AN: Thanks to einfach_mich for the suggestion of the Whedonesque exchange between fanboy Carl and Faith the Vampire Slayer. ILY
Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.
"So, you have superpowers."
The sun is shining, the smoke from the bonfire has settled, and Carl is helping Faith move the prison equivalent of a picnic table into the sunniest patch of the yard. Really, he isn't doing much except watching her move the table all by herself; he's fascinated, nonetheless.
Faith drops the table and shrugs. "Kinda—yeah."
She gives Carl a small, distracted smile, but her eyes keep going back to Daryl, where he stands on the other side of the yard with Rick.
Daryl hasn't taken his eyes off her, either. His body's still humming from the all too brief work over she gave him minutes before Rick and Carl joined them in the yard. His mind is racing, too, and he's starting to spiral into something that feels like regret.
She can sense his slight retreat into himself, but Faith wants more—again, now, harder and longer this time. Carl's still watching her, though, and that makes her feel weird.
"Cool," Carl says, still consumed with Faith's superpowers, as he bobs his head, making the sheriff's hat swing forward and back.
"Hey, Supergirl," Daryl calls out to her, but he already has her undivided attention. "What next?"
Faith ponders how to answer Daryl's question—partly because what she really wants to say is socially unacceptable, and partly because she doesn't really know what's next, since she has no intention of readying the entire group for the Minnesota trip.
She glances down at Carl, and he grins up at her. She's used to everyone in their group, including Rick, treating the kid like he's one of the adults, and he can certainly handle a weapon, but Faith still feels awkward talking about training and plans around him. She's always felt less than appropriate around children, though, even when she was one herself, so this feeling isn't exactly new.
She pats the kid on the back, and they head across the yard to meet Daryl and Rick.
"This seems like a decent place for training," she says, then looks down at Carl. "What do you think?"
She surprises even herself by asking Carl his opinion—not that it matters much, because she's really just stalling, and playing along; some would say she's being deceitful, but she chooses to feel diplomatic about it.
She waits for the kid's answer, and allows herself to be distracted by Daryl's hands, as he slides his thumbnail between his teeth.
He remembers how she bit him; his bottom lip is still throbbing from the pressure, and he swallows thickly, thinking about her strength and her skill. He meets her eyes—swirling pools of caramel and toffee and honey and other sweet things. Her eyes look innocent, but Daryl fucking knows better.
Carl is uncharacteristically bashful, not answering Faith's question. Rick smiles down at his son and nods.
"I like the table out here," Rick says. "And I think everybody else will, too. Maybe we should bring a couple other tables out here—make a sittin' area?"
Rick goes on to hypothesize the chances that their activities will attract walkers. Carl chimes in to impress Faith, and makes the comment that they can use any opportunity for shooting practice. Daryl and Faith stand there staring at each other, and are oblivious to Carl's obliviousness, while Rick quickly becomes aware of their stare down.
"Carl," Rick says. "Why don't you and me head back inside, look for Carol and Beth, see how they're doin'. Let Faith and Daryl handle the rest a this... stuff."
She tries to focus on what Rick is saying, but it seems so unimportant. She nods in agreement, though, tries to come off as authoritative in her agreement, while relishing the feeling of Daryl's eyes raking over her body. She can almost feel his hands twisting in her hair and his tongue sliding against hers. He matched her stroke for stroke in every way, but their time together was way too short. She twists and stretches under his attention, and it boosts her mood until it's spinning in the air.
Still clueless to his unwelcome presence, it's obvious that Carl doesn't want to leave Faith's side; he looks as close to pouting as Daryl's ever seen. Daryl almost feels bad for the little guy. Yet he can't bring himself to care. The sudden appearance of the kid and his dad, and the size of the hard-on in Daryl's pants aren't exactly compatible.
"Yeah," Daryl says. "Me and Lehane'll get this shit banged out in no time."
Faith's mouth goes dry with the sound of the word bang coming out of Daryl's mouth in reference to something they'll be doing together. She can't remember the last time she was this stoked about hooking up. Daryl is, hands down, her favorite and most anticipated score to date; and she's looking forward to another round.
Rick can't get his kid away from Faith and Daryl fast enough, when Daryl grabs Faith by the hand and pulls her in the opposite direction.
Faith loves his grip, hot and tight against her skin, as he starts to lead her down a corridor and away from the familiar sounds of the other people in the prison. She decides they've gone far enough, even though she can still hear Rick's voice, but she's done waiting, and doesn't she have better hearing than they do, anyway?
She grabs the back of Daryl's shirt and pulls him into her body, then pushes him against the wall. She hears him grunt when his back slams into the concrete, and hopes she hasn't broken anything.
"You okay, princess?" she asks, not really caring about the answer as she covers his mouth with hers.
"Hold up," he mutters around her lips in opposition, but his hesitance lacks conviction; his hands betray his words as they slide over her slight hips, his fingers teasing her muscular thighs. "Can't just go fuckin' up against the wall again."
"Why not?" she asks. "Didn't hear you complaining last time."
"Someone'll see us, or hear, us or somethin'," he says, kissing her and running his nose along her jaw, and his tongue around the shell of her ear. "Also, we gotta talk about—we don't need another little ass kicker runnin' 'round here."
"I'm covered." Faith smiles, telling him about the implant in her skin. "Requirement. Repopulation's in another phase of the plan, and doesn't necessarily include slayers, so..."
Daryl looks less hesitant, but still awkward, and Faith finds his discomfort interesting and annoying. She has no idea why he's suddenly feigning virtue or propriety, especially because she knows what she experienced with him 20 minutes before is just the tip of the filthy fucking iceberg with Daryl Dixon. She shivers at the potential of what he's sure to be hiding up his sleeve.
Regardless, she decides to try and placate him.
"Okay, princess," she says, reluctantly pushing away from where she has him pinned against the wall, running her hands over his shoulders and down his bare arms, then lightly clasping her fingers around his wrists. "Where to, then?"
"That way." He gestures toward an empty cell about five paces away from the sounds of the others.
She takes one of his hands in hers and walks down the corridor, then spins them both and pushes him inside the vacant cell. He falls down onto the bottom bunk, flat on his back, his hands thrown carelessly open next to his head.
"Gotta pay attention," Daryl says, as she climbs astride his hips and begins to unbutton his shirt. "We ain't kids, ya know."
She knows what he means, but it sounds ridiculous the way he's saying it. He's so fucking consumed with being careful and cautious, and he's starting to pull back to where he was before they went out to the side yard—uptight and stressed and worried that having fun and enjoying each other will get them into trouble.
Faith isn't going to let him pull away, though.
"Speak for yourself, old man," she replies, teasing him for his wavering and hesitation.
She's still grinning ear-to-ear, dimples deep, as she pulls his shirt open, but her smile softens when the sun from the high windows of the corridor outside the cell beams across the deep scars covering the skin of his torso.
"Besides," she continues quietly, running her fingers over his chest. "You're the one who pulled me down the hall—make up your fucking mind."
She leans forward and gently places kisses in the path of her fingers. Her long, soft hair tickles his skin, and Daryl lets go of his reservations and the whispering of regret. He palms the back of her head, holding her in place, then closes his eyes and hums into her kiss.
"I wanna see you," he says, and his voice is almost a whisper. He doesn't know if anyone can hear them, but that isn't why he's quiet; he just doesn't have the courage yet to be loud and proud with honest declarations of something so familiar.
Yet, there's something about Faith that gives him the confidence to take that first step. Is it because he knows she won't ridicule him? Hell, no; he's counting on her to give him all kinds of shit. The fact is, he knows she won't regret it.
Once she's kissed every inch of bare skin she can find, swiping her tongue over old wounds and faded words, she rests her cheek on his chest. She can almost feel vibrations emanating from the road map of ink and scars that covers his body. Part of her feels an obligation to ask who and where and how, but a bigger more dominant part of her knows whatever the answers, they really don't matter.
She peers up at him, hands resting on his ribcage, and her face resting in his hands. They stare for a beat. Daryl is really good at saying a million important things without using a single word, and Faith loves the confident silence more and more every minute they share. But she also likes playing with him.
"I'll show you anything you want," she says, taking his hands in hers and guiding them over her throat and chest, down to her hips, as she sits upright, straddling him. She squeezes his hands to keep them on her hips before releasing them and pulling her tank top over her head. "Is this what you want?"
He didn't have time to notice when they were in the yard, but she's wearing a flimsy, see-through bra. Daryl can see the darkness of her hard nipples through the fabric, and his fingers tighten on her hips. He pulls her forward slightly, making her grind over the sizable bulge in his pants, making them both groan.
She quickly unfastens the bra and tosses it to the side with her tank top.
"This?" she says, cupping her breasts and pinching her nipples, making them harder, then letting her breasts bounce.
"All of it," he says, his hands going to the button of her jeans, then working the zipper down. "I wanna see it all."
She can't really blame him for being greedy since she just took an oral tour of his torso. Plus, his clear insistence that she be completely naked, contrasted with his previous hesitation that they even kiss, is a huge fucking turn on.
She rolls off of him and makes quick work of her boots and jeans, watching him do the same out of the corner of her eye. She's faster, so just as he sets his pants and boots aside, she's already pushing him to his back and straddling his hips again—their heads are at the top of the bed.
He randomly traces the ink on the side of her hip and her arms, his fingers heating and puckering her skin, then leaving a chill as they move from spot to spot. She lets him take one of her nipples in his mouth, and she knows he's thinking the same things she was earlier, judging by the look of resolute fascination that covers his face.
He's so intense all the time, which makes her enjoy his gentle touch and the up close view of the true softness of his expressions even more. His tongue, and even his teeth, are almost gentle on her sensitive nipples. She watches the sun stripe across his skin and eyes, and the pure blue is flecked with silver in such a way that they remind her of one of Willow's crystals.
He stops her from staring a hole through to his soul when he grabs her face and pulls her down for a long, slow kiss. She moans into his mouth, and plants her hands on the mattress on either side of his shoulders, her thumbs sliding against his skin in time with his tongue sliding against hers.
He kisses her, as she drags one of her hands down his chest and stomach, then grips him hard, fumbles briefly, and steadily guides him inside her. They both sigh with relief—finally, again. The first time in the yard wasn't enough, and Daryl's starting to wonder if anything ever will be.
"Why do ya taste so good, huh? And feel so good," he says. He's fascinated with her mouth and her cunt, and the fact that he's never liked sex this much—or at least not quite in this way. "Fuck, I could eat ya up."
He wants to consume her, wholly—not just fuck her, not just come. He feels like the more he touches her and tastes her, and the deeper he gets inside her body, the more he wants from her, so he just keeps taking. His hands become more insistent and persistent in her hair, and she groans from the pleasure and the pain spreading over her scalp.
She's hot and wet everywhere, especially between her thighs. She's slick against him, as he kicks at the balled up fabric of their discarded clothes and sighs into her desperate mouth. Something tangles around his foot, and he yanks. They both hear the loud rip, and know that one of them will be out an article of clothing, but neither seems to care.
She sits upright again, reaching above her head and grabbing one of the bars under the top bunk for balance. She starts a different rhythm, swiveling her hips while she moves up and down, taking him in and out of her body. His hands frame her hips, and his thumbs hover, just in front of her clit, giving her something to rub up against on each pass.
"Oh, yeah," she says with a smile, throwing her head back and arching her neck. "That's it. Fuck yes."
"Yeah," he says, echoing her sentiments, and letting her take the lead.
He feels her spasm around him, and it's really fucking intense, but he wants to dive deeper into the abyss with her, so he clamps his eyes shut tight and wills himself not to come yet.
Her hands slip from the bar overhead, and she folds her body over his, burying her face in his neck. He settles his hands on her ass and squeezes lightly, then pats her hip a few times, shifting his weight.
"Come on, baby girl," he says. "I ain't done yet. Turn around."
"Damn, Dixon, you hold up good for an old dude," she says, slowly dragging her body off of his, and his from inside her.
She smirks over her shoulder at him, spinning on her knees to face the foot of the bed. His eyes travel her bare, glistening skin as he kneels behind her and wraps one arm around her waist. He pulls her body flush to his, then grabs a handful of hair, twisting the mass of chestnut waves around his wrist, remembering the sounds she made when he did it before, and loving the silken feeling of it against his skin.
Daryl uses his lips and tongue and teeth on the back of her neck, and the sensitive curve that joins her neck to her shoulder, then drapes her hair over the opposite side and down her front, dragging his fingers over her breasts on the way down between her legs.
"So fuckin' wet," he says, slipping two fingers around her clit in a vee. "And tight. But I wanna see just how tight you can get."
She reaches back, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him in for a kiss. "Think you can handle it?"
"Show me whatcha got." He pulls away from her kiss, releasing her waist, then gives her one quick shove between her shoulder blades until she's on all fours.
She flips her hair to look at him over one shoulder, and she's grinning like the Cheshire fucking Cat, wiggling her hips and spreading her legs; but he doesn't want her legs spread.
Daryl straddles her knees, and pushes them together with his own. He runs his hands from her shoulders to her hips, squeezes and smacks her, then holds her steady with one hand while he guides himself inside her body once more.
There are several faint, pink stripes across her back. He wonders how they got there, or, really, how they stayed, considering her ability to heal so fast. He traces the lines with his fingers, feeling the shiny, puckered skin, and watches her muscles ripple under his touch.
He starts to thrust, slow and hard, testing how deep he can go before he hits bottom, testing what kind of sounds he can get her to make, planning to test all of her boundaries every chance he gets, and his mind is spinning with possibilities and sensations. He reaches for her hair again and pulls tight.
"Got a hair fetish, Dixon?" she asks, gasping for breath as he severely arches her neck. He loves having her throat open, loves how vulnerable she is, that she's allowing this.
She's the ultimate fucking prey, and none of the implications of what this means are lost on him. He's high off the triumph of having her; the thought of the power that lies beneath him is utterly intoxicating.
He's fucking her so hard, then, that they're both grunting uncontrollably, involuntarily, gleefully.
"Shit, Daryl," she says, and her voice is throaty and loud. He can't help but smile for making her get so loud.
"Hush now, girl," he says, leaning forward and moving his hand from her hair, around to her cheek, dipping his middle and ring fingers over the front of her bottom teeth, and tugging. "You don't wanna be wakin' that baby."
She drops her chin to her chest, and he drops his forehead to her shoulder—one hand guiding her hip, and the other balancing on the metal footboard of the bed. Faith reaches one hand up to join his in front of her, entwining their fingers, then slips her other hand between her legs.
Within seconds, she's coming again, and Daryl can't hold out this time. He doesn't want to, either. He wants to fall with her, wherever she lands. Then, suddenly, everything is narrowing and tightening, straining and white hot—and then they both explode.
Many thanks to moojuicey, onelilhopeful, and einfach_mich for helping me talk through this and get to writing! And to MsKathy for holding my hand and wielding the red pen.
