SkinwalkerSkiddo woke my dormant werewolf kink and i just had to do my own take on it. they might like it or they might murder me for ruining their AU; whichever works, haha. you're gonna have to read that first, and it won't be a hardship, i promise you! /s/10112161/1/Bad-Moon-Blues

minor interspecies thing ahead. that's a nicer word than bestiality? i hope?

this is from rick's POV.

You have to fight to remember that he's coming back.

He goes after his brother alone, and returns alone, dumb with grief and smelling of gasoline, singed fur. He torched the whole place down, he tells you without meeting your eyes, voice abraded like he'd been screaming, and he probably had. Drops his crossbow (drops it, when he usually takes so much care) and sheds both his clothes and his human skin, takes off and does not come back.

But he will come back.

Michonne sidles up to you in the guard tower, says that she can hear Daryl's steady approach back to the prison gates. "He's not quite right in the head yet." He needs you to calm him down, is what goes unspoken, and the day-old bite in the crook of your neck throbs once, your heart feeling too heavy.

"Thank you."

You grab his poncho and climb down. The field outside is devoid of walkers for the time being, courtesy of Daryl snapping at them and chasing them away. The quiet grass painted white by the moon, and your mate is standing at the entrance that the Governor ploughed down. He's motionless, not at all reacting to your steady creep towards him until his snout is inches from your chest, his hot breath fogging the air.

He's beautiful, and it never ceases to amaze you, terrify you. There are jaws, and three-inch long teeth. Eyes like honey, sad and ponderous. Twitching ears that come to lay flat against a skull you won't be able to properly link your arms around, and he whines, one sharp clear note that is as endearing as it is pained.

You take that as an invitation and drop his poncho to slide fingers through his fur, all the shades of brown like the forest floor during autumn. "I'm sorry," you tell him, pressing your cheek to his soft one, hiding. "Merle's death is on me. I told him to prove that he still cares for you, and I never wanted. I'm sorry."

Daryl huffs, pokes your ribs with a black nose like a fist, almost chastising. He doesn't blame you even though he should, and it doesn't erase your guilt, but it comforts you.

You smile and scratch at the space between his jutting shoulder blades, unable to stop yourself from treating him like the Labrador you owned when you were a kid. "We should get out of this cold."

Your wolf does no such thing, choosing instead to kiss you, all wire-thick whiskers and ardor. He laps at you and you feel so small, so strange under that wide tongue. He moves from your mouth to the claiming mark, and he makes a pleased noise, the smooth side of a fang scraping just a bit and you tighten your grip on his coat, but not from pain. He nudges you again. A tongue that strips meat off bone is trying to slip under your clothes. Despite how ridiculous it all is, despite the fact that you're out in the open and Michonne must be getting quite an eyeful from her perch, you undo the buttons of your shirt for him.

He surges forward and you fall back on your ass, disgruntled for a second but he doesn't pause, pressing wetly against your nipples and your chest jumps under the touch. Your arms collapse from under you and you're flat on your back, sweat slipping down your stomach despite the cold and the wolf laves at the indentation of your navel, up to your collarbone, repeats.

"Daryl," you gasp, because what else is there to say. This is the strangest thing that's ever happened to you, and in a world where the dead start getting up again to eat the living, that's saying a lot.

A rough earthen hum, and he feels like an idling motorcycle this close to you, a hot heavy presence. He draws your entire shoulder into his mouth and everything's too tight, this must be what he feels like when he goes too long without shifting. You're pretty sure you're whimpering like a mongrel pup.

The unsheathed tip of his erection weighs heavily against your thigh, and you feel dizzy, mouthing at the edge of his dark lips and undoing the fly of your jeans. He makes a low, low down sound, nosing your boxers out of the way for you and. God. Every rational thought has fled your brain. There's something here more threatening than a psychopath, further from human than a herd of walkers. You've been desperately waiting to look up and see blue eyes, and the ones gleaming at him right now aren't a match, but you still know them, urgent and focused and waiting for you to catch up.

You grip the base of your cock to try and steady yourself. But then the firm length of Daryl's tongue slides against your hand, for all the world feeling like another human dick, and you moan so hard it cracks your throat.

He rumbles happily, wriggles that impossible tongue over your balls, slides between your ass cheeks and you thrash against it, tickled and driven out of your mind all over again, but for the best reasons now. "Quit it," you gasp, and he gives you enough space to finally push any offending garments down past your knees, better access for him and.

He spears you onto his tongue and you nearly scream. You're still stretched from last night's vigorous activities but this? This is far worse, far more intense, boundless stabs of wet warmth baring you to your raw and vulnerable core, and you feel like you might vibrate apart. You don't even have the benefit of a pillow to muffle your groans, not that you'd be able to anyway. One huge paw is pinning your torso down, claws brushing your nipples with your every inhale and it's the most exquisite torture. It goes on for ages, and you feel so full, but it's not enough, you can't, you need —

"More," you finally croak, and you're like a man possessed, clenching and unclenching at the scruff of his neck. "Fuck, Daryl, please." He meets your gaze, a slow fist closing around your insides, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

You don't even know what you want. You want him to shove his massive cock in right now, rut you into the earth with his damp aged wood musk surrounding you. You want him to shift back so you can see the fogged over expression on his face as he comes, see how his mouth shapes your name over and over.

You want him, in any way he'll let you have him, and it's more than you deserve.

And then he's gone.

But not gone. There are palms stumbling over the ladder of your ribs, arms bracketing your head, a heart racing wildly against yours. Your hands can't quite find purchase on the sweat-slicked expanse of his back. "Rick," Daryl mumbles, lips moving messy and almost shy on your throat.

You grin and bury your nose in his damp hair, giddy with ecstasy and something a little more evocative than lust. "You horndog. For a second I was scared you were gonna rip me apart with your monster dick."

"Y'wouldn'tve complained, though," he says, impish until you nip at the now exposed flesh of his neck, and he jerks his hips into yours with a rough groan, the playing ground evened out now. You worry at it softly until you've left a mark of your own, until he gives up on patience and sinks into you, knot and all.

Your orgasm takes you by surprise, one moment in this perfect suspended arc of tension and the next mewling your release, actually blacking out for a second, and Daryl blinks at you, a grin overtaking his face. "Well," he says, and you can only bat at his shoulders, dazed and limp and irresponsibly happy.

He tries to pull out but you hook a leg around his hips. "No, hey. Take what you need, Daryl." Shifting around him even though the sensation of his cockhead brushing your prostate is nearly painful in its intensity, but you don't mind.

"Yer sure?" He's hesitant when he thumbs at your mouth, though you can see his resolve start to crumble, a tangible thing shot through his eyes.

You mouth the word please against his thudding pulse point until he sighs, begins moving in little circles, carefully avoiding contact with your spent cock, and you've never felt better. This is supplication, asking his forgiveness you with your whole body, the bits of flame with his every movement melting the fear in your stomach.

You're holding on to each other like it means something, and he's yours as much as you are his.

Later, when he's covered himself up in his poncho and you've given up on trying to get rid of the scrub grass and dirt grafted to your skin, you tell him, "Michonne would've seen this whole thing up in the tower, you know."

He slings his arm around your neck, an insidious sharpness to his easy smile. "She can look all she damn wants but she ain't comin near you with less than pure intentions. Nobody is." His eyes glitter with flatly cold cruelty. "'Specially not the Governor."

You remember too well the feeling of desperate inarticulate rage, and you press kiss-swollen lips to his temple as you start walking back to your little den, only the barest tremor to your voice when you promise:

"We'll be alright. It's gonna be okay, you'll see."