Title: Eleven
Author: GageWhitney
Rating: M
Pairing: Daryl/Andrea
Disclaimer: Very much not mine.
Summary: "Maybe you'll have better luck. I sure as hell won't be needing them."
Note: Seriously, thanks so much for all the awesome reviews!
There's a muffled shout, and then the banging of the porch door, and Glenn stalks angrily off the porch. Daryl eyes the younger man with vague interest, muttering a curse under his breath as Glenn catches his gaze and storms right toward him.
"Women. Are. Crazy." Glenn's eyes are big and intense, and he's waving his hands around. "Insane! I'm not even talking about PMS. I'm saying all month, all the time. Crazy. And they think we're the enemy."
Daryl just stares at him.
"Here." Glenn retrieves a small, smushed box from the depths of his pocket and shoves it at the other man. "Maybe you'll have better luck. I sure as hell won't be needing them."
He continues past Daryl, ignoring Andrea when she passes him and smiles a hello.
"You're all sisters," he mutters.
She quirks an eyebrow at him and comes to a stop next to Daryl. "What's his problem?" she asks.
"Women." He waves the box at her, looking uncomfortable. "Kid came storming out of the house and threw a box of rubbers at me."
Her eyes get wide for a second, and she laughs quietly. "Ouch. Guess that didn't go so well for poor Glenn."
"Guess not."
He holds the box uncomfortably, like he's afraid someone's going to see him with it. "So…" she starts. "What are you planning to do with those?"
He shrugs and shuffles his feet. "I don't know. Give them to Shane or Rick, I guess."
"I think that ship has sailed. If you haven't heard, Lori's knocked up."
"Great. She ain't bitchy enough," he mutters.
He turns and walks back into his tent, and Andrea follows closely on his heel. "Listen. Maybe… I'll take them."
"You planning on getting lucky?"
"Oh, come on," she scoffs. "Tell me you haven't thought about it once since this whole thing started."
"Been too busy trying to stay alive, not get laid."
"I guess that's true," she says, clicking her tongue. "But now that we're talking about it… Why don't we share them?" She raises an eyebrow at him.
"What, you want to hook up? With me?"
"Would that be so horrible? We get along pretty well, I think. Except for the whole shooting thing," she grimaces.
"Yeah. Except for that," he says sarcastically. He touches a hand to his still-healing scalp.
"And it's not like I'm saying we should… I don't know, go steady, or whatever." She sidles up next to him, moving slowly so as not to startle him, not unlike the stray cats she used to try to feed as a kid. "I'm not asking you to the Sadie Hawkins dance, Daryl."
"Just sex, then."
"Yeah. We all have needs, right?"
"I guess." She's so close, suggestive, her voice low and whispery, and Daryl shifts his weight, his pants starting to feel tight and constricting.
His reaction to her nearness isn't lost on her, and she smirks. "I'll scratch your itch if you scratch mine." She looks up at him hopefully, biting her bottom lip, and brings her hand up to toy with a button on his shirt. "What do you think?"
Looking down at her, he can barely speak. "Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She takes the box from his hands and opens it to thumb through the contents. "Eleven left." She reads the front of the box and winces. "From a pack of twelve. Oh, Glenn."
He smiles nervously at her, and she's still so close, and suddenly he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He shoves them into his pockets and shifts again. She grins at him.
"You busy right now?"
"Not really."
She picks out a square and tosses the box onto a small pile of his things. "Meet me in the tool shed. Wait five minutes."
Fifteen minutes later, he pushes open the door to the dilapidated old shed and slips inside.
"You're late." She's leaning up against the opposite wall. "I thought maybe you changed your mind."
He shakes his head. "Wanted to scout around. Make sure there weren't any walkers."
Slung over one shoulder is his ever-present crossbow, and he taps his fingers anxiously against the strap as he watches her cross the room, hips swinging, to stand in front of him. Her fingers brush against his when she reaches for the weapon and gently lowers it to the floor.
"Ready?" She touches his belt buckle and watches his Adam's apple bob.
He nods and licks his lips. "Yeah," he says. Hesitantly, he reaches out and places his hands on her hips.
"Good."
She pulls his face down to hers and slants her mouth over his, kissing him softly, slowly, until she feels him start to respond. His arms go around her waist, pressing her more tightly against him.
Her fingers make their way into his hair, tugging lightly, and she sighs into his mouth. Something in him relaxes, forgets about his insecurities, and his kisses become more insistent, lips and teeth and tongue battling against hers. He runs his hands up and down her sides.
There's a wooden workbench tucked into one corner of the shed, covered in dirt and dents and half-filled old Mason jars, and she pushes at his chest until he's trapped between her body and the counter. She kisses under his ear and down the side of his neck until he squirms and yanks her back up to his mouth.
His slips his hand under her t-shirt, skimming up her torso to grope her chest. There's a brief moment where he locks eyes with her, silently asking permission to take things a step further. She lifts her arms, and he pushes the shirt up and over her head.
He tosses it onto the floor and eyes her chest, the rose-colored, lace-lined bra looking oddly delicate considering where they are. He touches the fabric lightly with one finger, and she reaches behind her to unhook the garment. She lets the straps fall down her arms and tosses it in the direction her shirt went.
It's like something in his brain short circuits, then, because his breath hitches and he just stares at her, transfixed.
"Daryl," she says. She lifts his hands and places them on her breasts. "Touch me."
He snaps out of it, mutters a, "Yes, ma'am," under his breath, and kisses her hard, his hands cupping and caressing her. His thumb brushes a nipple, rolling it between two fingers, and she squeaks against his mouth.
Her fingers fly up to unbutton his tattered flannel shirt. She pushes it off his shoulders to reveal a variety of old scars, some more prominent than others. He backs away and hesitates in touching her again, clearly uncomfortable with being so exposed.
Her fingers trace the largest one that cuts across his chest, the lighter ones on his stomach, before she leans in and presses her lips to his ruined skin. She bites and sucks along the base of his neck, scraping with her teeth and soothing the marks with her tongue.
"Don't give me a hickey," he mumbles. His fingers tangle in her hair.
"I won't."
She palms him roughly through his cargo pants, squeezing the hardness she finds there gently, and he growls into her neck. He spins them quickly so her back's against the workbench and shoves a leg between hers, making her gasp. She grinds down against his leg, her mouth open and wet against his collarbone. He grips her hips tightly and bucks up against her, and she cries out.
"Up," she breathes.
She grabs at the wooden countertop behind her and his hands go under her thighs to lift her onto the workbench. When he steps between her legs, she wraps them around his waist, pulling him against her. He's hard, pressing, and he thrusts against her. She makes a low mewling sound as she digs her heels into his back.
"Mmph," he groans. "Your damn shoes."
He disentangles himself, stepping back to remove the offending items and drop them with heavy clunks onto the floor. Leaning back on her palms, she quirks an eyebrow and swings her legs back and forth. With shaky fingers, he undoes her jeans, sliding them over her hips and down her legs.
"Everything," she says. He looks her in the eye and hooks his thumbs under her mismatched black panties, pulling them down and off, and then she's naked and he's staring again. She pulls him back to her with her fingers curled into his belt loops, and he lets his hands wander up and down her bare legs.
She reaches between them to undo his belt and fly before shoving her hand down his pants. He swears under his breath when she touches him, pumping up and down.
He grabs her wrist, stilling her hand. "You want to be able to use that rubber, you need to stop right now."
There's a smirk on her face when she tells him, "Back pocket. Hurry up." She watches with keen interest as he quickly searches through her discarded jeans, pants riding dangerously low on his hips.
He finds it and waggles it between two fingers. "Got it."
She groans with impatience as his fingers fumble with the foil packet. "Come on!" She pushes his pants down with her feet.
"Be easier if you weren't yelling and kicking at me," he mutters. He finally tears the package with his teeth and retrieves the condom. He quickly rolls it on and looks her in the eyes. "Last chance."
She rolls her eyes and pulls him closer, pressing a searing kiss to his lips. "Just fuck me already," she says against his lips.
He positions himself and thrusts into her, not bothering to be gentle as he pushes in all the way. They both gasp, and he stays there, composing himself with his face in the crook of her neck.
After a long moment, she pushes at his shoulder gently. "Come on," she says. She wiggles against him, urging him to move.
He kisses her, mouth open and wet against hers, and starts stroking into her with a slow, steady rhythm. She makes little noises of encouragement against his ear, and he grunts, speeding up. She cries out as he pounds into her, his hands pushing at the inside of her thighs.
It's hot, and fast, and messy, and it's exactly what sneaky, post-apocalyptic sex in a tool shed in the middle of the day should be.
She takes his hand, shows him how to touch her, and his light touch at the apex of her thighs is all it takes to push her over the edge, mumbling breathy nonsense into his shoulder. A few more wild thrusts and he follows her, breathing hard, face buried in her hair.
He leans heavily against her, panting into her ear, and she strokes his shoulders and arms as their heart rates start to return to normal. After a few minutes, he senses that he's starting to crush her and pulls away,
There's a roll of paper towels hanging from a wooden rod on the wall, so he tears off a sheet and disposes of the spent prophylactic in a rusty metal wastebasket near the door, burying it and the wrapper so no one's the wiser.
She watches, content, as he walks back to her and starts picking clothes up off the floor. He slingshots her panties to her with perfect aim, and she laughs.
"Admit it. That was a good idea," she says. "Maybe my best idea ever."
He yanks up his pants and smirks. "Got ten left."
Pleased with his response, she grins. "We'll have to make them count."