This is going to be mostly smut. I have some plans for it to have actual plot as well, but this is where we're starting. Enjoy!
The prison's walls shuddered under the intrusion of shuffling new individuals from the former anomaly that was Woodbury. The fortified town came under fire after their leader abandoned them, tales and descriptions as well as close encounters telling you how a power trip ate at the last bits of sanity within him. The Governor turned on his own "soldiers" and such news delivered gave you a newfound appreciation for those you stuck with when the world decided to cave in on itself. Sure, you lost quite a few back at the camp, the farm, and the future realistically painted a picture of further massacre, but somehow hope managed to sift through your veins from the youthful faces of children bouncing around.
At first, finding room for everyone was a chaotic task in itself, but you all settled in the community and established rules for both who stayed and who was to arrive. A week passed, things changing when people were assigned tasks according to their strengths. Every part needed to move for this machine to carry on, walkers threatening livelihood regardless of preparation or not so it didn't hurt whatsoever to be ready.
Walkers currently pressed their full body weight into the outer fence, a rusted pole utilized as your weapon as you jammed one end of it into their skulls. The squelch used to nauseate you, but gore and ugliness became second nature. Unfortunately, no one had time to bend over and wretch over the smell permeating through the air either. Your stomach built up a tolerance to the atrocities, and you weren't exactly sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. It may help to create an immune system to defend against the undead, but the fact that you had to because there were undead was pretty grim.
Almost blackened blood coats your copper pole as you slide it out of the cranium of a soon dropping walker. It crumbles down into the floor in an immobile heap, your arms flexing as you drop the dirtied end into the floor and rest your palms into the end you gripped. You were tired, but not fatigued, your body running on adrenaline at a constant rate as an adaptation to the now destructive environment. As sweat beads from your scalp and slips down your neck into the fabric of your shirt, you elect to ignore it and raise your pole to aid the others in ridding of the rest of the walkers, but an engine roaring captures your attention.
It's basically become your cue, legs running to the gate before you're able to form coherent thought. A few others help in opening it, two vehicles rolling in quickly and then you help close it in a rapid fashion. Hours passed since the two groups left, so you're ecstatic they're back. Anyone could be lost at any moment and that thought alone is far too scary for you to dwell on. So, you simply don't, a smile plastering itself on your features as you run over and check if everyone's okay.
Rick steps out of the first car, Glenn emerging from the passenger seat as a fresh face (his name is Bernard or something, you can't necessarily keep track of all the people they brought in, but you're trying) pops out from the back. From the second car, Daryl, Michonne, Karen, and Tyrese leave, but they still seem to have perspiration on their brows. You, out of concern, move to them and try and examine them as if you could tell what happened by the mere sight.
Michonne has a nasty cut above her eyebrow while Karen has a bruise the size of Connecticut on her cheek. Tyrese doesn't seem injured and neither does Daryl. Tyrese hums out a breath of air as he checks over Karen, so you gravitate towards Michonne. The two of you aren't close by any means, but you trusted her far above any newbie. She took a spot within your makeshift family and you couldn't help but establish the beginning of a brand new relationship.
"What happened?" You asked, Daryl's stalking off from the groups not going unnoticed. His skin was tinted a bit red, but you blamed the harsh rays of the sun. And yet his stubborn ass refuses to remove his leather jacket and vest regardless of the overwhelming heat.
"We got caught up in a small herd when we were in one of the stores in town. Think we all bumped into shit we didn't mean to. We hightailed it once we made it out safe." She raised her hand, finger pointing to the cut she couldn't see. Its presence most likely burned from the slight shift of air.
"Think this'll need stitches?"
"Maybe. I'll have to look at it in the infirmary."
You placed a hand on her arm, inching closer to see the damage. The head always bled more, so the drip from the cut to her eyelid isn't something that sends you reeling backwards. However, you guided her to the prison with no protest from her end. This is what you do, patch people up through what Hershel has been teaching you. When the turn occurred, you decided to pursue a career in the medical field out of hope it was the smart way when a biology degree wasn't too appetizing. You understood the body and it just made sense since you weren't too keen on heading into a scientific atmosphere nor being a teacher. You were merely trying to find a place in the world, somewhere you fit in a jumbled puzzle.
And then the puzzle of a planet rearranged itself and threw a majority of the pieces away.
After patching Michonne up and icing down Karen's bruise, you headed from the infirmary to the prison cells. You're not the first person to volunteer for runs, but you had a long day helping around as much as you could despite that. A nap is at the top of your agenda, a slow gait initiated as you walk down the corridors to find your cell. It seems as if everyone is outside, figures of bodies not outlined for you as you passed the numerous bars.
Except for one… one who doesn't even stay in a prison cell.
You approached the cellbars slowly, standing in the doorway haphazardly covered by a curtain. Daryl turned his head to see you, a sigh falling from his lips at the sight. Your connection was strained at first, building up as yours did with anyone from the beginning and the farm, but you saw a change in him become rather drastic. He got a lot quieter since Merle… you didn't blame him as much as you disliked his older brother, but you actually missed the obnoxiousness Daryl used to release on the daily. Family is family, and while you didn't know what happened to yours, it was pain you still grieved over the very same.
"What're you doin' in here?" You ask. Your arms cross over your chest, back leaning into the open area. Your body blocks out light trying to peek in, Daryl's features barely illuminated by what manages to surpass you.
"Nothin'," he dismissed flatly, the crossbow he set down onto the bed being slung over his shoulder. The entire motion is done awfully cautious for you to believe Daryl did it if you had not seen him with your own eyes. He seemed… off. His pacing carried a deliberate setting you solely saw when he tracked and stalked prey for everyone to eat. Why did he need such cautiousness caught in one of the cells resting?
Your eyes scanned the area of the cell, one of the empty ones Rick's paranoia refuses to occupy with others. Watching his descent into madness as well as his ascent into sanity and acceptance was quite the journey, but he seemed to still have a prioritization of those who he's been with from the beginning. If Daryl came into this empty cell, it was for a reason, and so you try to scope it out since he's purposely muted his tone and body language. By the look on his face when you entered, he didn't want to be found there. When your eyes focus on a few droplets of deep crimson staining the contrasting grey of the floor, you stop him from moving past you with a hand pressing into his chest.
Icy cerulean irises dropped to stare at your hand, but you do not falter despite the intensity a simple gaze from Daryl Dixon promises. His chest feels hard under your palm, a deep breath he inhales inflating it. He wants to leave, you can tell, and you just got in the way of that. But, you refused to back away from him and passively stand by when something's amiss. Not when you can help.
"Sit and take off your jacket," you say quietly, boldly and daringly meeting the flash in his eyes without so much as flinching.
His jaw visibly tightened and you're not sure if he's going to yell at you or push you aside to get through, but slowly, enough time passes and you watch him relax. There's tension thick in the air, but he steps backwards and removes his crossbow from a broad shoulder and places it onto the bed as he did before. The vest slipped off, a methodical tempo set he follows religiously until the dark leather begins to move off his thick arms. His left arm unveils itself first, but when he goes for the second, he looks at you with hesitation in his eyes. He's trying to communicate something to you and you're wondering if it's shame or embarrassment.
His digits took a hold of the leather and he raised his right arm to inch the material off as slow as he possibly could. It's difficult to watch, but you can't find it in you to turn away as his arm trembles while he moves almost snail like. Your suspicions are confirmed when rustic blood comes into the picture from his elbow all the way down to his fingertips. The wound he suffered must've been bleeding a majority of the time they've been back.
"Shit, Daryl," you muttered lowly. You grabbed the bag he took in there and rummaged through it for the medical supplies. From there, you stepped closer to clean off the blood around the wound. It appeared deep enough to require stitches, so every move became punctual in your assurance to ensure no infection spread.
"Why didn't you say anythin'?" You huffed out, getting the thread and needle from under the mess he probably tried to sort through himself before you found him alone. You captured the items necessary, moving his arm at an angle to begin sewing.
Normally, to numb it down, you applied something before you started stitches, but he went too long on his own and fear upped your pace. You looked up at him apologetically through long lashes, a gaze he returned impassively.
"Didn't think it was that bad," he said quietly.
How could he remain so still as you slid the needle into the surrounding, damaged skin? You had no intentions to make matters worse, but the sole tell-tale sign that he's in pain from your actions is the slight flex in his jaw you almost don't catch. You do because you keep glancing up at him, the sweat above his brow glistening in the narrow light beaming into the cell.
"What happened exactly?" You gently asked, moving slower in stitching him up.
"Fell on some glass. I could barely feel it, but then I started to once we got back. Nothin' personal… I just didn't wanna'..." bother you? Inconvenience you? That sentence he trailed off on could have gone a myriad of ways, but the burdened look on his features told you how this was hard for him. Allowing you so close while providing succor, it was a difficult thing for him to accept.
"It's okay to need help. Doesn't make you any less," was the final thing you let out before silence took hold of the atmosphere.
You finished the thread work soon after, currently moving his arm to examine the end product. You remained cautious as you leaned forward, your opposite hand falling onto his knee to steady yourself. You couldn't help it, your legs started to fall asleep from how long you kept them tucked under you. However, the denim underneath your hand is what your eyes fell to unconsciously, a sudden realization hitting of how the two of you hardly had any space in between your bodies.
His breath hitched, a noticeable sound that causes your head to shift up towards him. The previous shut jaws have parted enough to gaze at a sliver of pink from his tongue. The slightest shade of rose coats the apples of his cheeks, something you take as a reaction from the needle and thread, but as you nervously drop your head to avert his gaze, you ascertain the real perpetrator.
A tent pitched in his pants evidently told you of his arousal, but what caused it, you're unsure of. It's possible he got off on pain considering how eager he always was to jump headfirst into danger, but your hand happened to inch from his knee to his thigh and the muscle tensed in your palm. It occurred to you how this must look from a different perspective, practically on your knees in front of Daryl's spread legs. It wasn't your intention to plant this image in his head, nor yours, but it's creating an ache in between your thighs that you're probably turning red from the very same.
Yes, you were attracted to Daryl. It developed slowly on the farm once you got past his rude commentary and crude humor. You merely pushed it down because the last thing anyone needed was any other kind of drama, but you found it hard to ignore it with his sweaty bangs and obvious desire… it was for you, right?
God, it was difficult to gauge his current feelings when his expression was set and hardened. You wondered what he was thinking, if he felt bashful from the situation the two of you fell into, but no words filtered from your suddenly dry throat. What could you say without breaking the tension and communicating that it was okay, that… that you wanted him, too. You could embarrass yourself and tell him of the heat pooling in your stomach, but that was foreign on you. Experiencing such was either pushed away or unknown in the wake of the undead.
You decided to take the next bold step, running your hand from his thigh to the bulge in his pants. Just as you managed to reach it, his left hand shot out to grab you by the wrist. Your heart thudded violently in your chest, hesitant eyes finding his to see if you stepped over the line, if you should've voiced your attraction or walked out of the room, but there's nothing in those blue storm clouds to decipher. He doesn't even seem to be breathing as his eyes dig holes seemingly into your soul.
All you want to do is leave the cell, pretend nothing happened so the two of you could resume quiet conversations merely initiated to make sure the other is safe. But damn it, if you stand up suddenly and make a run for it, you'd fall straight on your face since your legs felt numb from the lack of movement. You had to wiggle them, gain back feeling as they tingled with static. That would just make this worse, though… you standing up and creating mannerisms just so you could plan an escape route after almost touching his crotch.
However, instead of pushing your hand away, instead of standing up himself and walking out, instead of telling you to go to hell—he slowly lowered your hand to its original destination. He felt warm despite the layers of clothing concealing his hard-on, a definitive pulse occurring against your digits as you grasped him cautiously. He inhaled a sharp breath, his hand remaining on yours as a steady weight. You were afraid to move forward, unsure of how to go without creating a discomfort you thought was there before in your worries. But then he transitioned his steady weight to a guiding pressure, displaying his need that you complied with and pumped him through.
The soft groan escaping his lips is otherworldly, an astonished breath slipping from you. You look up at him through your lashes, mouth parting as you maneuver by his lead, stroking him through the thick denim of his jeans. He leaned forward, breaths coming out in a staccato. His head bowed, hair hiding his features from you despite your longing to see him in building pleasure.
"Daryl," you cooed, attempting to gain his attention. Something stopped you from reaching up to push the long strands from his facial structure yourself, but you hoped your voice drew him from being so shy. After all, your hand currently worked to satisfy him beyond anything the two of you have ever done.
"Don't stop," he murmured, a deep and dark gravel your heart stuttered for, your underwear damn near soaked for.
"Fuck, Y/N," he said as he moved his hand from yours to slide his fingers through your hair to caress your head. He leveled you with those now royal blues, "so fuckin' pretty," rolling off his tongue like rich whiskey.
He continued to pant, little grunts as he bucked his hips up into your touch. You moved faster in response, anything to get him there. You had to regardless if you found a deep fascination with how he neared orgasm. Merely doing this for him, feeling how thick he felt, your mouth watered… you wanted him down your throat, have him finish by something other than your hand. And yet, you still felt timorous grasping his girth at this bad angle, clothes in the way of the two of you gaining further intimacy. Perhaps such was good for him, enough for him without scaring him off. To fight the urge, you tucked your bottom lip in between your teeth, dropping to your knees fully on the concrete to try and get some feeling back to your legs. (All while squeezing your thighs together)
That's when it happened, his fingers curling in your hair as he exhaled shakily and pulsated faster than before. You moved through it, slowing down to watch the relaxation falling over his lowering shoulders. He tried to catch his breath, hand grasping yours to keep you from touching him further. He was most likely sensitive from his release, but he squeezed your hand in what you took as appreciation.
He adjusted his body, chest rising and falling as he laid backwards into the bed with special carefulness due to his injury. His eyes were already slipping closed, probably from his end and the amount of blood he lost, you couldn't pinpoint it to one thing. You used the edge of the bed as leverage to stand up straight, your legs like jelly as you stretched them out and watched as he eventually calmed.
You sat down a moment, brushing hair out of his eyes with your fingers. He looked up at you lazily, something telling you that he wanted to say something. But… with what just occurred in the past hour, you knew he was exhausted.
"Shh… get some rest. You need it." And with that, you gently kissed his knuckles and left from the cell, the curtain placed down to give him the privacy necessary.
Hopefully no one else would intrude on his current need to be alone.