A/N: Alrighty so school work is hell. Um I did this little beauty under an extreme amount of stress thanks to three disgusting papers I'm trying to write. Well hope you enjoy! This is my first oneshot ever, I've always struggled with shorter stories.

Disclaimer: Don't own the Walking Dead characters or plot lines. Just wanna play with them for a while, thanks!

Warnings: extreme amounts of fluff, gorgeous man description.

The Loveliest Contradiction.

Daryl is a walking contradiction. He's loud, angry, obnoxious, and he throws things. He has no grace, his boots squish anything in their path, he scares small children, he's merciless. He breaks, maims, murders, and smashes anything he touches. His glare burns through your skin, your skull. It ears into your brain 'til you're a drooling idiot, choking on your own saliva. It's awful. He's awful.

Daryl's strides are silent. He's stealthy, full of potential energy. He's the rubber band pulled tight just waiting to snap into someone's eye. He's delicate in everything he does, he glides atop the forest floor quick as silver, and right as rain. With the same hands he kills with, he fixes and repairs. He can stitch you up and send you off with a smirk, he can make it all better and kiss your wounds. In this new world we get a lot of wounds. He kisses only mine though, even the little ones.

Daryl is the demon perched at Hell's entrance, he'll wear a glare and a smile at the same time. He'll beckon you forth, take your hand and plunge with you into the depths of hell, your skin searing as the flames lap you hungrily. But still, you have Daryl's hand, he still wears that smile. Those leather wings are false, they're really silken white feathers. There dirty. White shows the dirt the worst, in the old, pristine world, they'd be an ugly sacrament of failure. Now they are pristine. So many of us have taken gruesome, haggard black wings, dripping with the cruelty of everything, even me. Not Daryl, he is an angel. Daryl is my angel.

Scars may mar his flesh in a mapping of an undesirable past, but Daryl is flawless. His body a testament to the wonders of nature, a walking Adonis. A temple shrine to feral forest beings, that's what Daryl is, feral. He bites and snaps and claws, but I hold him through it all, even viscous creatures need love. Daryl is my love. No scar, burn, or bad upbringing can break that, I dammed sure won't let it. He's so perfect, too perfect to be lonely. I never want him to be lonely.

He loves his woods, he loves his solo hunts, and his days of solitude, but he loves me more. I know because he told me himself. Not in as many words, but he said it. Daryl isn't alone anymore.

His breathing is strong and even, all powerful as the tides strike the shore, driven by a constant impending force. His chest, bare, meets the chilly air in our shared tent with forceful heaves skyward, its like his lungs are determined to expand past his ribcage, he's going to break something eventually but he never does. He's still gruff and violent, but around me he manages so much more. He's more multifaceted than a diamond, and cooler than the other side of the pillow. My eyes sweep the expanse of bared flesh, taking in every memorized knick, tear, or old gash. I'll have to kiss away all the bad memories tied to the pinky silver tissue later, when he wakes up. But not now. Now is my time just to marvel. It takes a long time to absorb the Dixon masterpeice, but in this frigid world, we have time. Maybe time has us, who knows, but now I just look.

He shifts in his sleep and grimances, my love shouldn't have to make faces like that but he usually does anyhow. His eyes are bruised from sleep deprivation, but they're still beautiful. They struggle open to reveal the two pools of cool blue that still send a jolt through my heart after all this time, they're magnificent.

"Mornin' Rick," he mumbles in barely distinguishable English, his accent is always thicker than pea soup when he first wakes up, I'll never get tired of it, never. "you starin' again?" he tries to grumble but I know he's happy, he always is when he catches me looking at him, "Sicko. I should have you arrested," he's nuzzled into the pillow next to my head so its hard to hear him but his shoulders are shaking with almost laughter. I love it when its like this. I love mornings. Mornings are filled with deep southern accents that make me melt into a pool on the floor. Daryl should really give his victims complimentary "wet floor" signs since he reduces us all to gelatinous custard with that harsh sweeter than honey, slow-drip drawl he flaunts so heedlessly.

He pops up, resting all his weight on his forearms next to me, a glare shadowing out his pretty eyes, "Yah should really stop that shit, people gonna get the wrong idea an' think were gay er sumthin'" we look at each other with raised eyebrows for a minute before we break into snorting laughs. Our shared tent isn't chilly anymore. My sun is awake again, there is a fire in my life that burns out all the cold painful thoughts. Daryl is untouchable. Daryl is perfect. Daryl is just for me. He doesn't say it in words, no, he always says more with his eyes than his tongue. Words are superficial.

"Come on, lets go patrol, lover boy." and we do.

End.