Author's Note: Just trying to get back into the swing of writing oneshots and the like. R&R is also welcome and would be quite lovely. xo.
Being Alive.
The first and only time Glenn sleeps with Daryl Dixon, it's an exercise in the meaning of the word primal. They're in the middle of the forest, separated from the rest of the group, surrounded by Walkers. Glenn feels, down in his gut, that this is probably the end for him, but he tightens his grip on his machete, goes back to back with Daryl and waits, heart thudding in his ears, knuckles white.
When Daryl moves, so does he. Their movements completely compliment each other, ducking and jumping out of each other's way just in time. Daryl shoots a bolt underneath Glenn's arm to nail the geek behind him and seconds later, Glenn returns the favor, stabbing his machete over Daryl's shoulder and into a Walker's forehead. He doesn't focus on how many they have left; he just keeps moving, body instinctively contorting, like this has been something he's been practicing for all of his life.
They don't die. Instead, in the end, things are back to how they were before; him and Daryl standing back to back. The ground around them is riddled with the undead, a dozen of them at least and not one of them is moving. Glenn is covered in sweat, sliding down his face and when he turns around to look at Daryl, he's in much the same state.
They're alive.
The thought seems to hit both of them at the same time, based on how their weapons drop to the ground at the exact same moment. After that, Daryl's got a hold of him, seizing a handful of Glenn's shirt and pulling them together, their lips clashing furiously. Glenn gives back the best he has, fingernails scratching at already scarred skin, hips urgently pressing forward.
Daryl at least has the sense of mind to drag him away from the bodies, yanking him into a small clearing just beyond their circle of slaughter. Glenn hits the ground heavily but he barely even notices the twinges of pain in his back; he's already flipping onto his hands and knees, one hand tugging at the button on his jeans. Daryl's body is pressed flush against him and when he sinks his teeth into Glenn's shoulder through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, Glenn just about collapses. He somehow manages to stay propped up and wriggles his jeans down to his ankles, leaving them wrapped around one foot. Daryl's are gone soon after and Glenn hears him spit into his hand, the sound obscene even in the solitude of the forest.
Afterwards, Glenn is all too aware that there hadn't been enough preparation; saliva was a poor substitute for lube at the best of times and Daryl really hadn't taken enough time to stretch him with his fingers. But at the time, that hadn't mattered. All the sensations, even the pain, had been exactly what he needed; they'd been assurances that he'd survived, that he'd once again defied the odds and if he was being honest, that felt pretty fucking good.
When he cleans himself up afterwards, wincing slightly, Glenn runs his tongue over his lips and can't help but grin. Daryl had clamped his hand over his mouth early on and he can still taste sweat and metal. He takes the time to cast a glance over at Daryl, who is yanking crossbow bolts out of dead flesh. He eventually catches Glenn's eye and gives him nothing but a noncommittal grunt, although there does seem to be a bit of a flush showing through on his cheeks.
Glenn just grins again because even if things between him and Daryl are about to get slightly awkward, and even though there's pain smouldering in the base of his spine and finger shaped bruises adorning his hips, he's alive.
Being alive feels pretty damn good.