Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This story is meant to fit in during the group's time at the Greene Farm in season two. Set some point after Sophia's death, but before Shane's death and their subsequent escape when the farm is overrun with walkers. I found this collecting dust in my unfinished/unpublished folder (like two years old amount of dust) and decided it deserved a night on the town.

Warnings: Contains some season two spoilers, references to Daryl's past, allusions to Carol's past: domestic abuse/violence, sexual imagery, adult language, masturbation, mature language and mature content. This is basically smut and it is all tumblr's fault really. *Apparently some readers think the mention of Beth as possibly overhearing Daryl masturbating in a completely non-romantic capacity is something to take note of. So, yeah, there you go.

Sonnets during Hurricane Season

He waited until the others had fallen asleep before making his way up to the house. He kept to the sidelines, skirting around Shane who was on watch and haunting the shadows until he'd come full circle. From there on he was content to wait, biding his time and waiting for the perfect moment as he looked towards the small ring of tents set up in the old man's front yard.

He spat, scuffing the bone-dry soil with the toe of his boot as he did a quick mental count. Judging by the number of lanterns glowing through the vinyl, he figured he wasn't the only one burnin' the midnight oil. He spared a moment to wonder what the hell they were doing, what they were talkin' about before he buried it.

After all, what did he care?

It was only when the wind suddenly shifted, howling through the eaves and kicking up a cloud of dust and grit that he skimmed up alongside the house. Using the man's distraction, he ghosted past the unsuspecting jackhole for the sheer hell of it. Amusement reigned, resting high in his breast like a rough-shod laugh as Shane whirled atop the RV, peering suspiciously into the gloom a second too late as he vaulted over the railing and onto the back deck.

The man was pretty observant for a cop, he'd give 'im that.

He took the stairs two at a time, injured side twinging as he leaned over the railing, swiping a peach muffin from the plate beside the banister. He ignored the dusting of crumbs and ate it in three bites, taking the last few stairs at a crawl as he shoved the wrapper into his pocket.

He peered around the corner and listened closely before he started down the hall. He skipped the creaky floorboard outside the old man's door by hugging the opposite wall as he passed the blonde girl's room – Beth - with the ease of a few solid days of practice.

After all, he hadn't spent all that time healing from his wounds sleepin'. He knew better than that. It never paid to be sloppy, didn't matter what you were doing or where you were. These days, you needed to know the little shit. You needed to know which floorboard creaked or what door had that awful rusty hinge. Because ever since the world had gone tit-up, knowing was the difference between living to die another day and makin' like the quick 'in dead faster than you could get off the shitter.

It was either that or he thought too much.

Merle had always said his brain got him in more trouble than his mouth ever did. And when he looked back on it, he couldn't say the douche was completely wrong. Whether it was thinkin' too much or not enough, his upstairs brain was generally the culprit. Then again, Merle had always been prone to thinking with his prick, so he doubted the bastard's opinion mattered all that much anyway.

Anyway, after the last creaky floorboard – the one on the left hand side near the window - it was smooth sailing as far as he was concerned. He peered out the window as he passed, double checking that Shane was still on watch and the circle of tents seemed undisturbed before he carried on.

The corner of his lip curled as he caught the sound of one of the girls tossing and turning in the next room, all squeaking springs and disgruntled sighs as he crossed over to the bathroom and shut the door with a muffled click. Home free.

He peeled off his dirty clothes with little ceremony, grinding off-center smudges into the pristine white tile in a way he was sure he'd be hearing about in the morning. Toeing off his socks and kicking them into the corner, he rooted around for a fresh towel, mindful of the clutter - mostly the girls' shit - toiletries and junk, already spread across the counter.

He sat down on the spindly looking bench beside the sink, letting his clothes hit the floor where they fell. He was down to just his jeans when he wriggled his toes against the titles, soaking in the chill as the crooked digits rasped across the grout. He'd broken his left pinky again, probably going over that damned cliff. He hadn't bothered to tell the old man, wasn't much you could do for somethin' like that after all. He'd just gritted his teeth and popped the thing back into place like he'd done for the others god knows how many times before.

The toe in question was swollen and red, tinged a vibrant dark purple with undertones of black and green around the base. But he forced it to curl anyway – gritting his teeth at the sting as he tested the range of movement. It'd heal.

He had to admit, when he stepped under the spray that rational thought fled, swallowed by the heat and steam as he wilted into it. He let go of a deep rattling sigh as the hot water stung – pelting across his skin in a barrage of hot-hot-hot-oh-oh-perfect until his body got used to the temperature and his muscles slowly started to relax.

Christ, that felt good.

He hadn't had a shower since, what? The CDC?

Even then, the CDC couldn't hold a candle to this. This was fucking bliss. This was a full tank of hot water without the smell of ammonia and dust cloggin' up the duct work. This was a big, ol' fashioned claw-foot tub and a shower head with enough water pressure that it could have hosed Satan clean. In the CDC he'd been too busy with his bottle of Southern Comfort and waiting for the other shoe to drop to really enjoy it – not to mention having to share the hot water with a shit ton of other shower-greedy bastards. Luke warm had been pushin' it.

He bowed his head under the spray, bracing his arms on either side of the nozzle as he stretched, working the kinks from his back and ignoring the twinge from his injured side as the hot water worked its magic. Fuck his stitches, this was worth it.

He was working a bar of soap up into a lather when his dick knocked across his thigh. He cracked an eye through the spray, not exactly surprised that he was sportin' a stiffie. He was content to move on however, soaping his arms and chest, dipping down to clean where the sun don't shine before he was forced to admit that he might be liking the hot water a bit too much.

His hands curled hesitantly around his length.

Should he?

He bit his lip, hesitating, palm curling around the head instinctively. He usually wasn't one to indulge, at least not on his own terms, but hell if he was going to let an opportunity like this slide. He'd have to be fuckin' touched to miss a chance like this – alone (fucking finally) with hot water and no one waiting in the wings for a turn.

Christ, it'd been a long time, after all. Even if it was quick, it'd be worth it. It wasn't like he got much private time with everyone and their maiden aunt pestering him for favors these days, demanding shit.

But still, they'd hear. It was a pretty unmistakable sound, flesh on flesh.

And it had been so long he doubted he could keep quiet. He kept one hand on his prick, stroking lazily as he weighed the pros and cons, letting the water rinse a few weeks' worth of dirt and sweat as he arched his back into the spray.

He could just imagine on of the girls - Beth, Maggie, hell, any one of them, sloe-eyed with sleep, stumbling out of their room, only to hear him, clear as day through the bathroom door. His voice would probably be cracking, the sound of skin slicking against skin echoing across the tiles as he brought himself to his peak and exploded over it. Skimming the tiles with his own fluids until the thick, ropy spunk was eventually washed away by the spray.

Jesus. He could just imagine their old man coming at him with a pitch fork the next morning.

His dick twitched in sympathy as he shuddered at the mental image. And honestly, that was enough to do it. He didn't care how old that man was. If he'd learned anything from Merle, it was that the fathers of teenage girls were a fuckin' force to be reckoned with.

Still he didn't know whether to be pissed or relieved about the entire thing when his dick gave a few more tentative throbs before wilting in his hand. Understandably uninterested in getting carved into a dozen different pieces by a preacher-man with a two-six of righteous rage and a stick up his ass the size of the god damned Titanic.

He let his head rest on the slick ceramic, welcoming the chill as calloused pads curled around the dips of his spine, trailing down to linger on the curve of his ass before he took the bar of soap to his dirt-streaked skin and scrubbed for all he was worth. Madder than a wet hornet when he realized he'd essentially just cock-blocked himself.


A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be two more chapters after this! So expect a three part fic. Stay tuned. *My apologies to the purists, but you can't honestly expect me to believe that the entire time Daryl was at the Green farm, he never snuck upstairs and indulged himself in a rare, hot shower. I mean, hello.