months, dirt and sweat were the worst he’d seen Rick covered in. He had gotten used to having Rick as a farmer, but seeing him all bloodied awakened the memory of what Rick truly is—a ferocious leader who defends and guides them through everything.
Daryl takes one last drag from the cigarette before tossing the butt on the ground and putting out the cinder with the sole of his boot. The moon is high in the sky, shining faintly. Under that feeble light, he looks at the back of his hands and wonders how Rick’s knuckles feel, if they’re swollen, if his hand is still hurting. Tyreese’s eye is looking a lot better. The man had acted so out of his mind the entire day, Daryl expected to have trouble with him during the night—thought Tyreese would be restless, pacing back and forth, urging them to keep going despite being on foot and in the dark. Daryl was tense in anticipation, wondering how the hell he would handle a man Tyreese’s size if he went haywire out in the open, in the middle of the night.
But they were lucky enough—that word again—to find a tiny abandoned cabin in their way. Its only resident was a walker—the belt wrapped tight around a stump of a leg suggested that that woman had probably gotten bit, cut off her own leg and bled to death. Or maybe she took too long to cut it and turned anyway. Who knows. Michonne put her down, and the cabin, stuffy and reeking of death, is the best shelter they could hope for tonight. From what they could see, the woman was living as a hermit in the middle of the woods, making runs in nearby places—there was still some canned food, which granted them dinner. They used all of her empty cans and pots to set up sound alarms around the cabin, and Daryl took first watch—which is what he’s doing now, quiet under the moonlight.
Back inside the cabin, people are out cold. Having to sleep in short breaks has taught them to fall asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow, but also to jump to their feet in a second’s notice. Still, Daryl can’t help but think the party falling asleep so easily has a little to do with him—people rarely toss and turn when he or Michonne are on guard duty. Both of them have sharp eyes and ears, and people trust them with their safety.
Maybe it’s wrong of him to think about it given the circumstances, but he wonders if Rick is sleeping soundly right now, and if he thinks of Daryl as much as Daryl thinks of him. Sure, Rick is his friend, his partner, so it’s only natural for Daryl to worry about his wellbeing—even more so when something as stupid as flu could take him and there would be nothing that Daryl could do. In fact, that is one of the reasons why Daryl volunteered so readily to come in this run; he’d have offered either way, but staying home sitting on his hands, while this invisible thing could come and end everything that’s important to him in the world… he couldn’t stand that. He needs to stay active, do something, or he’ll lose it.
So it’s not that he’s guilty to be thinking of Rick—it’s more so that it feels weird to think some things about him. Despite how miserable he is about everyone who’s died—and it’s exactly now that they’re gone that Daryl realizes just how much he’d gotten used to having them as part of his day—his confused mind can’t stop obsessing over the turn his relationship with Rick took a few days ago. In the past week, he spent more nights in Rick’s company—those furtive meetings that made him so insecure and shameless at the same time—than he’s been on his own. It’s been just days, but it feels like ages since that run with Glenn. And now, in light of everything that’s happened, it’s so dumb how much he fretted over that old tape. Not just after the flu situation, but… with what he’s got going with Rick, the stuff they’ve been doing together.
Fucking hell, and he thought he knew anything about sex before hooking up with Rick. Not that he considered himself an expert, but he was pretty sure he’d done it before. Whatever the circumstances, he’d been more or less naked with somebody else and thrust his dick into their bodies, all three times of it, and that was sex, wasn’t it? But now… Now, after everything that happened with Rick—being in his arms, the way Rick is able to take his body to pieces and put it back together—he knows what he did before didn’t count for shit. But he doesn’t think what he did with Rick was plain sex either. It’s probably something girly as hell, but it feels like Rick does something inside him—of who he is—every time he melts Daryl’s nerves endings with pleasure.
Ever since it started happening, Daryl never actually stops thinking about the stuff he and Rick have done so far. He just pushes it to the back of his mind when he’s got more pressing matters to worry about. But the moment he gets himself a break—like now, leaning against a tree, as the others sleep in the cabin a few yards away from him—his thoughts go back to Rick.
Worrying about everyone at the prison doesn’t keep Daryl from thinking about how Rick turned his entire body into a source of pleasure every time since that first night in the tool shed, when he made Daryl come so hard he was afraid he might pass out, using nothing more dirty words, a touch to Daryl’s wrist and light fingertips on his nipple.
And each time, Rick had new things to show him, new ways to make Daryl twist and turn with the whirlwind of sensations. A good share of it was embarrassment, there’s no denying it. He still hasn’t learned a way around the self-consciousness he feels of the way he moans and says please, of his imperfect body, riddled with ugly marks. But it sure helps matters the lust and delight in Rick’s voice each time the man gets him in all those revealing positions. Daryl’s knees threaten to give every time he hears Rick’s satisfaction to be obeyed. Not that obeying him is that hard, once the initial shyness is out of the way. Doing as he’s told means Rick will show him pleasure like he never thought possible before, so why wouldn’t Daryl want to be good?
Before finding the tape, Daryl never gave much time to thinking about men fucking each other. But if he had, he’d have assumed they only agree to take it up the ass for the right to have the favor returned. Tit for tat. Now that Rick has fingered and fucked him good enough to make him squirm just at the memory of it, not wanting to be fucked is what seems absurd. He craves having Rick push him onto his back, forcing his legs up, and making him take it hard like a cheap whore. He wants Rick to fuck him hard right where it feels good, wants his come deep inside him and on his skin, want to feel marked again as Rick’s.
Daryl realizes he’s been massaging his dick softly over his jeans the past few minutes, and now he’s rock hard under the denim. He glances over his shoulder to the cabin. Everything looks quiet over there. The crossbow is on the ground next to him, loaded, bolt ready to be fired. It wouldn’t be the first time he rubs one off during watch. Standing guard usually means several hours to kill with little to do, and his hearing is good enough for him to stop whatever he’s doing in case someone dead or alive tries to creep up on him. Rick’s words come to his ears—wouldn’t want one of those sons of bitches catching me with my pants down—and he half snickers, half grunts as he grabs his dick a little harder.
But as much as he can’t stop dreaming about the next time he’ll bend over for Rick, what he really can’t stop thinking about is the Rick with his mouth full of Daryl, sucking cock greedy enough to choke and cough and still want more. The sight is crystal clear in Daryl’s mind right now, and it makes him wonder how would it be for Rick if it was the other way around—if it was Daryl on his knees, mouthing the head of Rick’s cock, taking him as far down as he could. Daryl rubs the trapped erection some more, trying to imagine what it would feel like to have Rick stretching his lips.
At first, he was worried seeing Rick choke when he tried to take Daryl’s cock too deep, but any concern faded when Rick looked up with hunger in his eyes, his lips swollen. Would Rick get as affected if Daryl got on his knees for him? Suddenly, it seems pretty stupid that Daryl never tried to taste him in the three times they were together. That’s what he should do as soon as he gets the chance: drop to his knees, swallow Rick’s cock down, and only let go only when come is shooting down his throat. They live in a world that doesn’t accept plans for later. Later, something as stupid as a flu can come and destroy everything you thought you had.
Still massaging his absurdly hard cock over his pants, he brings two fingers close to his lips, wondering what it would be like to give head. His fingers obviously don’t even come close to Rick’s cock—they’re not as thick or as long, they don’t leak precome, and are nowhere as smooth as its shiny head. Still, he feels downright filthy when he pushes two digits against his tongue, pretending it’s Rick’s cockhead that he’s sucking. Being caught like that—rubbing his hard dick and sucking on his own fingers—crosses his mind and his face warms up, but his ears are still fully alert despite what he’s doing. There are no sounds in the dark night.
The way he touches himself changes—he longer rubs the heel of his palm over himself, and instead grabs a handful of his cock, stroking it with intention and rhythm. His fingers inch a little farther in his mouth, the salt of his own skin melting on his tongue. The weight of his digits next to his throat makes it twitch at first, but he’s able to control its spasms—probably wouldn’t be if it was really Rick’s cock. He’d probably choke, cough, and spit all over it. Then again, Rick might have liked that. Daryl knows he did.
His other hand shakes when he moves it to his fly, undoing it and pulling his dick out, stroking it fast from the start. Rick has been teaching him how good it feels to tease and draw things out, making him so desperate to come he begs for it, but this is not the time or place for that. His touch feels slightly dry though, almost uncomfortable, even if the pinch he gives to the head makes his hips dance, thrusting into his fist for a second. It hurts a little, too, but another thing he’s learning is the strange pleasure that comes with some pains—like how tight and tense he feels when Rick pushes inside him for the first time, or that one slap on his butt cheek that made him want to feel more of the sting. Sucking on his own fingers is getting his mouth filled with saliva, and he takes them out just long enough to send a well-aimed mouthful of spit directly onto his dick, and now his palm slides a lot nicer than before.
His fingertips are already pruny when he sucks them back inside, lost in his fantasy of going down on Rick—in his mind, he takes the man by surprise, pushing him against the wall and showing him he’s good with more than following instructions. The intrusion in his mouth starts to feel comfortable, and he finds he can push back his throat muscles if he focuses, keeping the gag reflex under control. He doubts he’d be able to do any of that with a real dick cutting his breath, though. Either way, if he ever goes down on Rick, he’ll worship him with his mouth. Not just his cock, but everything—he’ll hold him by the hips, stroke his thighs as he licks him, grab his ass cheeks and pull him deeper into his waiting mouth. Daryl will do anything to prove how much he wants him.
If he actually was doing any of this, he would probably take his own fingers up his hole, try to find that special place and tease it like Rick did—he’s more than a little curious to see if he can reach it on his own. There’s no way he can do it now, though; it’s easy to get away with jerking off if he goes straight to the point, but getting his pants down and taking the time to stretch himself is out of the question. But he lets himself imagine, pictures it in his mind—suckling on Rick’s cock as he shoving his own fingers up his hole.
When Daryl comes, he silently thanks a god he doesn’t believe in that his fingers are so far down his throat they smother the moan he wants to let out. He spills most of it on the hand holding his erection, but a few drops trickle to his crotch. He doesn’t care—his clothes are stained with so many different things he doubts a few splatters of come will stand out much.
The jizz on his palm is starting to cool off and he toys with the idea of licking it clean. He pulls that hand close to his face, and the heady smell of come invades his nostrils. It’s a little mouthwatering, to be honest. His tongue almost darts out, but he changes his mind at the last second and wipes his palm clean with the red bandana hanging from his back pocket. If it’s going to eat come for the first time, let it be Rick’s, he muses as he adjusts himself back into his pants, zipping up and buttoning himself.
Around him, the forest remains quiet. He pulls the cigarette pack from his pocket and lights another. This one, he smokes unhurriedly. When the sun rises, they’ll break camp, find a car, reach the veterinary school, take everything they need, go back to the prison without running out of gas, and save everyone’s lives. He’ll make it back and Rick will be there for him.
For all Daryl knows, optimism is for stupid people. There is no cosmic balance in the universe, no celestial being watching out for them or any of that shit. If he makes it back—he will make it back—and if Rick is alive for him—Rick will be—it’s because Daryl put in the fucking work, because Daryl did everything he could to go back and he knows Rick will do the same. Not just for Daryl, but for Carl, Carol, Glenn, Maggie, their entire group—because Rick is like Daryl, he doesn’t stop trying. They will make it out alive, they will keep going, and they will meet again. Because they’ll make it happen.
The first person Daryl sees when he gets to the prison is Rick. The situation at home is obviously hanging by a thread, judging by the amount of corpses piled up near the fence and the gore splattered on Rick’s clothes. From the yard, there’s no telling what is the status inside the prison; he can’t know if they’re too late or right on time. Still, Daryl’s heart soars with relief and joy. Everything he went through out there, all the deadly risks… It was all worth it, because Rick is alive and Daryl helped the group get back with enough medicine not just to save the sick, but to make sure no flu would ever take Rick in case any of this happened again.
Bob e Tyreese run straight into the prison, where they help Hershel hand out the drugs to everyone who needs it Daryl goes inside with them for a moment—maybe they need a hand putting down stragglers—but Maggie assures him they can handle things inside on their own. His help is more needed outside, where dozens of corpses need to be taken care of, and the fence needs mending where it’s fallen.
Daryl doesn’t argue and goes back to the yard. The next three hours he spends outside, working beside Rick, as they trade places dragging walkers outside and cutting logs to brace the fence again. Each time he brushes shoulders with Rick as he fetches an axe or drags a ripe corpse outside, their eyes meet. It’s a sideways glance, but heavy all the same. It’s the look of someone who wants something—to say something, to do something—but they’re not alone. Carl, fortunately, went inside hours ago to help the others or maybe sleep—God knows the kid has the right. But Michonne is still out there working with them, and as much as he thinks she’s smart enough to notice the not entirely discreet exchange between them, neither Rick nor Daryl is willing to do more than look while she’s still there.
So the two of them work hard, waiting for the moment they’ll be alone. Eventually, their exhaustion grows too much and the danger of working at night, when it’s harder to see, starts to outweigh the benefit of pushing themselves further. Michonne offers to take the first shift, and Rick and Daryl make their way back to the prison, lighting up their way with a bright flashlight.
Walking alone beside Rick, the two of them alone through the empty corridors, Daryl feels tension building up inside him, pushing him to blurt out something stupid, like thanking Rick for his own life. He doesn’t even know the reason of the sudden urge. Sure, Rick was responsible for the group’s survival countless times since all this began, but he’s done nothing in recent memory that meant Daryl’s direct survival. It takes a few more steps in the empty, damp and dark prison hallway for Daryl to figure it out. He doesn’t want to thank Rick for being alive, not really—he’s grateful that Rick makes him so happy to keep breathing, that his own life feels so worth living.
When they reach one of the main bathrooms the group uses, there is no need for words. A tilt from Rick’s head is enough for Daryl to understand: they’re filthy and need to clean up before even considering going to bed. The water tanks in the bathroom are more than hallway full—with so many deaths, there are fewer people taking showers. It’s like every good thing in their lives is now just the silver lining of something horrible.
They set the flashlight onto a high shelf and say nothing to each other as the two of them pull their shirts over their heads, and take off their boots and socks, leaving them on a heap on the floor. Most times, scavenging new clothes and shoes is easier than doing laundry. Rick then heads to the water pump that feeds the showers, and his effort to push the lever makes the muscles of his wiry body stand out beneath the skin. Watching him work, Daryl is surprised to notice his immediate thought isn’t sexual. The desire is there, of course, as it will probably be for the rest of his life. But the other man’s movements are heavy, the fatigue so obvious Daryl’s impulse is to take care of him, make him understand—or rather, remember—that Daryl is there for him, that he doesn’t need to shoulder the burden alone.
When Rick returns to the shower, Daryl turns it on and the thin stream of cold water hits them both. Rick lets out a sigh that is both relieved and exhausted as angles his face towards the drops. The water is starting to soak through their jeans, but they don’t care. Daryl turns off the shower and takes a small bar of soap from a nearby sill, rubbing it between his palms, before touching his foamy hands to Rick’s chest.
Daryl scrubs his chest, arms, hands, and even his armpits clean. When he reaches the man’s face, Daryl’s fingers caress slightly the grayish beard, and Rick leans into the touch, blinking. They’ve helped each other to wash up before—on the road, at a river’s shore, scrubbing off blood from a place on their backs that was hard to reach on their own—but what happens now is different. It’s intimate.
Daryl turns the shower back on to rinse the soap off of Rick, but the man turns it off again, taking the bar from Daryl’s hand. His heart jumps when he realizes Rick’s intention. One day, he’ll learn to act naturally when Rick Grimes extend him a caring touch. Even if it takes years and goes against every instinct he has, he’ll learn because of who’s offering. But right now, he can’t avoid the small flinch his body gives when Rick tries to touch him.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and Rick pulls back at once. But Daryl shakes his head and reaches out to him, taking his hand and placing it on a naked shoulder. Rick then washes him unhurriedly, his touch both soft and reassuring. Neither of them tries to make the moment about sex, and the fact it isn’t doesn’t seem to bother Rick.
It’s bizarre, but Rick’s hands on his body make him recall a rare moment in his childhood, when he was maybe five. Necessity taught him to take care of himself from an early age, but despite his mom’s taste for booze and cigarettes, he distinctly remembers a few occasions in which she bathed him. The soap was cheap and barely had any smell—come to think of it, a lot like the one they’re using now—and the towel she wiped him dry with was thin like an old sheet, but in those moments, he had felt utterly protected. This is how he feels now, but bigger somehow.
Rick places the soap back on the sill and turns the shower back on. The water hits their torsos; its cold startles Daryl, and his eyes snap open. Rick is looking at him attentively, a small frown between his eyebrows. The water is rinsing the lather away from their body, and soapy rivulet runs towards the drains. It’s a dangerous thought, but the way Rick looks at him makes Daryl feel… loved.
When they’re done washing up, they leave the bathroom together, Rick shining light on their path as they walk side by side in silence towards their rooms. But as Daryl watches Rick shirtless beside him, water dripping down his naked skin, the lust that was absent in the shower hits him now like a derailed train. That oppressive feeling crushes him again—tomorrow might never come. Right now is all he’s got. And right now, he needs Rick.
Heavy metallic doors line up on both sides of the corridor—the prison’s SHU. The instinct that makes Daryl pull Rick by the arm and shove him into one of those rooms is the same that tells him when to pull the trigger on his crossbow—no deliberation, just his gut feeling taking control. There’s a toilet, a sink, and a mattress in the cell, so cramped Daryl wonders for half a second how could someone be expected to live there. But then he looks back at Rick, sees the surprise in his eyes, and that primal part of him takes charge again.. He shuts the door behind them and shoves Rick against the rusty metal, pressing his own body close to him as he waits for a verdict. This is dangerous and someone might catch them, but he isn’t so sure anymore that sneaking out late at night is that much more discreet either. The question that remains is whether they think it’s worth to take the risk. The flashlight falls on the floor with a thud, but remains on. The sudden yearn in Rick’s wide eyes says it is.
Daryl’s blood is running hot in his veins, and he can’t fight the trepidation in his chest when he sinks to his in front of Rick. The prospect of blowing Rick turns him on so much his fingers tremble as he fumbles with the man’s belt and fly. He wants this, is desperate for it, but there’s still that nagging voice in the back of his mind—what if he makes a fool of himself? But then he pulls Rick’s pants down, underwear and all, just past his hipbones, and the impressive hard-on that springs out leaves no doubt as to Rick’s interest. He’s already leaking precome, but Daryl spits on his palm all the same before stroking it from root to the tip.
For the first time since going down on his knees, Daryl looks up and what he sees nearly takes his breath away. It’s the same look Rick had in the bathroom—the one that makes him feel those dangerous things—but with so much want added to it. His lips are parted and his eyes are intent; his right hand inches towards Daryl’s hair, but Rick stops like he’s unsure he’s allowed to. By now, Daryl expected there to be no doubt in Rick’s mind that he’s free to do whatever he wants to Daryl’s body. Why should there be, with all the nasty shit they’ve been up to? So that he’s still able to give Rick pause… it’s something else. Daryl nods as he leans against Rick’s touch. He’ll say yes again, he’ll say it a thousand times if that’s what it takes.
Rick’s sweat floods Daryl’s senses. They only washed their upper bodies, and Rick’s musk smells more manly than it ever did in any of their previous encounters. Instead of being off-putting, it fills Daryl’s mouth with saliva, and he rubs his incredibly hard dick from over his jeans. Later, he might feel embarrassed of the way he’s assaulting Rick, but all that matters now is how much he wants this man.
He holds Rick’s cock by the base, readying himself to take it into his mouth, and that touch alone already feels personal. When he finally does it, he doesn’t fool around, doesn’t take shy licks over the head. Testing the waters isn’t his style; he’d rather give his all right from the start. So he welcomes Rick in his mouth, taking him as deep as he can with that initial swallow. The salt of Rick’s skin and precome might be the best thing he’s ever tasted. Daryl thinks he hears himself moan, but it’s hard to know for sure with a dick in his mouth, barely letting him breathe. His own cock is so hard inside his jeans it’s almost painful, and he simply needs to pull it out, sucking air around Rick as he gasps when he finally strokes himself bare.
“Oh fuck. Goddamn it, Daryl.”
It’s the first time he’s heard Rick’s voice in hours, and it’s the most broken it’s ever sounded. Daryl chances another glance up—Rick’s head is thrown back against the door, his eyes are half-shut, and he looks absolutely lost. His fingertips move caress Daryl’s ear, but he doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing.
That sight of him sets Daryl’s insides on fire, not that his entire body wasn’t already burning up. The hand around his dick is flying; he’s jerking off faster and more feverishly than last night—he’ll probably come before Rick does, but it doesn’t matter. Not even coming and the drowsiness that follows could dull how hungry he is for Rick’s hot seed on his tongue.
Given his inexperience, Daryl’s own lust is the only thing guiding his movements, but if the poorly controlled thrusts from Rick’s hips are any indication of his enjoyment, Daryl isn’t doing so bad. The hand on his ear moves to the back of his neck, grabbing the overgrown hair tentatively. Every time they were together, even as Rick took his precious time making sure Daryl wanted badly all the things they did, he always took the reins with ease—instead of oppressive, it was relaxing to just trust his guidance. This different pace feels good in a different way; Daryl is impatient—wants to beg Rick not to hold anything back, to pull on his hair like he wants to, make Daryl feel owned. But talking means abandoning the feeling of the flesh sliding between his lips, and Daryl can’t bring himself to do it, not yet. Who knows, maybe if he’s good enough with his mouth, Rick might lose control and just take his pleasure from Daryl’s lips.
He tries to force his throat open like it he did last night in the woods, but Rick’s cock is slightly tilted to one side, and all Daryl does is choke and cough around it, half of it slipping out of his mouth. Far from turning Rick off, he grunts low like something feral, and this time his fist does close on Daryl’s hair, pulling him back, until just the tip of his dick hands between Daryl’s lips. With his other hand, Rick strokes the shaft up and down as fast as Daryl does to himself. Rick’s eyes never leave his face and they never looked bluer.
“Fuck, Daryl, you’ve got no idea how perfect you look like this. There ain’t a part of you I don’t love. When I think your kisses, your hands, your—god—tight little ass are the best things a man could ever feel, you go and do shit like this. Fuck, you never stop surprising me,” Rick says, panting so hard it’s amazing he can even talk at all.
Rick’s dirty mouth always drives him up the wall, but this time it’s like he’s reciting Daryl’s own thoughts and it makes him shiver. The heat is building up fast in his groin; he sucks harder on the head of Rick’s cock, knowing he won’t last long and wondering how long it will be before Rick fills him up.
That is the last coherent thought Daryl has before he spills his load on the floor, his mind spiraling fast, and not a second later, warmth hits his tongue, his lips, and the corners of his mouth as Rick comes hard all over him.
Daryl licks his lips before even deciding if he likes the taste, too busy riding the aftershocks of his own orgasm to notice much more than how strong the flavor is, the lingering feeling of it. Exactly how is tastes—bitter, sweet, sour—is all the same to him. It’s concrete proof of Rick’s desire for him, and he’ll have as much of it as possible.
Daryl has little time to compose himself, though. Rick pulls him up and reverses their positions, pushing him against the door, and taking his mouth in the most intense and tongue-filled kiss they’ve shared so far, so breathtaking Daryl almost needs to ask for mercy. Almost. When Rick finally parts their mouths, he rests his head on Daryl’s shoulder, and their chests align in a way Daryl can feel the man’s heartbeat, pounding inside him as hard as Daryl’s own.
They spend a few minutes like that, catching their breaths. Rick’s breath is warm on his shoulder, slowly returning to its regular pace. They can’t stay there for long—the risk of getting caught increases by the second—but while it lasts, that short moment feels like a small eternity. Rick is his and he belongs to Rick.
It’s a selfish feeling—especially after so much death, when so many people around them are in so much pain, when the world is falling apart everywhere they look. Still, Daryl is… happy. He belongs somewhere. There’s a place in the world that’s his alone—beside the man who now breathes heavily against the curve of his neck. It’s where he wants to be and he is wanted there.
Next to that, the apocalypse doesn’t mean shit.