Hey guys!
This is my absolute first published Walking Dead fanfic AND my first attempt at anything remotely sexual, so please feel free to hit me with the useful critiques.
It will have two parts and it MAY have a third depending on how long the second portion turns out to be and whether or not the two things I have in mind can work as a cohesive unit.
This is fairly "M" rated, despite being comparably tame and nowhere close to smut. Still, there is enough sexuality and Dixon-mouth here that I am wary of giving it a "T".
Also, a note on accents. I leave Carol's cute little accent from Seasons 1&2 in here. I tried to show it subtly in how I did her dialogue. Let me know if it comes across at all and how the accents sound for both characters. It's something I'm working on getting comfortable with.
Cheers! Enjoy!
It was an uncharacteristic move on Carol's part and one Daryl had not expected. How she had noticed the slight bulge that formed in his tattered cargo pants, he didn't know. Had she just worn a damn bra he probably wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place, but there she'd been, leaning on her elbows with her tank top gaping in all the right places and unknowingly stirring up all sorts of feelings, all sorts of needs he'd been neglecting for longer than he cared to admit.
There just wasn't any time for that anymore, what with the influx of new group members from Woodbury and the constant runs that were required to keep up with their needs. They were thirty strong now and while their numbers made it easier for Daryl to get a night off of watch once in awhile, the lack of space made it damn near impossible to find a moment alone. Once his late night refuge, the showers were constantly full these days. There wasn't anymore going off into the woods alone, not with the council breathing down his neck to be "responsible" and take the younger Woodbury men with him to learn to hunt and track. He saw the logic in all of that, but that didn't make it any easier to quit staring at Carol like he was some starving goddamn wolf who'd finally found himself a snack.
Her skin was pale and heavily freckled, even underneath the tattered red tank top that Daryl remembered was her favorite. He was graced (or cursed, perhaps) with the teasing mental image of a little pond on a warm, sunny day and Carol, pulling that tank top over her head and sliding those dark jeans off of her hips, the sun painting her soft skin with all those freckles. He would have given anything to see something like that back at Hershel's farm, though he'd never have admitted it to her. Hell, he still wanted that. Maybe he'd have to arrange for Carol to go on a short run with him soon. They could curl up somewhere for the night, attend to some needs, and head back with supplies just in time to excuse their extended absence with the story of a small herd or a flat tire.
Daryl sucked in his breath sharply and forced his eyes to focus on the grey, concrete wall behind Hershel's head. The old man was giving an impassioned speech. Hershel was generally full of helpful advice, but given the opportunity he would ramble for hours on end about some moralistic dilemma that interested exactly no one. Today it was meal planning, which Daryl had little opinion about , but it was something to think on that was unrelated to Carol's small hands rubbing painfully slowly against her long neck, working out some kind of knot at an unnecessarily erotic pace. She let out a little moan of relief as the crick eased under her hands.
Daryl cleared his throat, shifting restlessly in the heavy wooden chair. He tugged at his olive green pant leg a little, subtly attempting to readjust himself just enough to relieve the growing ache that had formed there.
A smug little smile crossed her pretty face as if she had read his dirty mind and decided, after seeing his desperate need, that she was going to do something about it. And then there had been her hand drawn under the table and resting lightly on the top of his thigh.
She seemed to always notice when he needed something. Food, sleep, a haircut (a notion he resented, but begrudgingly consented to the week before when he realized she'd be running her hands through his hair for the better part of a half hour). Maybe it was just her nature to be attentive to people in that way.
Damn observant woman. She knew exactly what she was doing to him, what he wanted, and she had no intentions of stopping anytime soon.
He glanced at her, eyes filled with sudden panic as she subtly slid her small hand from the top of his thigh to his lap, cupping him firmly through his pants when she reached her mark. She didn't seem to think that anyone had noticed and to her credit, Daryl was fairly certain they hadn't. Still, his heart pounded furiously against his sternum in anticipation of getting caught. Without even meeting his eyes, she had singlehandedly managed to derail his (admittedly quite limited) focus on Hershel's impassioned request that the council institute a prison spaghetti night. God, this woman… She could be so damn...sassy...sometimes, usually in an attempt to tease him. He had to admit he kinda liked it though.
Her movements were barely noticeable, but his cheeks flushed at the feel of her small hand alternating between those long, slow strokes and squeezing just enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He cut his eyes at her again asking wordlessly "What the hell's gotten into you?" But she didn't frown or stop. She just smiled and, squeezing him a little harder, interjected "If Beth's willing to look after Judith for the evening, I can handle getting spaghetti put together, Hershel. All in favor?"
Daryl groaned a little louder than he'd intended, lips drawn into a thin grimace. Carol's eyes went wide for a split second and her hand froze, still firm against him, but not moving. Caught. They were caught. Goddammit. They were gonna think he was some kind of pervert, gettin' his dick stroked under the table at a council meeting where anyone could have noticed them. What the hell was she thinking? She'd done a whole lot to make him squirm over the past year, but never something like this.
"You all right there, son?" Hershel asked, a questioning glimmer behind the old man's eyes as the he silently noted Carol's arm's slow withdrawal into her own lap.
"Your shoulder still botherin' you, Daryl?" Carol asked with genuine concern, looking him in the eye for the first time since she began this whole mess.
He stuttered a little, rubbing the back of his neck. "Naw, it ain't. Just ain't sure why we hafta vote on you boilin' some damn noodles." He hadn't meant to be that gruff, but the statement served it's purpose in taking the attention off of his groan.
Scowling, she answered, "We don't have to vote. I was just tryin' to be considerate."
Hershel cleared his throat and reclaimed the floor. "If no one has any problems with us adjourning for the evening, then I'd suggest we do so."
With a grunt of approval, Daryl stood awkwardly from his chair and stomped out of the room before the council could question him any further.
