Disclaimer: Characters belong to their respectful owners
Fandoms: The Walking Dead
Pairing: Desus – Daryl Dixon x Paul “Jesus” Rovia
Characters: Paul “Jesus” Rovia, Daryl Dixon, Rick Grimes, Carol Peletier, Michonne
Warnings: Probably crack, Smut with plot
Summary: Jesus came to Alexandria to do trade and to see a certain grumpy hunter. However, he didn’t see said hunter; instead, just outside the walls of Alexandria he found a black cat – wait, was that really a cat?!
“What’s wrong? Is the food not to your liking?”
Paul asked with concern when he saw Daryl push away the bowl, barely touching its content. They were having pasta with tomato sauce tonight because Paul had received a fresh, juicy batch of tomatoes from Alan the gardener. Pasta was his best shot and he had hoped to impress Daryl. Though there were neither candles nor violin, having dinner together could be considered a date, right? Their first date. Paul had kept himself amused with his little fantasy as he boiled and strained the pasta while keeping an eye on the pot of simmering sauce. To see Daryl wasn’t enjoying the food in the least brought forth a profound disappointment.
His fingers twiddling, Daryl hung his head low and avoided eye contact with Paul as he spoke, “Food’s fine, very delicious. ‘s just I don’t have an appetite right now. Sorry.”
Although he was awkwardly trying to hide his face, Paul with his keen eyes could clearly see the odd blushes on his cheeks. The glaring light bulb above their head helped, too. Strange. The night wasn’t hot, quite the opposite actually, it was rather chilly, being autumnal and all. Despite that, there were beads of sweat rolling down his neck and blotching his shirt’s collar. Concern growing in his stomach, Paul watched Daryl shuffle back to their temporary-shared bed. There was an unsteady sway in his gait and a light tremble in his limbs. His pert ears had flopped and his tail trailed limply on the floor.
Paul pushed the chair back and crossed a few feet to the bed. “You don’t look fine to me,” said Paul with stern voice. Without asking for Daryl’s permission, he swept Daryl’s bang back and pressed his palm to the hunter’s forehead. God, he felt like freshly baked bread. As expected, there were sweats sticking to his palm.
“High temperature, excessive perspiration…” Paul muttered, “You’re having a fever?”
Daryl weakly swatted Paul’s hand away. “ ‘m not. ‘s jus’ too hot in here. Need to get out for some fresh air’s all.”
Daryl briskly stood up but his wrist was caught in Paul’s firm hand. He tried to shake it off but despite his lean form, the scout’s strength was no joke. His grip wouldn’t slacken even a little bit. “Nonsense,” he scowled. “The night is getting cold and yet you’re feeling hot, meaning there’s something wrong.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with me.”
“Well, that doesn’t look like ‘nothing wrong’ to me. We should go to Dr. Carson and have him check you up.”
Daryl’s tone was dry. “Lookin’ like this?”
Paul bit the inside of his cheeks. He almost forgot Daryl wasn’t very keen on revealing his secret to more people than already had. Moreover, Dr. Carson was adept in treating humans; he doubted the good doctor had any experience in dealing with cat people.
Yes, cat people. Since “mangorath” was too cumbersome Paul had opted for “cat”. Mangoraths were a type of cats too, weren’t they?
“At least tell me what’s wrong so I can help.”
“ ‘s not somethin’ ya can help.”
Paul scoffed, feeling offended even though there was no ground reason for him to. Daryl’s problem might just be well out of his scope. Still, he disliked being dismissed like this without learning what was wrong first and in what way he might be able to offer his aid. It hinted at the hunter’s distrust of him, which twisted and twisted in the pit of his stomach until it became a heavy knot he couldn’t untie on his own. And there he thought they had gone passed that phrase. Paul crossed his arms in front of his chest, lifting his chin. “Oh, I believe I’m more capable than you give me credit for, Dixon.”
“Sure ya do, Mr. Know-All,” Daryl snorted.
That one liner was the last straw.
“I’m just trying to show that I care, OK,” Paul snapped, his voice louder than he would normally like, close to a shout. “Look what I’ve got: a hostile attitude like I’m being a nuisance.”
“Who asks ya to care anyway?” Daryl retorted, voice equally loud.
The seams of Paul’s lips curved into a smirk. “No one really,” he said, “but you’re a valuable ally of Hilltop and a dear friend of Maggie—”
“What great sense of responsibility ya’ve.”
Paul continued, unfazed by Daryl’s cutting him off, “and because I regard you as a friend who I can trust my back to in battles. If I didn’t trust you, I’d have kicked you out of the trailer the moment I saw you turn back.”
He locked gaze with Daryl, huge blue eyes glinting with muted challenge. Challenge Daryl to use his abrasive demeanor to defy that, to deny the bond that had been formed and reinforced between them over their time of acquaintance, whatever it was. Stubbornly Daryl glared at him with slit eyes, refusing to back down from challenge. His flopped ears had perked up, and his tail raised and wagged. Dogs wagged their tail when they were happy but cats did when they got angry – a tidbit of knowledge about animals Paul had gathered from books. The scout imagined Daryl wanted to bare his fangs and hiss – like the few furious cats he had seen – but had to restrain himself from displaying more animalistic behaviors than he already had. The blushes on his cheeks darkened, by anger or whatever was riding his nerves. Sparks flew in the dense air between them, the tension rising, simmering, bubbling, condensed; the tiny trailer became one huge balloon with too much hot air, waiting to burst.
Paul was about to open his mouth and burst the balloon – damn it, he was so not enthusiastic in a staring contest – when his vision experienced a horizontal shift. He should thank God there was a mattress beneath him when Daryl pounced on him in one swift movement; otherwise he would have had hit his head on something and gotten a concussion. It was safe to say Paul hadn’t expected this turn of event at all; a punch to his jaw, yes, he had anticipated it and even envisioned how he would dodge or counter, but this, not at all. He gasped in genuine shock, temporarily unable to comprehend the situation and commence proper reaction when Daryl climbed on top of him, straddling him. His thighs squeezing either side of Paul’s waist, Daryl bent down until their foreheads were inches from touching. Paul’s eyes opened so wide it hurt, enraptured by the blazing blue irises and slit pupils up close. Later he would claim that they possessed hypnotizing attributes.
“Ya wanna know what’s wrong?” Daryl roared – he fucking did, like a lion or tiger. “ ‘m fuckin’ in heat an’ yer scent’s drivin’ me insane. Bein’ in a tight space with ya drives me insane. I want to fuck ya senseless and that’s what wrong!”
Paul’s brain was racing to compute the meaning of Daryl’s words – he’d heard them perfectly fine alright but he was completely stunt by how raw and blunt they were as they had come out of the normally reserved hunter. His jaw slackened but no sounds were made. He lay very still, his need to breath temporarily forgotten as astonishment filled him. Out of sudden the sound of fabric ripping tore at his eardrums, snapping him out of his trance. What the—? He glanced down just in time to see a button flying into the air and his chest revealed to the hungry eyes of the cat man. R. I. P his favorite shirt, he moaned internally.
Paul couldn’t believe this was happening. To be pinned down to a surface (the mattress was a welcome luxury) by a weight on top of him and have his shirt ripped in the ravenous desire to get him naked was the wildest of his wild fantasies, reserved for the spectacularly lonely and horny nights, emphasis on the latter. However, his fantasies had involved a faceless man since he had had no particular object of infatuation – hadn’t had anyone for a long while. Until recently. The faceless man had gradually taken features: matted dark hair, narrow blue eyes, a beauty spot above his upper lip. Sometimes his fantasies had been so intense it caused Paul to subconsciously avert his eyes from the Alexandrian hunter the following day; he’d rather die than have Daryl know that he was harboring such impure thoughts about him. Nonetheless, this wasn’t a wild fantasy; this was very real and happening. Paul couldn’t decide if this was a most awesome stroke of luck or a foreshadowing of his impending doom as whoever up above had decided to allow him a wild ride before he officially kicked the bucket the very next morning.
Positive thinking, Paul Rovia, he reminded himself.
All of his jumbled thoughts were cut short by a sharp wedge of pleasure when a tongue licked a lengthy stride from the dip between his clavicles to his naval. Being caught entirely off-guard, Paul exhaled a sharp breath and then bit his tongue as the prickling sensation of stubbles on his areolar shot to his brain. Lips closed around his nipple like a hungry pup latching on its mother’s teat and tongue, the same tongue that had raised goosebumps on his skin, lavished the hardening nub. Gosh, his tongue! He had learned from a discovery show that the texture of a feline’s tongue was very different from a human’s and had had a cat licked his hand a few times before but never once had he imagined how it would feel on one of his erroneous zones! He was sure he’d remember it till the day he died.
So… Daryl had cat ears, eyes, tail and tongue. Paul wondered, with intrigued apprehension, what else on Daryl’s anatomy resembled that of a feline’s. He considered himself explorative but he couldn’t be sure he could handle it. And yes, he had enough brain cells left to figure where all of this was heading. It was very unlikely someone ripped your shirt in half and proceeded to lick your nipple and just wanted to cuddle innocently on the bed like five-year-olds. Plus, Daryl had said (more like yelled) that he was “in heat” and as far as he was concerned, that had only one meaning.
Never had Paul imagined their first time, if there was ever a first time, would be a mating. While he didn’t know how he should feel about it, he was sure he was very excited by the prospect. That his jeans had been reduced by one size at certain area was evidence.
Daryl spread his fingers across the firm plane of Paul’s abdomen while his mouth began to give the other nipple the same attention its twin had. Paul squirmed beneath him, trying to gain some friction through layers of clothing. It simply wasn’t enough. “Ouch,” he cried, feeling a sharp sting below his ribs. His cry seemed to wake Daryl from his lust-haze, for the cat man lifted his torso and stared at Paul with wide eyes, filled with something like horror. Instantly alarmed by his bewildering behavior, Paul sat up a little, looked down his body and sighed in understanding. There were three pink diagonal slashes from his ribs to his navel. Cats loved to scratch, whether they were angered or excited, and well, Daryl was a cat person with cat-like features. This shouldn’t be surprising at all.
“ ‘m sorry…” Daryl mumbled, voice shaking and brittle.
“It’s alright,” Paul assured him, fingering the marks. “Just some scratches. I’ve had worse.” He wasn’t lying; the marks stung but not enough to cause pain; they were mild annoyance at best.
“ ‘m sorry,” Daryl repeated, more desperately this time. “ ‘m really sorry.” His taut shoulders were shaking.
Then he clambered off Paul and appeared to be ready to bolt out of the trailer.
It took about three seconds for Paul to realize Daryl wasn’t just sorry about scratching him. He grunted in frustration and before Daryl had the chance to deal with the situation in his distinctively Dixonian way – meaning running away and possibly never showing his face to the Hilltop scout ever again, Paul got enough time to grab him by his tail.
Not his most elegant move but it worked. Daryl stood as still as a statue. His ears flattened on the sides of his head, black fur blending with dark hair.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Paul scowled.
A multitude of questions paraded through stormy blue eyes, so blindingly fast he couldn’t catch any of it. Paul almost felt pity for the man. Daryl’s jaw moved as if he wanted to open his mouth and say something, but then nothing came out. Paul could practically hear the gears inside his head grinding together to come up with something. He waited, his grip on Daryl’s tail not loosening, but even he could feel his patience was wearing as thin as a paper; it was difficult to remain patient when you were having a raging hard-on, but Paul tried, forced himself to because if he didn’t, he would lose the man for good.
“Outside,” he spoke at last. “I’ll sleep outside.”
Paul’s eyes were huge like goose eggs. “Looking like this?” he echoed Daryl’s earlier words, gesturing to the tail in his hand. His rhetorical question implied a fact Daryl had already learned during his time here: there were always a couple Hilltopers working late-night shifts who would pass Paul’s trailer on their way home and there was high chance they might spot a man with feline features. Just imagine the chaos.
Daryl was muted.
“Leaving me like this?” Paul went on.
Daryl’s eyes wandered down Paul’s torso to the visible bulge in his crotch and immediately averted his eyes. Paul licked his lower lip, feeling weirdly satisfied to see the cat man’s face reddened like the pasta they’d had.
“Ya’ll regret it,” he mumbled, just barely enough for Paul to hear.
“Oh, don’t say what I will and won’t, Dixon. You’re not me.”
“Feels like ‘m forcin’ ya into this, or worse, rap—”
“Don’t say that word,” Paul cut him sharply. “You really think you can force me into something I don’t want?” He laughed wryly. “That wounds me, really, that you think so little of me, that I’m incapable of at least defending myself. You and Rick don’t call me a ninja hippie for nothing.”
Paul’s hand let go of his tail to land on his chest. He flattened his palm against Daryl’s heart, feeling its frantic beats beneath the thin cotton fabric. Well, at least his heart was more honest than himself. Going on tiptoe, he captured Daryl’s lips in a chaste kiss. This would either make it or break it so Paul was extremely carefully. He kept it chaste so as not to shock Daryl but firm to convey to the man how determined he was in this matter. Assurance was what this man with a painfully low self-esteem desperately needed; he needed not only to know but also to feel that it was okay, that he wasn’t forcing or hurting anyone, that he was accepted. Paul’s heart ached for him as he kissed him.
Taken by surprise, Daryl stood absolutely motionless.
“Is this enough consent for you?” asked Paul once they parted.
A guttural snarl was his reply, and then Paul was sprawled on his back again, with a familiar weight on top of him. Guess that was a yes, he mused, before any musing thoughts were washed away by a tongue lapping at his skin. The same tongue with the bizarre and stimulating texture. This time it wasn’t his nipple but the scratches below his ribs. It stung a little but mostly it just tickled him. His skin there was notoriously ticklish and he really couldn’t help the giggles that rang in the quiet confined space. Sometimes he giggled like a little girl, he was aware. Daryl, however, was unaffected by Paul’s reactions, absorbed in his diligent task of ‘treating’ the injuries inflicted by himself. Another cat-like behavior which Paul really couldn’t complain. Tiny sparks were ignited inside him, quickly feeding to the center heat between his thighs. His jeans were very much in the way and he yearned to get rid of them.
Perhaps Paul’s desire was telepathically transmitted to Daryl because his hand stalked to the waistband of his pants and he started undoing the buttons and zipper with all the deftness and grace of a feline without disrupting his current task on Paul’s stomach. Cats, big and small, were smart creatures and Paul imagined this task would be easy as cake for them if they were to have hands and fingers instead of paws and claws. Well, this was a cat with hands in place of paws. Still, that was as far as grace went because soon as the button came undone and the zipper down, Daryl hooked his fingers on both Paul’s pants and underwear and just yanked them past his knees, effectively rendering the Hilltop scout from remotely appropriate to decidedly indecent in one go. Not that Paul minded though; rather, he encouraged Daryl’s act by lifting his long, slender legs and kicking the garments out to land haphazardly somewhere beside the bed.
Daryl hovered above his exposed member, proudly in full mast, and looked at Paul as if asking for some sort of permission to proceed. The Hilltoper gave him a tender smile marred by just the slightest hint of smug and buckled his hips; he wanted Daryl to see, or rather, feel the effect of what he had inflicted upon him. And perhaps that should be enough incentive for Daryl’s next move. Delightful anxiety rose in Paul’s stomach. Daryl was truly unpredictable and although he had lead Paul from one surprise to the next, Paul had an inkling he hadn’t reached his quota yet. The night was still young, and Paul had time to spare.
Paul gasped audibly when he felt the peculiar texture of Daryl’s cat tongue on him, this time not on his nipple or his stomach skin but directly on his pulsing member. It wasn’t a surprise he had anticipated but that didn’t mean it was any less welcoming. Daryl started at the root, a few swift strokes at first to test the waters, and then moved in smooth glides along the length to the tip. His tongue swirled around the head, lapping the sensitive skin there and eliciting a couple of ragged breaths from Paul, before flicking at the slit as if carefully tasting the early dews swelling from which. Paul’s fingers threaded into Daryl’s shaggy hair, finding the ears and scratching them with his blunt nails while Daryl worked on him. If Paul still had any intellectual capacity left, he’d describe Daryl’s technique, or lack-thereof, as very similar to a cat savoring its favorite treat; still, all of his focus now was on processing the toe-curling sensation from between his legs and how skilled Daryl was in giving head. Yet, there might be a chance the man might not be experienced in this expertise at all – he was just guided by his instincts and who would disagree that cats had excellent instincts? Certainly not Paul.
Finally Daryl had played enough, intentionally or not, and took Paul into his mouth. All thoughts seemed to fade for a moment as Paul squeezed his eyes shut and lost himself in the warm and wet cavern of his mouth.
In that moment, he wouldn’t have any regret if tomorrow was his doom.
“Mind your fangs, please,” Paul breathed upon feeling a grazing of sharp teeth along his shaft. Daryl’s hummed softly, contrite or defiance unsure, but he was more careful with his sharper-than-average teeth, which Paul was grateful for. He wasn’t a fan of pleasure mingled with pain after all.
Daryl didn’t finish what he’d started and let go off Paul with an obscene ‘pop’. Paul might have verbally complained if he were naive enough to not know Daryl’s intention. He wanted penetrative intercourse, and that was fine by Paul as long as they worked out their position. Since Daryl was quite literally a predator, Paul assumed he was a top – seemed natural that way. So was Paul, in most encounters, but being quite versatile in the matter of passion, he didn’t mind switching, especially when his partner was Daryl. He had immensely enjoyed the few times he had bottomed for his other partners; as a matter of fact, each time had left him wondering why he didn’t bottom more often.
“Let me help you,” Paul offered, his hands eagerly undoing the button of Daryl’s pants while the man fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. He retained enough self-control to not ruin the shirt like he had done Paul’s unfortunate one since it was borrowed. Their hands moved almost in tandem and by the time the shirt had joined the small heap of clothes on the floor, Daryl could shimmy out of his pants and boxers. Then there was no barrier to obstruct Paul’s appreciation of him. Like his fantasies, Daryl was well-built, just the right balance of hard, toned muscles and soft flesh promising gentleness to the touch. So Paul touched him, running his palm along Daryl’s body like Daryl had done to him, and halted as he reached the heat between the man’s legs, thankfully very human. Paul let out a mental sigh of relief and began to gauge Daryl’s size using both his eyes and hand. To accommodate this size, he would need some preparation. He only hoped the lube he kept in his drawer hadn’t expired yet. And the condoms too, while he was at it.
Twisting his torso, he reached for the small nigh table lodged between the bed and the wall but Daryl stopped him by pinning his hips to the bed with his large hands. Well, Paul could fight, yet he didn’t, puzzled by Daryl’s intention. It would be much easier if Daryl would just talk, but the cat man appeared to deem any sounds coming out of his lips other than words sufficient for communication. He gave Paul’s length a few quick strokes before situating himself above the scout.
Uh oh. Paul knew what Daryl intended to do. “No,” he protested, his voice edged with haste, “let me prep you first or else you’ll be hurt.”
Daryl didn’t reply. A stoic expression masking his face, he gingerly sunk down Paul’s shaft. Soon as his tip went past Daryl’s entrance, blissfully not as tight as he’d imagined and surprisingly slick – as though he had found the time to prepare himself, Paul choked on the words he was about to say. Literally choked on them. Another huge surprise he didn’t see coming. His mental capabilities were reduced to just be able to feel the warm and wet tightness clenching around his length inch by delicious, torturous inch. Tenacious as always, Daryl made no attempt to stop until he was fully sheathed and settled on Paul’s thighs. Both froze, prioritizing the fundamental need to find their breaths first.
“You’re alright?” asked Paul, brushing back Daryl’s long, damp fringes. “Did I hurt you?”
Letting a whiny breath, Daryl nodded and then shook his head as if he couldn’t decide which should be the answer. He bent down, munching on Paul’s lips while his lower half was motionless for several seconds. Paul happily obliged him even though the pleasure spiking up his spine was one step from driving him crazy. He suckled Daryl’s lower lip, tugging the fleshy part between his teeth, all of the previous chasteness gone. His tongue entered Daryl’s mouth, found Daryl’s own and coerced it into a sensuous tango. It was both the same and different to feel the texture of Daryl’s tongue with his own rather than his skin. He thought he tasted himself faintly in Daryl’s mouth. Saliva dribbled down the sides of their mouths but both were too far gone to care.
It seemed an eternity when their mouths parted, connected only by a slim silvery string. Daryl placed both hands on Paul’s hips and began moving, erratically and slowly to test his adjustment. Paul threw his head back, inhaling deeply. It didn’t take long until the hunter found and established a rhythm and pace that matched his burning need, which, of course, suited Paul’s as well. And then, there was nothing stopping him from chasing the pleasure to his heart’s desire.
Things were a tad hazy afterward, and Paul didn’t recall much detail besides ragged breaths, loud moans and maddening pleasure coursing through his entire body, head to toe. Paul’s rickety bed groaned with their combined weight and movements and in hindsight, Paul was thankful he lived in a trailer and thus having no neighbors; otherwise they would clearly hear his debauchery. It wasn’t that he was ashamed or anything; he just didn’t fancy gossips in a tight-knit community such as Hilltop. The two of them reached their peaks almost simultaneously, a rather impressive feat for their first time as far as Paul was concerned. While Paul coated Daryl’s inside with his seeds, Daryl spilled his on their stomachs and the sheets underneath them, and marked Paul with an impressive love bite on his collarbone that would take days to fade. Not that Paul minded getting a quaint souvenir to remember their heated ride; if someone inquired he’d just blame the cat – nothing sort of truth. The hunter’s face as he orgasmed was the most vivid memory in Paul’s mind because of its sheer beauty and perfection. Paul thought he had fallen in love. Scratch it. He was already head over heels in love with Daryl Dixon and this was the very first time he had felt so strongly and intensely with a man that his previous relationships seemed ephemeral and insignificant. It was as though he had never known love until he knew Daryl. He sincerely hoped this was not a one-time thing and that it would blossom into something meaningful and lasting.
The sheets were sticky with sweats and come and permitted a funny smell. Paul used his torn shirt to wipe the come off his and Daryl’s bodies. Doing the laundry should be on top of his agenda tomorrow but right now, all he yearned for was snuggling with Daryl and drifting off into a blissful sleep. The former was already fulfilled as the cat man’s arm was draping across his chest and his naked limbs were tangled with Paul’s underneath the sheet. His head was tugging beneath Paul’s chin while his tail moved lazily and disorientedly, tickling Paul’s calf. Paul stroked the roots of his flopped ears, earning low satisfied purrs from the hunter. Paul was certain he’d miss both the ears and the purrs once Daryl turned back into full human.
“You OK? Any sores?”
He recalled the haste penetration with no prep and heaved a sign. “Next time let me prep you first, OK? Don’t want you to feel any pain.”
Wait, had he already planned a next time while the outcome of this time was still pretty much uncertain.
“ ‘s fine,” Daryl replied, voice tired and sleepy. “My body has its own way of preparation, consider that a perk. Only minor sores. Though I may be walkin’ funny tomorrow.”
Sex appeared to make Daryl more loquacious, Paul noted. “Good thing you don’t have to leave this trailer until all of these are gone.”
Paul’s chest felt tight due to Daryl’s apologetic tone. “If you’re apologizing for tearing my shirt then apology accepted,” Paul said. “I’m well compensated anyway.”
“ ‘s not jus’ the shirt an’ ya know that.”
“I already told you that this thing between us was totally consensual. For the last time you didn’t force yourself on me.”
“I pushed ya down an’ tore yer shirt forcefully.”
“And I could have kicked you in the nuts and thrown you out,” Paul blurted out, without thinking. “Do you… do you metaphorically self-flagellate every time this happens?”
Paul felt Daryl tense against his body. Shit. Damn his stupid mouth. He could tell he’d poked a sensitive spot. No one liked being reminded that they periodically turned into animal, went in heat and fucked the nearest creature with legs.
Apparently Daryl hadn’t run out his surprise quota of the day (or month) because after a quiet moment, he mumbled, “With ya was my first time.”
“What? You mean you haven’t… Don’t tell me it’s the first time you turn into a cat!”
“Mangorath, right. What’s with that name anyway? It sounds like ‘mango’ and ‘wrath’. An angry fruit?!”
“Carol came up with it, dunno what she had in mind,” replied Daryl. “Anyway, ‘s not my first time turnin’. Been turnin’ since I was a teenager. Has somethin’ to do with puberty I guess.”
“But you said this was your first time?” Paul sounded incredulous.
“Before I ran into the woods and stayed there alone until the heat died. ‘s not so bad as when there’s a potential mate ‘round.”
His voice died at the last words and red crept up his bare shoulder. Affection swelled in Paul’s heart, threatening to burst his ribcage. “It appears I fit the bill of your potential mate. You don’t mind if I claim the position? Less hassle the next time you turn.”
“Don’t wanna force ya…”
“I happily, willingly volunteer myself,” Paul teased. “Besides, I happen to like you a lot, Daryl Dixon, so, no forcing at all.”
His teeth playfully gnawed the tips of Daryl’s ears, eliciting an embarrassed grunt from the hunter. “Ya kinda said it already… that ya liked me…”
Paul choked on his laughter, biting his tongue. “When? I don’t recall ever telling you about my feelings,” he yelped, “or anyone, for that matter, not even Maggie or Tara.”
Daryl snorted, pleased with himself for causing Paul a minor freak-out. It was simply unfair and annoying that the Hilltop scout always appeared calm and composed in whatever shit situation he found himself in. Daryl had made it his personal mission to make Paul lose his cool for once. “Ya told ‘Daryl’,” he deadpanned.
As realization dawned on him, Paul’s face darkened. “You… you furry little liar!” he stuttered, face flushed and heated.
“What did I lie to ya?”
“You said you didn’t remember—”
“Everythin’. This is among the bits an’ bobs I did.”
“Clever,” Paul scoffed, defeated. He didn’t know the Alexandrian possessed a devious witty streak in his stoic, solemn skeleton. There were a lot about Daryl he hadn’t known and he was terribly thrilled by the aspect of learning them day by day. Covering his face with his hand, Paul laughed, “Since the cat’s out of the bag, pun intended, I figure I can be perfectly frank about it and ask you whether the feelings are mutual.”
Daryl was so quiet that Paul began to think he might push too hard at the boundaries. From the first day he’d met him, he could tell the man had built wall after wall around him. To get past those walls required much time, and it simple couldn’t be done after one good sex, despite how satisfyingly mind-blowing it was. Before the scout officially freaked out and opted to take back his words, Daryl spoke, small-voiced, “At least I know who I should run to next time I turn.”
Paul breathed a lengthy sigh of relief. He hugged with all the strength of his body, trying to convey his overwhelming affection to the older man. “I’ll make sure to give you plenty of belly rubs and the best cream I could find.”
Daryl’s tail whipped Paul’s thigh, eliciting an undignified yelp. Despite the growl at the back of his throat, he was having a wide, toothy grin.
That is the end, hope you all enjoy it.