AN: Here we are, another piece to this one.

Trigger warning for anyone who is horrified by the discussion of period sex.

I hope you enjoy! If you do, please do let me know!

111

"You take it off, if you want," Daryl said when Carol's fingers came up to touch the t-shirt that was tied across her eyes again.

She smiled at him. Her hands were free. Nothing about her was bound. Nothing about her was restricted. She was free to make her own choices.

Instead of removing the makeshift blindfold, she wrapped her arms around Daryl. She let her fingertips trail over the skin of his sides and then over the muscles in his arms. She directed him, telling him what she felt and what she wanted to feel—how she wanted him to please her. He was eager to please her. He was so eager that the only tension she felt in the whole room was that which came from his desire to know that he'd done well.

And so, she didn't hold back on her praise at all. She praised him for everything he did well—and he did most things quite well. She praised him for everything he tried to do well, too, recognizing from years with Ed that intention was worth enough to her that it merited the same enthusiasm as success.

She came.

He came first—breathing apologies into her neck in a voice that cracked just around the edges—and she whispered assurances that he was wonderful, and it didn't matter, and it didn't mean she wouldn't come too…and then she came with his efforts to get her there, half wondering if she wouldn't have been able to come from the simple knowledge of how badly he wanted it for her.

Nobody had ever wanted good things for Carol in the way that it seemed that Daryl did, and she could practically weep to think that he was afraid that his efforts weren't good enough.

When she came, he wrapped his arms around her. He gathered her up like a ragdoll. Her body felt limp and sated and wonderful. She pulled the loosely knotted blindfold over her head and tossed it somewhere in the tangle of sheets, blankets, and dark blue towels.

She wrapped herself into him and smelled him, drawing in the scent of his body, some lingering soap or shampoo, sweat, and at least a half a dozen faint smells she recognized from the shop—all things that were probably practically part of his essence now.

The smell was comfortable, and her stomach tightened at the thought. It was dangerous, perhaps, to feel comfortable in that smell—to feel comfortable wrapped in his arms—when this was supposed to be nothing more than a business transaction sealed with a contract.

But that's why he was here, wasn't it? So this would be comfortable—so they would be comfortable—and so that their child would be conceived and born from that warm comfort that formed between them during acts like this.

Words that Carol didn't dare to say hung in her throat and her throat ached.

She sighed, without meaning to make the sound.

Daryl hummed against her neck.

"Tell me what'cha need," he said, his words slightly slurred by the fact that, without a doubt, he neared sleep as he basked in the post-sex relaxation that he felt.

The sincerity of the sleepy words only made Carol's throat ache more with the further back-up of words hanging there—getting caught in the snare of her knowledge that she couldn't really say what she barely dared to think.

"You," she thought. "That's all I really want right now, and it's a little terrifying, and a little wonderful…and I think I might…"

But she wouldn't say the words out loud because she could barely bring herself to think the rest of it. It was too overwhelming. It was too much.

And it was forbidden—like forbidden fruit. She was her own version of Eve, tasting it and hoping that nobody—not even Daryl—knew what she was doing in secret.

Instead of complete honesty, she chose an answer that felt safe and more acceptable.

"I have everything I need," she said.

He tightened his hold on her, hugging her against him. Everything about the moment was wonderful and pleasant—even the things that she might normally find bothersome.

"Daryl…" she ventured. He hummed against her and rubbed his face against her. She closed her eyes and smiled. "There won't be a baby. Not from this."

Daryl laughed. He pulled away and sat up so that he could look at her. He'd insisted they leave the lamp on. He liked to see her, he said. He liked to see what he was doing with her. He liked to see how she reacted to it.

"You think I can't figure that much out?" He asked. "Weren't that why we had to have the whole conversation about the blue towels 'cause they was the only ones you figured had the least amount of chance bein' ruined by the blood…not that I wouldn't get you more towels, if you needed 'em."

Carol smiled softly.

She had never had sex on her period before. Never. Not once.

Ed would never dream of touching her when she was bleeding. He treated her period like it was the plague. When she was on it, he'd never touched her even remotely affectionately, for fear it might give her even the slightest suggestion that he was interested in coming into contact with her during the cursed time. He'd been so bothered by her period that he'd insisted that she wrap everything she used so carefully that he not be able to see anything, even in the bathroom trashcan, beyond the excess amount of toilet paper necessary to make it appear that she never menstruated.

He'd had a fit, once, when something had bled through the paper, so that he'd had some slight sight of it in the trash, and he'd been rough enough with her to bust her lip—yelling at her about how disgusting her blood was, and how he ought not have to see it.

Carol had thought, sardonically, and to herself, as she'd dabbed at her lip later, that it was clearly only the blood from her vagina that Ed found offensive, because he certainly never seemed to want to avoid it when he drew it from the rest of her body.

Daryl had seemed more surprised that she would ask him if he minded, than he did by the fact that she was suggesting they could still have sex. He'd shrugged.

"Blood's just blood," he'd said matter-of-factly. "Natural, ain't it? Happens every month…unless you're pregnant, right?"

There wasn't really anything else to be discussed. Blood was just blood. It was natural. It happened every month. That was all, as far as Daryl was concerned—there was nothing else to discuss.

And, then, he'd helped her spread the two dark blue towels on the bed to soak up whatever mess got made, and he sounded at least a little pleased when he'd pointed out how it made her wetter than she'd been before—something he liked—without even the need for the little bottle of lubricant he'd brought to bed, just in case.

"I know you'd get more towels," Carol said. "These should wash out fine, though. They're too dark to really stain."

Daryl leaned to kiss her, and Carol accepted his kiss. She returned it enthusiastically. He liked kissing. He liked kissing, and licking, and sucking—and biting. And she was happy to allow all of it as he tested proverbial waters.

As they kissed, he slipped his hand down between her legs, and she moaned in his mouth as he stroked her. Blood was blood, and having it on him bothered Daryl not at all. They would both need a shower, and Carol thought that the bed, along with both of them, had at least some slight resemblance to the scene of at least some kind of minor accident, but it felt so wonderful—and he seemed so happy—that she couldn't dare tell him to stop.

She kissed him as much as he wanted, except when she couldn't and what he was doing to her with his fingers got to be so good that her mind could think of nothing else.

"Can I?" He asked, breathing the words against the side of her face. He'd already changed his position. He was already pressing down against her, heavy and warm. He was already positioned to enter her, pressing into her, waiting for the last bit of permission before he slipped inside her. She only had to hum at him and he was inside her—all the way—and he breathed out his pleasure with a sound that made her unable to doubt, for even a second, that he liked what he found.

Carol was positive, when the second round was finished, that Daryl could command her to come and her body would simply obey.

The fact that she felt like he had that kind of power over her, without even really seeming to try, was a bit troubling. She had promised herself, after Ed, that she wouldn't let a man have power over her again. She wouldn't let a man control her.

The most terrifying part of it all, though, was that Daryl wasn't trying to control her. He didn't seem at all interested in controlling anything about her. He didn't seem to notice that he had the power, and something in Carol told her that, even if he knew, it wouldn't change a thing about him.

Carol's stomach churned because, as much as she wanted no man to ever have power over her, at least part of her didn't mind the power it recognized that Daryl had. That part of her actually found it comforting.

When he asked if he could smoke, or if she wanted him to go outside, she said he could smoke if he shared with her, and they used a waterglass as an ashtray while they hovered together on the blue towels and laughed at their only slightly failed efforts not to get blood anywhere else on the sheets.

"I'm sorry," Carol said, blowing out smoke from the cigarette he'd lit for her before lighting his own.

"About what?" Daryl asked.

"The mess," Carol said.

"Your shower work?" Daryl asked.

She laughed.

"You know it does," she said.

"Well—I know you got soap," Daryl said. "Washin' machine work OK?"

"I get your point," she said, laughing quietly. "It's just…it's blood."

"But it ain't like blood blood," Daryl said.

"Oh—it's pretty bloody blood," Carol said.

"Point is—it ain't like you hurt, or I'm hurt, and we're just rollin' around in it, so it don't matter."

"Blood only matters if one of us is hurt?" Carol asked.

"I don't give too much of a damn about it otherwise," Daryl said, shrugging his shoulders. "You know what they do the first time you kill somethin' hunting?"

"Eat it?" Carol asked.

He laughed.

"Yeah—I mean—I guess, most of us do," Daryl said. "But the first time, at least? They smear the blood on you. On your face. Forehead and cheeks."

"Why?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged.

"Rite of passage, really," Daryl said. "Like sayin' welcome. You're a hunter, then. Made your first kill. Merle's my brother, though, so I've been smeared with blood more times than I can count. Just because. That's Merle for you. Hell—I've done work all my life that's at least a lil' bit dangerous. Cut myself, jammed nails that I had to drill holes through to relieve the pressure and the blood poolin' underneath. Tended other people that got hurt because their asses were too damned proud to go to emergency rooms if it weren't absolutely necessary. Point is—blood is blood, and this ain't bad blood. It's just…blood. Worse part about it is…"

He stopped cold.

"Worst part about it is?" Carol pressed, resting her hand on his leg in a way that she recognized was very familiar. He didn't seem to be at all bothered by it. He put his hand over hers.

"Worst part is that…it means we don't get no baby for a while longer," Daryl said. "And I was kinda lookin' forward to it. You know? Not that—I'm not pissed, I mean I know Andrea said it takes it a while. Could take a long damn time, and it weren't sensible of me to think it was gonna be like some instant thing. So—I ain't pissed—don't—don't get me wrong or nothing. I was just kinda lookin' forward to it, so the blood just makes me feel a little…"

"Bummed?" Carol asked, echoing what he'd said to her earlier.

He laughed.

"Seriously fuckin' bummed," he offered, giving her back her own words. She laughed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"You're bummed, too," Daryl said. "Best part of the whole thing is we get to be bummed together."

"And we get to keep practicing," Carol offered.

Daryl smiled.

"And we get to keep practicing," he agreed.

"What happens when…there's no need to keep practicing?" Carol asked.

Daryl looked a little pale, suddenly, and Carol's stomach twisted—she didn't dare to think about what it might mean. She didn't want to think things that weren't true. It wasn't a good idea to lie to herself and to fool herself.

"We'll—focus on what's good for the baby," Daryl said.

"Yeah," Carol said, the word sounding hollow even to her.

"Like—relaxin' is good for the baby," Daryl said. "You relaxin' and…feelin' good…and not bein' stressed and all. Right?"

Carol's pulse kicked up.

"I feel pretty relaxed right now," she offered.

"Me too," Daryl said. "So—we'll worry about…you know…what's good for the baby."

"Like relaxing," Carol said.

"Like that," Daryl agreed. "Like—relaxin'."

Carol smiled softly at him.

"You know what else might help me relax?" She asked. He hummed at her in question. "A hot shower," she said. "You—want one?"

His smile was genuine enough that her heart thundered in response.

"Sounds pretty damn relaxing," he agreed, dropping his cigarette butt into the glass she held to show he was ready and anxious. She followed suit, and then she followed him off the bed and toward the bathroom.