Hi! This is my first TWD fic. The pairing is Daryl/Glenn, and it features explicit male-on-male sexual content, beginning (and not ending) with this chapter. And swearing.
Also, I have just now decided I'm classifying this as a "post-apocalyptic rom-dramedy."
I don't spell out Daryl's accent phonetically. I don't feel it's necessary; I just use the most common things, like "wanna" and the "-in'" suffix. I have faith in your ability to just imagine the accent. :)
I have some more of this written already, but I make no promises on updates. I pretty much have the rest of the thing mapped out in my brain, I just haven't gotten around to putting it all to paper yet.
ALSO (I nearly forgot this part), I decided that everything past the barn opening didn't happen. This story heavily features Daryl and Glenn, and as such not many other characters show up, so it doesn't affect MUCH except for it's fall and they're still at Hershel's.
Okay. I think that's it! Please enjoy!
Glenn is confused, the first couple of times he looks over to find Daryl's eyes on him. Daryl always just makes a face, kind of pained, kind of apologetic and thoughtful, and turns back to whatever he's doing.
In hindsight, it's sickeningly obvious, but it isn't until Glenn catches him again that he puts the pieces together. It's early autumn, still warm enough that labor in the sun is uncomfortably sweaty. Glenn is stripping off his shirt to change. He glances over, pulling the new t-shirt over his head, and Daryl's eyes are on him, hovering somewhere around his middle. There's something entirely different in his gaze this time; Glenn only sees it for a split second before it's jerked away much faster than it ever was before. Still, he can tell—it's lust.
Daryl's—attracted to him?
It seems completely incongruous to everything he knows: Dixon is a redneck, racist hick, right? He's never said anything specifically about gay people, but Glenn cannot fathom a world in which Daryl isn't a homophobe.
Except—despite all the bluster in the beginning, the "Chinamans" and the stupid jokes—when Glenn thinks about it—he's not really sure Daryl is really that racist after all. Maybe the slurs were just something he said, a product of his upbringing and not something he ever meant or meant harm by. And if he isn't a racist, well then maybe…
Plus, there is absolutely no mistaking that facial expression he saw—slightly parted lips, hooded eyes, flushed cheeks.
Okay, so Daryl's gay. Or bi, or—pansexual? He thinks that's a thing nowadays.
Thing is, Glenn isn't any of those things. It's fine, if a bit unexpected, that Daryl is, really. Sometimes, okay, he does wonder, he does see other men, models in magazines or whatever, and he thinks, okay, maybe. And just that morning, okay, he did look at Daryl's muscles, covered in a sheen of sweat as he chopped wood, and he thought, "Daryl's a pretty handsome guy." But not, like—not in a romantic or sexual way. Just an observation.
And he likes women. He's kind of got an on-and-off thing with Maggie, and before the geeks he'd had a few girlfriends. He even was really serious with one of them. She moved in with him, but they broke up a few months later because—well, she was a cheating bitch. He feels a little numb about it now, but it really had hurt then.
But none of that is relevant.
The point is that Glenn is straight, and therefore Daryl just can't have him, and that is that.
He doesn't bring it up, because Daryl isn't really acting on it. And Glenn can't really blame him for having feelings, can he? And it's mostly fine, until they're both sent out on a supply run. Daryl is mostly there for backup; his crossbow, much as Glenn is currently loathe to admit, is both silent and brutally efficient. Glenn is already a little pissed off about this arrangement, preferring to go it alone in these situations. And Daryl keeps stealing little looks at him, and it's so fucking stupid because the asshole is so preoccupied and he's going to get them both killed. Despite the fact that everything goes smoothly anyway, Glenn is still really fucking irritated, and on their way back he just snaps.
"Look," he says, halting in his tracks as he catches Daryl's eyes on him again. "This has to stop."
Daryl just squints at him, tensing up a little in what Glenn recognizes as the first, preemptive stirrings of anger, and he subsequently tries to forget how much stronger than him Daryl is.
"I've seen the way you look at me," he hisses through his teeth. "And you've got to stop it."
That goddamn hick doesn't even say anything, but he does look kind of bewildered, kind of lost or scared or something for a second before his face hardens again.
Glenn should just say that it's dangerous, getting distracted like that, because it's all he really means. But, inexplicably, what comes out of his mouth instead is, "I'm not like that, okay?"
"What," Daryl says suddenly, crowding into his personal space, but there's only a sharp undercurrent of anger in his face, his stance. "You think I'm gonna come after you or somethin'? Think I'm gonna try to force you or somethin'? You gonna kick my ass, chink?"
He spits out that last word like it's poison in his mouth, like he really means it. Glenn just gapes him, speechless. Daryl holds his ground, glaring steadily, his expression a combination of rage and… hurt.
A shuffling sound and the telltale snarling, growling of a Walker breaks them out of their sort of standoff. It's just one, dragging one of its feet behind it as it slowly comes at them, reaching with shredded arms. Daryl lifts his crossbow and shoots it neatly through the forehead before stalking forward and yanking the bolt out of its skull. He doesn't turn back, doesn't say a word, just keeps walking back toward camp. Glenn follows, feeling guilt sinking into his gut.
He decides he has to figure out why he said that. He spends the next two weeks thinking about it, letting his mind drift over to the subject whenever he finds himself with a spare moment.
At the end of those two weeks, Maggie pulled him aside—they needed to talk, apparently. About what, Glenn wasn't sure, because he hadn't really spoken to her much since—oh.
"I don't really think it's working out, Glenn," she tells him coldly, not giving him much of a chance to disagree. "I don't want to see you anymore, honestly, and you don't seem to be all that invested in me either. So."
He's… definitely okay with this. Aside from this being the end of the world and he doesn't really have many other prospects, it almost just doesn't affect him at all, which is strange. When they first got together, he was completely, completely smitten (though he didn't exactly enjoy using that word to describe himself). But over the past two weeks, he hadn't thought much about her at all. He'd been thinking, instead, about Daryl.
Now that he thinks about it—he has been thinking about Daryl, like, a lot. About what he'd said to him and how he can make it right, of course, but—not just that. About how much he genuinely likes him and what he looks like when he smiles (which is rare) and how much he'd like that smile directed towards him. Starting with fixing the problem he'd caused. And how good of a guy he is.
And, occasionally, how good-looking he is. But—he can look at a guy and notice, objectively, that he's attractive without being attracted to him, or to men in general. He knows that, but…
Maybe that's just not the case. He's not so sure anymore. Maybe that's the whole reason he'd said that to Daryl—because he was trying to convince himself that it was true.
And the worst part of it is that now that he's got the question in his mind, he can't be sure of his own thoughts anymore. He thinks about everything too hard and so he can't know whether his reaction—an interest (a slight arousal, maybe) in Daryl's muscles when he glances over—are genuine.
But now that he thinks of it, that isn't actually the worst part. The worst part is, there's literally no one to talk to about this except Daryl. So, against his better judgment… he does.
Daryl's whittling himself new bolts for his crossbow when Glenn finds him. They're reasonably far from the farmhouse, and most everyone is inside or hanging around the house because it's started to get cold. Glenn is from Michigan, so he's happy with the change, not used to the sweltering heat of the summer. Daryl, he guesses, has not often had the luxury to just sit inside with the heater on and the fire going and food to eat to escape the cold.
Daryl looks up at him as he approaches and, once he sees who it is, his jaw sets tight and he looks back down to his work.
Glenn, still feeling like a giant shitbag, doesn't sit down. He stops a few feet away, fidgeting with his sleeve, and says, "I just… wanted to tell you I'm sorry. You didn't—I didn't mean what I said. I was in a bad mood because I couldn't go on my own, and—I could tell you were a bit—distracted—"
At this, Daryl scoffs. "Don't flatter yourself, kid."
Glenn is a little discouraged, but he continues after a pause. "My point is that you weren't making me uncomfortable, I was just upset. And—"
Here, he breaks off, looking down at his hands where he's clasped them in front of him. "I thought a lot about—why I said what I did. And I was wondering if I—if I could talk to you about what I… came up with."
Daryl stares at him incredulously for a moment. "What, you want a fuckin' heart-to-heart or somethin'?" His tone is patronizing, kind of, and it hurts Glenn's feelings a little. "I ain't exactly good at that shit. Go find someone else."
"Please." Glenn steps closer, holding his joined hands at his chin in desperation. "Daryl, there is no one else."
Daryl stops whittling, letting his hands fall limp, and he looks at the ground. His face looks pained, no other way to describe it, unfortunately, but after a while he says, begrudgingly, "Fine."
So Glenn sits down just where he is so they're facing each other.
Daryl narrows his eyes and answers, "Gay," as if he can't believe Glenn just asked him that. He shifts a little, looking self-conscious and uncomfortable. "I'm okay with it, but you don't just come out where I'm from. With my family. Folks get fuckin' killed for that kinda thing."
"I'm sorry," Glenn tells him, genuinely.
"It's just that… you're the second person I ever told who I wasn't plannin' on fuckin' and ditchin', okay? Told you I wasn't any good at this shit."
"I'll just talk, then, for a while," Glenn offers. "Maggie broke up with me yesterday. And… I didn't care at all. I don't care. I thought it was weird at first but then I realized—I've been spending two weeks thinking about you. Since that day on the supply run. I didn't have any interest in the hot chick that was completely available and willing." He lets out a quiet huff that passes for a laugh. "What I'm trying to say is… all this is kind of making me… question myself. My sexuality."
Daryl squints at him a minute. "How old are you, kid?"
"Well, I don't exactly know how it works for everyone, but I figured it out when I was thirteen years old. Sure this ain't just somethin' you wanna try out for fun? Bein' gay ain't some kinda game."
"It's not like that!" Glenn cries, offended and aware that Daryl's offended, too. "I thought about it, and—my whole life, sex and love, it's never been that important to me. I feel like I was just going through the motions. And it's just now occurring to me that I might have just been looking in the wrong places."
Daryl doesn't reply, merely watches him suspiciously.
"Look, it's just, I don't know, an idea at this point. I don't know one way or the other. And you're the only one here, as far as I know, who could possibly help me out with this."
"Well, what in the hell do you want me to do?"
"I don't know, talk through this with me?"
"Already told you, I ain't no good at talkin'," Daryl grinds out, beginning to sound really pissy.
And then a lightbulb flicks on in Glenn's head.
"Wait—what if—I mean, it must be a long time since you've had any sex, right?"
This time, Daryl's silence is not because he's waiting for Glenn to continue. If the color of his face is any indication, his head is going to explode soon.
"Hear me out! I just mean… it might be beneficial for the both of us if… we made some kind of arrangement. I'd get hands-on experience, and, hopefully, and answer to my question, and you'd—we'd both—get laid."
Miraculously, Daryl appears to be considering it, but he still looks skeptical.
"You'd wanna have sex with me? Like, what, sex-sex?"
Glenn balks at that. He hadn't really thought that far. "Well, maybe we could… start slow."
"You wanna make this more'n a one-time thing?"
"I mean, we'll try something else first, something a little less—actual intercourse. And we'll see how it goes from there."
Daryl chuckles a little. "You're fuckin' crazy, Chinaman."
Glenn has never been so happy to hear that slur, because Daryl says it with… something like fondness, not the contempt he aimed at him that night half a month ago.
"I must be goddamn crazy. Alright, you got yourself a deal."
They sit there awkwardly for a second then, neither sure if they're supposed to just start right away or at some appointed time in the future or something. Glenn looks around; they're kind of out in the open.
Daryl notices him searching their surroundings and peers into the sky. "Light's still strong enough. Go tell someone you want me to teach you how to shoot the crossbow. We'll head into the woods. That is, if you… if you wanna do this now."
Glenn shoots to his feet, awkward and nervous. "Yeah. Yeah. I'll be right back."
When he returns, Daryl's standing with the crossbow slung over his back, new bolts in his fst, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
"Kay, let's go," Glenn prompts, and Daryl leads him away. They enter the cover of the trees and walk through the woods for about fifteen minutes before Daryl stops in a little clearing. Then, he turns, taking the crossbow from its spot on his back, takes a minute to load it, and holds it out for Glenn to take.
"What—what's this for?"
"Gotta make the story realistic, don't we? Point it at that tree over there."
Still bewildered, and kind of indignant, Glenn does so. Daryl leans in a little to adjust his grip. His proximity makes Glenn kind of dizzy.
"Looks like you're havin' some trouble holdin' it steady," Daryl murmurs, and he hesitates for a moment before moving to stand behind Glenn. His hands find Glenn's arms, just above the elbows, and his breath is on the skin behind his ear.
"There ya go. Make sure it's right up against your shoulder." He reaches out to release the safety, movements slow and sure. Once his hand is back on Glenn's arm, he says, "Now pull the trigger."
So Glenn does, and the recoil surprises him, but Daryl is close enough behind him that he keeps Glenn's body immobile. The bolt plants firmly into the trunk of the tree across the clearing.
Neither man moves.
"Good job," Daryl says, even though he did most of the work.
Daryl's voice sounds strained when he says, "Just—one more time. Don't want the other getting' suspicious." The tension between them is such that they're forced to move slowly through it, like it's a physical entity surrounding them. After Glenn shoots again, and it lands just below the first shot, Daryl walks over to the tree to retrieve the bolts, his movements sluggish like he's in a dream. He returns wearing the exact expression that started this whole thing, that look of stunned lust. He takes the crossbow, makes sure the safety is on, and sets it down nearby with the bolts.
He steps forward and puts his hands on Glenn's belt buckle, looking Glenn straight in the eye.
He leaves his hands on the buckle and takes a few steps forward, forcing Glenn to walk backwards until his back gently contacts the trunk of a tree. Then, finally, Daryl breaks through the spell and his fingers fly, pulling the belt out of its loops and tossing it aside. He has the button undone and the zipper down in seconds.
And then he drops to his knees.
The cold air makes Glenn hiss as Daryl pulls his jeans and underwear down his thighs. He feels his erection bounce against Daryl's lips and he would be mortified, except for that Daryl takes him into his mouth a split second later—and Jesus Christ, he just keeps going, letting his tongue linger back to give soft sweeps around the head.
"Hngh," Glenn says. Daryl huffs a laugh around his cock and pulls back, teasingly slow, curling his hand around the base. Glenn is almost disappointed for a second, because obviously the hand means Daryl's not planning on taking him that deep again, but then that stupid, disgustingly talented mouth begins a fast rhythm, along with the fist around him, and that tongue. The tongue has a mind of its own.
Daryl is kind of a pro at this. Glenn's fingers are scrabbling against the tree bark until Daryl takes one of his hands and places it on his own head. So Glenn obliges happily, threading his fingers into the hair behind Daryl's ear and tugging softly. The tongue—it keeps tracing over the underside of his head, just the very top of it. And the perfection of the wet slide of Daryl's tightly pursed lips, the suction that's just everywhere, the lubricated glide of his rough-skinned hand.
Daryl starts making these muffled noises in the back of his throat that reverberate in the cavern of his mouth, vibrating his lips, and Glenn can feel those deep, throaty vibrations pulsing through his dick and it's almost too much. As it is, he's very, very close to coming.
"Uhn. Daryl," Glenn speaks over the noises. "Daryl, I'm close, I'm so close." He tugs half-heartedly at the hair clenched in his fist, but Daryl doesn't pull off of him.
Glenn bites down hard on the knuckles of his free hand as pleasure rips through him and he spills into Daryl's mouth. His hips are bucking, very slightly, when he comes, but Daryl takes it with no trouble, pulling off with a quick sweep of his tongue to make sure that Glenn's softening cock is clean. He sits back on his heels, watching Glenn as he pants against the tree, and reaches down to tuck his own dick back into his pants before wiping his hands on his thighs. There is a small pool of semen on the ground between his knees.
"You… didn't have to do that," Glenn tells him, gesturing toward Daryl's crotch. "I could have returned the favor."
"Nah, 'm not gonna make you do that. This ain't about me."
Well, Glenn figures, what's done is done.
Daryl gets to his feet, adjusting his pants, squinting thoughtfully over at him. "That answer your question?"
Glenn thinks about it. Sure, he'd been really aroused. But—
"No," he replies, leaning forward to place his hands tiredly on his knees.
"You kiddin' me?" Daryl near-shouts, offended. He lowers his voice to continue, "You seemed to like it well enough. Not only that, you couldn't fuckin' wait for it. You were practically beggin'."
"I don't mean that it wasn't good!" Glenn retorts, and it seems to placate Daryl a bit, though he still looks surly. "It was great. But I don't know if that means anything."
"And the way you felt beforehand? That mean anything?"
"I felt like I was about to get a blowjob!"
Silence, except for their heavy breathing, descends. After a few moments, Daryl asks, "So what now?"
"We head back to camp, first thing," Glenn replies, moving away from the tree to stretch his arms above his head. "And after that… I guess we keep trying."
They head back in silence. Daryl's holding his crossbow in front of him, letting it point at the ground, tightening and loosening his grip in a fidgety sort of way. He's busying himself by watching the woods around them intently for signs of either walkers or dinner. He finds the latter, ends up bagging a couple of rabbits and a squirrel.
Carol and Patricia are on the porch shelling peas when they come up on the house and they cheer happily upon seeing the animals that are dangling from a length of rope in Daryl's hands.
"Did you catch these, Glenn?" Patricia asks, gesturing at them, her eyes wide.
"No, these were Daryl," Glenn tells her.
Daryl swings his catch over his shoulder, smirks teasingly over at Glenn, and says, "Little man's arms got too tired." Then he steps off the porch, making his way toward the fire pit and pulling a knife out of the sheath on his hip.
Glenn feels like he has to say something—to salvage his reputation, maybe, or to prevent the silence they're left in from becoming too awkward—so he says, stupidly, "I'm not that little." And oh, dear god, he's not really sure where that came from, and why, why did that have to be the thing that popped out of his mouth?
So he retreats into the house, ignoring Carol and Patricia's giggling as best he can.
Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!