Work Text:
It had been four days since Paul left for his trip, and Daryl was officially missing him. This was the first time in their two years of living together that they'd been apart for more than a weekend, and Daryl was having a hard time adjusting.
“When are you coming back again?” Daryl grunted as he tugged on one of his boots, his phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. He glanced over to the other end of the couch and a bitter sadness sloshed within his chest. Paul should’ve been sitting there with a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, and Daryl would’ve shuffled on over for a kiss goodbye before leaving for work.
But instead, Paul was some thousand odd miles away, making stupid exacerbated little noises on the other end of the line. “I told you already, I’ll be home on the third.”
“You’re gonna make me wait two whole days?”
Daryl rose from the couch then patted himself down —wallet and keys — before heading out the door. The cool morning air brushed against his cheeks as he walked to the carport and hopped into his truck.
“You’ll survive, Dixon.” Even in a teasing tone, Daryl knew that Paul, too, was counting down the days. “Maybe this will hold you over until then.”
Just as he ducked into the driver seat, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Paul. He quickly put the phone on speaker, fingers nearly buzzing with anticipation as he opened the message.
Paul had sent a photo of himself, posing in the reflection of a large mirror that leaned against the wall opposing his bed. He was laying on his stomach, face propped up on hands that sank elbows into crisp, white sheets. He was naked. His hair neatly draped around his shoulders, glowing from the sunlight that bled in from a window Daryl could not see. His skin boasted a similar radiance, dreamlike in every way possible.
His mind drifted into a hazy state as he traced the gentle slope of Paul’s arched back, eyes lingering on the divots of his muscles as he tried to remember the way they felt against his hands, his mouth, his tongue. And how that tongue would find its way lower and lower until it reached the plumped, round hills of Paul’s ass. In the photo, he was lying with one leg bent and hanging off the edge of the bed and Daryl took the liberty of imagining himself settling face first in the spaces between the parting of Paul’s cheeks.
Paul's voice came through the phone, saying something along the lines of Did I break you? but even his snarky little remark could not tear Daryl’s attention away from the photo. He thought for a brief second that maybe he should print it, have it framed, and hang it proudly in their hallway; art like this demanded to be seen. But alas, all he could managed in response was a muted Jesus fucking Christ. In the eerie silence of the cab, the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears was almost deafening.
Paul’s laughter managed to tow him back to reality as he adjusted the full blown erection in his pants, Texas-tucking it in the waistband of his jeans.
"You like it?” Paul asked, clearly amused.
"That's about the dumbest thing you've ever asked me,” he grumbled halfheartedly, and continued to zoom in and out on the photo, poring over every last curve and line of Paul’s body.
Paul laughed again. “You’re gonna have to prove it, Dixon.”
There it was. “I’m in the damn car,” Daryl hissed but his bark had no bite and Paul knew that.
“Perfect.” Paul said in a low and soft voice that made him lightheaded. This was their little game whenever one of them was away, or honestly whenever Paul was bored. But he didn’t mind. In fact, if Paul wanted him jacking it in the car at 5 in the goddamn morning then Daryl was at his mercy.
With a sigh of defeat, Daryl shrugged off his flannel and draped it over his hips. He gave a quick scan of his surrounding and thanked fuck he didn’t back in to the stall yesterday.
The phone buzzed again. Another text from Paul. Another photo of Paul’s reflection in the same large, golden mirror. It was almost the same pose except now his face was no longer propped up, but rather his cheek was pressed against the bed, his lips carving out a grin, and eyelids nearly closing. He wore an expression that compelled Daryl to palm his own erection, running his hand up and down his shaft as his eyes followed the same familiar lines of Paul’s body and arrived at the source of Paul’s pleasure: a vibrator that Daryl knew all too well. Paul held the handle in his free hand while the rest of it was deep inside of him.
This time, he let out an audible, “Jesus fucking Christ, Paul.”
Just as he started to imagine Paul fucking himself with it, another message came. This time, a video. A close up of Paul on his back with both legs bent and spread against his chest, thrusting the vibrator in and out of himself. His soft dick laid flat against his belly and Daryl wanted to seal his lips around it and sucked until Paul grew hard against his tongue. Just the sound of it all — the faint hum of the vibrator as it slid in and out of Paul, and that fucking sound that he makes whenever Daryl fucked him just right — were enough to make his head spin.
“Fuck,” Daryl breathed out, head lulling back against the headrest. His dick was already dripping in precum when he pulled it out of his jeans. “You’re gonna make me late for work.”
Paul only chuckled in response.
So fucking late.