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

Authors Note #1: This little smutlet was inspired by the promotion pic for season five featuring Daryl gagged (and presumably tied up) – looking utterly and completely delish. And like maybe, my brain just kind of, well, went there. Set in early season five, while the gang is still locked down in Terminus. *Big thank you to carylstolemyheart on tumblr for being my sounding board for all things BDSM and for giving this a quick beta to ensure I was on track in terms of terms and descriptions. This is my first real foray into writing a bdsm fic, so I want to get things right.

Warnings: Adult language, adult content, sexual content, bondage, bdsm, light dom/sub undertones, rope tying, brief reference to a past threesome, mild power play, allusions to 'head space' or 'subspace', use of a cloth gag, dub-con, feeding, ice-play, sensation play, vague references to child abuse: emotional and physical.

Unclip Pegasus' wings (and let him fly)

Chapter Three

She walked a circle around him, heels echoing, sharp and crisp across the hardwood floor. A low-cut prowl as she paced a line through the evening shadows. He tried to tip his head back, not wanting to miss a second, but a sharp tsk-tsk made him snap back into place, pulse jumping – thumping in time as she made another pass.

"You remembered," she hummed, pleased when he kept his eyes straight ahead, letting his other senses follow her as her voice floated - easy and assuring just out of sight. "Good."

Her hands settled on his shoulders, a partial embrace from behind. He quivered, enjoying the openness, the vulnerability that flooded in – basking in the moment as it was immediately soothed, tempered by her presence. He breathed in, deep and full, once, twice and then again, heady and over-oxygenated as her tongue traced the shell of his ear.

"You're my good boy, aren't you?"

He arched up, nodding, mumbling through the gag, trying to get her attention back where he wanted it as a blurt of pre-cum dampened the tip. Spotting through his boxers as the tent of his erection peeked out from his undone jeans.

Her response was loving but firm. A gentle, no-nonsense tap on the nose that summed up matters better than the sharp edge of a whip or the first two knuckles of a punishing blow. That was what she'd taught him first, that there were other ways - better ways - of getting her point across. Of teaching him what he needed.

He wasn't in control, she was.

"You know the rules," she chided, smile wholesome and sure, a reprimand only in the loosest sense. "Not until I say."

He just squirmed in response, panting hotly – waiting.

She started off slow, gliding around him like a river carving its way through rock, trickling and eon-long as her fingers scritch-scritched across the base of his scalp. He shivered, welcoming each and every pass as the rasp of her nails excited the little hairs on the back of his neck, preceding the rash of goose bumps that rose up behind her.

"Let me do this for you," she murmured, soft and gentle and unassuming, like she wasn't aware of her own power, like she didn't have him by the nape – her grip tight enough that his hips were already bucking their way to the threshold.

He thought about the ropes holding him together. About the soothing dryness of Carol's fingers trailing down his naked chest, unadorned save for the ropes. For the loops and knots that caught and pulled every time her fingers paused – lingering and tugging – if only slightly, as he sucked a desperate lung-full between his teeth.

He looked up, only to catch sight of her, waiting.

There was a soft scarf twisting between her fingers – blood red and darkly bright in the dim light. He shuddered, trying and failing to lick his lips, the action hopeful and unconscious as he watched her from under the thick fan of his lashes.

Christ, he wanted to touch. Himself, her, it didn't matter. He was too greedy to wait. He wanted it all, right here, right now. And she knew it too. That's why she'd doubled knotted the ropes. They'd learned that shit the hard way. He liked the hurt, liked to push and press – liked to test her boundaries.

He nodded, giving her permission.

He knew better than to keep her waiting.

The distant slam of boot heels tripping over something echoed, dull and abrupt through the black. He frowned, the expression distant and uncertain. He took another breath, sucking it in deep, only this time he nearly choked, struggling to make sense of the rebound when Carol was there, right in front of him, the soft glow of the bedroom lights flickering welcomingly.

The realization was slow to permeate.

The warehouse. Someone was here!

His eyes fluttered open, panting through the gag, dick straining against his zipper as he hiked up in the seat, caught between action and inaction as his instincts unfurled, combating the desperate need for friction.

He stiffened. Sunrise. He remembered now. They were comin' for him. They were going to-

"Turn up the good, filter out the bad," she crooned, seeming to sense the thought just before it made tracks and ruined the moment. Highlighting in day-glow colors why she was so perfect, why this would have never worked with anyone else. Why this was the reason he'd waited.

Rehearse the way you heal.

Her hand returned to the back of his neck, calming and sure, reminding him where he was and that she would catch him if he fell. That she would always be there to-

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back until it was supported by the cradle of her breast. He could feel his body swaying into it, all but vibrating with the need to meet her halfway. But Carol just smiled, drawing up these little purrs of sound from the back of his throat every time she leaned in and thinned out the air, teasing.

Her lips firmed around the edges of rope that bound his hands together and his breath left him in a rush. The sensation of her firm little tongue laving across his knuckles almost unmanned him.

"You can tell me, you know. Tell me what you want. I'll give it you, everything, you know I will."

She was inside him, settling herself deep underneath his skin, becoming his foundations even as she ripped down the false ones. Reminding him, in ways he still couldn't bear to let himself get too invested in, who he truly belonged to.

"I know what you need. But you've gotta say it. Can you do that, Daryl? Can you do it for me?"

He nodded, the gag muting the whimper that rose up in the place of words – breath – thought. They were in tune now, a singular infinite instrument that each side knew intimately. A shot of warmth rose, twisting and stretching in the pit of his belly as she tugged on the gag, playful, promising. Someday the words might even leave his lips.

God, he was hard. Enough that the word itself was a fucking understatement by now.

He pushed forward, adding to the symphony as the ropes strained – creaking and warm with friction. His song was desperation and desire. He'd never needed more than he did now. He'd never felt anything so raw, so needy. Everything was too much and not enough and fuck-

He wasn't built to handle this kind of shit. It was too deep. Too heavy.

More.

Because as much as he wanted to run from it, to slam down every defense and curl away, life under the press – under the ropes - had never been more clear cut, more harsh and full and stuffed with feeling. It burned under his skin like a fucking brand, right and pure and overwhelming in the best and worst of ways.

He was going to go up like a fucking torch and take the entire god damned world with him.

All he needed was just a little bit more, a push, permission, something-

The clinking of a bowl sounded just out of his line of sight – heavy and light as he huffed impatiently through his nose. Her smile was sly, crafty and quick. Oh, and she knew it too.

"You thirsty, sweetie? You've been so good so far that I thought you needed a treat."

He felt the flicker of coolness in the air as she balanced an ice-cube between her thumb and forefinger. He cocked his head, open and willing. Curiosity and excitement churned in the pit of his belly. This was new. They hadn't tried this before.

"Would you like one?" she asked, tilting the bowl so he could see the three little cubes coasting around the lip, skimming wetly in their own sweat.

"I know the gag makes your mouth dry. And in this heat you need to stay hydrated," she hummed, setting the bowl off to the side and leaning forward. Her fingers, now ice-cold and slick, thumbed at the layer of sweat beading across his temples.

"Such a good boy, you'd never say anything about it, would you?"

He groaned, the sound muffled, enough that she wouldn't hold it against him. His prick twitched, pre-cum oozing from the tip, causing his boxers to stick and catch. But she kept him still, petting his thigh and following the ridge of his cock from balls to crown, nails scraping – just so – along the damp fabric.

"You'd just sit here, just like you are now, all still and quiet for me, wouldn't you?"

He nodded, wriggling in his seat, pressing his cheek into the palm of her hand in a silent plead, unable to shake the feeling that now, more than ever, her touch was the only thing keeping him inside his skin.

He wasn't sure what caught his attention. If it was the sudden prickly feeling that stirred around the base of his spine – spearing across his nape when he realized that he was no longer alone. Or the uneven rush of awareness that trickled through the pale just before his instincts started screaming. But he became aware of it all the same.

He took a deep breath, and then another. Trying to hold onto the moment as she reached forward and rubbed the soothing chill across his lower lip. The rasp of his stubble smoothing across her thumb was all but a visceral thing.

The soft hush-hush of her boots swept across the filthy concrete floor, and like ripples in a pond, the scene fleshed out. Gaining layers and complexities as it spread.

He knew that sound.

That walk.

The dissonance between realities wasn't jarring. Rather, it felt more like a progression, something his sub-conscious accepted automatically as fantasy shifted into reality and distantly, he became aware that something was happening.

That somehow, in spite of everything, she was here, now. Not ten meters from him.

Only, his dick didn't seem to get the memo.

She snuck in at a crouch, low and knife up as she made her way through the black, just like he'd taught her, adding layers to the thrill as she slunk in all quiet like. She was a fucking vision. Silent and self-assured, knife glinting like hope and his darkest desires personified. And, unless he was very much mistaken, apparently dead set on a rescue.

He choked on a breath, too busy admiring the sight. She was porcelain on black, civil twilight, spring time rib-bones slowly knitting themselves back together. She was his, his-

He caught the exact moment when she laid eyes on him, finally making sense of his huddled shape after so much time sneaking around in the gloom. Her eyes lit up – as only those cool baby blues could - all stupidly expressive and far too wide, making a beeline for him as the arm holding the knife deflated.

Her hand stroked across his cheek just above the gag. He blinked, absorbing the warmth. He was uncertain of how much time had passed when he opened his eyes and found her kneeling in front of him, all close and shit, lips moving like she was aimin' to say something only nothin' reached his ears.

But by that point he was already a goner anyway.

All he knew was that it took more than it probably should have not to lean into her. Not to duck his head and bury it into her chest, not to soak her in, her touch, her sounds, her smell, her everything. He wanted it all, every inch of that soft, lilting reassurance as she clucked and hummed, slicing through the bones – no – the bonds that held his skin together and shoring him up with her instead.

And really, he was so keyed up, that thought was all it took.

His whine – a mess of high pitches and throaty undertones - was absorbed by the gag as every muscle in his body went on point. His spine arced, all but seeing stars as the pleasure coiled.

Jesus fucking Christ on a-

The wad of fabric creaked, snapping back as his canines bit clear through.

He came in his fucking pants before she could finish with the first length of rope.

And when he came down from his high, eventually finding himself half-untied and in her arms, he forgot, at least for a moment, of the wet soaking into his briefs and the over-sensitivity of his dick as it jumped and twitched at every other brush. Instead, his used his free arm to crush her to his chest, chanting her name like a mantra.

They stayed that way for hours, minutes, maybe just seconds before the sound of an alarm – ill-timed and tacky - permeated through the dark.

And just like that, they were running again.

They spent the next few months on the road, placeless – wandering. There was no time to dwell on it, no time to tip-toe around the issue or figure out just how much she knew. At the time he figured she hadn't understood. That she'd just assumed his mewling and wriggling had been discomfort or desperation. Him trying to talk her ear off through the gag or whatever.

And as the weeks turned into months he told himself that was a good thing. That it was for the best. That he didn't need it. That he could be happy without it – content – just so long as he had her.

It wasn't until they found a place, an old military style bunker up in the middle of nowhere and got settled, that he was proven wrong on all counts. Because one day, after a two day long hunt that had yielded a grand total of fuck-all, he found a nondescript, brown paper bag tucked neatly under his pillow.

The note attached was written in a quick, sweetly cursive script, like she'd been in a hurry when she'd ghosted down the dank concrete hall and into the little cubby-hole he'd claimed as his own.

The words were enough to make him catch his breath as he thumbed the edges, smoothing his fingers down the coil of rope – a smooth almost silky-satin like material – in equal parts wonder and trepidation.

"Whenever you're ready." – Carol.

Then again, maybe she'd understood perfectly after all.

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. This story is now complete! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Thank you for indulging my flighty little whims of sexyness!