Hmm. This started out as a Prison ficlet but somewhere along the way it morphed into (hopeful) Season 8 sweetness. I hope you guys don't mind.
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xx10xx
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He doesn't see it coming. Just has time enough to catch a flash of determination in the blue shimmer shine of her eyes before she sets his head to spinning, his heart to pounding out a frantic tattoo against his ribs.
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The soft, off-center press against the corner of his mouth. The shy kitten lick against his chapped lips. The playful parry with his startled tongue as her hands clasp tight around his shoulders.
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His buckling knees and her forward momentum send them stumbling back, and the jarring impact has him grunting into her mouth, one hand fisting helplessly in the worn material of her tank top as their lips separate, and shit if his heart doesn't stutter to a stop. Because she's painted in stardust and a pretty pink flush, and each heaving breath she takes brings her in closer contact with him if that's even fucking possible, and he has to know because there's a party inside, a celebration of life and second chances with friends and family and no shortage of wine. "You drunk?"
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The flirty flutter of her fingers against his nape. The hum of her laughter against his sweat-slick collarbone. The nuzzle of her nose against his scruff and the nudge of her boots against his own.
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The shake of her silver head pulls something akin to a growl from his mouth, and she swallows up the rumble. Raises up on her toes and cups gentle hands over his jaw, coaxing out a whimper that melts into a disbelieving sigh. His rough, shaking hands find her slim hips and his forehead falls to the sweet juncture of her neck.
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The tangle of her fingers in his own. The freckles he worships like celestial bodies. The sleepy curl of her in his arms.
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Daryl Dixon's heart finally knows calm.
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