Even with all the will power I have, I still can't stop looking at him. He just stares back at me with those blue eyes of his. The white surrounding his hues seems to be the cleanest thing about him. But that's okay.

"What?" he suddenly asks in an annoyed tone.

"Nothing," I breathe inaudibly, watching his lips as they part in unison with his words.

"The fuck you lookin' at me for?"

Because I love your face is what I want, but can't, say.

"I don't know," my monotonic inflection doesn't feel like my own.

I wait for a snide remark but he doesn't deliver. His attention directs back down to his whittling. I watch his hands as they move, I trail up his arms, his shoulders, his neck, those lips... those lips...

"God," I gasp before I can catch myself, "you're perfect."

The lump in my throat swells to the point where I can't speak, though I don't know what I would say if I could. He stops moving. His eyes shift upward. He's looking at me. I can't breathe. My face flushes and my blood runs cold. He starts maneuvering his blade again, but keeps his eyes on mine. He skims a sliver off. Then another.
Then another.
And another.

But then he drops his knife and project, stands up and grabs me by the arm. He lifts me completely off the log I've been sitting on and pulls me with him as he walks. I want to protest or at least ask what he is doing but my mouth won't open. A noise vibrates in my throat - something like a moan - when I hear the sound of his unzipping tent. As soon as I try to look elsewhere, he pushes me to the ground, undoing his pants and staring down at me.

"Why?" is all I can say, not able to finish the end of my question. Just being in his tent under such circumstances is making me swell quicker than I ever have before.

"Shut up." I obey. "Take off your clothes."

My hands could not have been hastier as I pulled at my restricting fabric. It takes forever and the bareness of the tent floor underneath me chills my naked back. I look up at him, waiting to be told what to do or for him to do something.

For a moment I almost see some type of insecurity clouding his eyes, his body motionless as he gropes his own thighs. Maybe I'm uncovering him in more ways than one.

"You're perfect," I repeat to try to console him and it doesn't sound as awkward as it did the first time. It sends something into him and he slips his hand underneath his layers, rubbing his bulge and I immediately reach for his belt loops. He shies away though, gripping my wrist with a breaking force. My eyebrows knit together in pain and he lets go slowly, hovering over me and forcing my legs to spread. At some point his member had parted from his jeans which were now resting below his thighs. I want to see him bare but he won't let me.

His palm finds his way to his mouth and he wets it with his tongue, transferring it down to his hardening length. I have to keep my heavy lids from widening as he pushes it into me. In response to my loud groan he clamps a hand over my mouth. "Shut up," he repeats against my ear, punishing me by remaining motionless for the longest few moments I have ever endured. I nod as best I can to try to shake him away and he lets go, using his arms to support his weight as he rocks his hips back and forth. His sudden, powerful thrusting sends me reeling. His downward motions leave me feeling empty, his upward ones filling me to the point where my back arches every time. I don't know what to do with my hands at first, mostly out of fear of how he will react, but they find their way to the bottom of his dirty, sleeveless shirt and he lets them rest there. I go even further and slip my hands underneath to touch his bare hips. Still, he allows it.

He won't moan - I never expected him to - but his heavy breathing against my ear alone, plus his facial stubble scraping against my much-smoother cheek, is still enough to send me over the edge. My legs had wrapped around him, my ankles digging into each other, and my hands were all the way up to his rib cage. I could feel every mark and raised scar etched into his flesh but found nothing but perfection. Somehow it fueled my arousal even more - Daryl Dixon was letting me touch him, my hands were up Daryl Dixon's shirt, Daryl Dixon was inside me for Christ's sake - and he finally brings me there.

"God," I whimper under my breath, raising my voice a little to say his name as my eyes flutter closed, "Daryl."

Through this, and the orgasm that has me bucking wildly and gushing all over my own stomach, I feel him come and his body increasing the obvious pleasure-filled movements as he trembles. His breaths only deepen, his chest only heaves - no moans escape those beautiful lips, but the disappointment I have is canceled out with the pleasure pulsing throughout my body.

My nails digging slightly in his flesh after we're both mostly finished reminds him of his insecurities and he quickly brings his shirt down, soon attempting to pull his twitching cock from me. "Wait," I protest and to my surprise he listens, looming over me and staring directly into my eyes. I swallow hard and forget how to speak - an odd change from being so vocal only moments before - and in response only part my lips. He still waits. "Don't," is all I end up saying with furrowed brows and a paler-than-normal complexion. He looks to the side as if contemplating heeding my request (after all, he's the one who makes the demands) and I place my hand against the side of his face. But it's the wrong move and he leaves me empty, lying down a foot beside me with his back turned and his blanket covering all the way up to his shoulders. I lie there for a moment, unsure of what to do and frankly disappointed that he wasn't still on me.

I start collecting my clothes and come to the realization that maybe it's not that Daryl doesn't want to show affection, he just doesn't know how to. After all, his brother Merle (I, along with the rest of the group, could not be more thankful to have him gone) wasn't really the brotherly type and from what I could piece together, Daryl had grown up in quite a broken home.

"Hey," I whisper while pulling my shirt on, and his head turns slightly as if he's willing to listen but not to direct his visible attention to me. His hair is messier than normal and his eyes are closed. Even from my limited perspective I see an angel. My train of thought leaves me (though I'm unsure as to whether or not I even had one) and I slide over to him, my body still shaking from climaxing only moments ago. I can barely even hold myself up as I support my weight on my arm next to him. I clear my throat, my voice feeling small, and very slowly and gently put my hand on his arm over the cover of the fabric. He shakes it off.

"Get outta my damn tent," he speaks in an oddly gentle tone, and for a moment I think there's a bit of humor in the mix with all that angst.

"Hey! Glenn!" I hear Rick call on my way to the house, no particular future action in mind. I had parted from Daryl's tent a day ago and he hasn't left my mind since. I went from thinking about being with him to actually doing it (well, him). Even just once made all those thoughts worth it. It's surreal. I raise my eyebrows in waiting for whatever the sturdy, weathered sheriff is going to say, stopping when we're a few feet from each other. "Gotta list of things we need you to get in the city. You mind?"

"Not at all." Hell, it was my job. He hands the list to me and I begin backing away, stopping momentarily in my tracks when I hear, "I don't want you going alone. Take Daryl with you."