#the walking dead daryl&oc

[xoxo-sarah]

A Chance

My Wife part 3

Part 1 | Part 2

↝pairing: Season1!Daryl Dixon x wife!reader

↝warning: things are rough between Daryl and Reader, death, cursing, arguing, walkers, ect. The usual twd stuff, angst, reader wears Daryl's clothes ( but as a big girl myself, we can just ignore how he's a twig and that's most likely unrealistic 🫡), not proofread

↝⎙ 1.30.25

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

Daryl Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Daylight broke and Andrea hadn't moved.

Daryl grumbled about Amy turning, but you quickly shot him down each time. People grieve in different ways. Andrea knew what she had to do when the time came.

"Y'all can't be serious." Daryl huffed, watching Andrea through squinted eyes, "Let that girl hamstring us? The dead girl's a time-bomb." He seethed.

"Daryl," You glared up at him, rubbing the scratch on your upper arm. "Don't be insensitive."

"We ain't got time for this." He seethed, glaring back at you.

You stood, "She lost her sister, not her smarts. She knows what to do."

He stepped closer, putting his weight on one leg, slightly slouching to be eye level with you. Maybe he was trying to be intimidating, but it didn't work. You had seen the dark, sad parts of him. He will never be able to scare you or berate you with actions or words. "And if she don't?"

"What do you suggest?"Rick questioned Daryl, stopping the oncoming argument.

Daryl stepped closer to Rick, bringing his fingers to his temple, "Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance."

"No," Lori spoke up, "For God's sake, let her be."

Dary scoffed before walking off. In turn, you eyed the back of Andrea's head. She knew what she had to do, right? You hoped so.

Pulling your eyes away from her, you looked around at all of the bodies. Most were people who you had just seen, laughing and eating. Others were the dead that had wandered from the city.

Shutting your eyes, your hand automatically went to your wrist, the tightly woven thread helping to ground you. Your fingers traveled down to your left hand, the wedding ring soothing against your fingertips, a contrast to the thick thread of the collar/ bracelet on your wrist.

Daryl looked up as he helped drag a body across the ground. He watched you, watched your movements; a desperate search for comfort.

- time skip -

Daryl stomped away, not understanding why Amy and Jim were not being taken care of. They were "ticking time bombs". They were liabilities. In the new world, there was not time to grieve. Sneering at the thought, he yanked the tent flap back, watching you jump, immediately wiping under your eyes.

His eyes trailed over you in the silence of the moment. You needed comforting. He wanted to comfort you. He really did. But he had a feeling those tears were his doing. He shouldn't have taken his frustration out on you, knowing you had witnessed something horrific.

The tent opening fell down as he walked away.

Your hands instantly went back to your face, muffling the sobs that raked your body.

-

Sweat had mixed with the dirt and grime, caking your skin as you helped bury the bodies. The bright sun beat down, causing you to squint.

Daryl kept an eye on you from a distance. Neither of you had uttered a word to each other since the morning. You were both too stubborn.

Backing his truck up, bodies in the bed of it, Daryl caught sight of you looking up through the side mirrors. Just as quickly, you looked away and got back to digging, ignoring Rick and Shane's argument to your left. Turning the truck off, Daryl jumped out, slamming the door.

He made his way to where you, Rick, and Shane were digging holes for the friends you had light the night prior. "I still think it's a mistake not burning these bodies. It's what we said we'd do, right? Burn 'em all, wasn't that the idea?"

"At first."

Daryl scoffed, "The Chinaman gets all emotional, says it's not the thing to do, we just follow 'em along? These people need to know who the hell's in charge here- what the rules are."

"And who the hell's in charge, Daryl? It sure as hell ain't you."

Daryl scoffed again, watching as you glared at him, waiting for him to reply, from where you had jumped down in a freshly dug hole.

"There are no rules." Rick countered Daryl's statement.

"Well, that's a problem." Lori walked past Daryl's truck, children and their mothers behind her. "We haven't had one moment to hold onto anything of our old selves. We need time to mourn, and we need to bury our dead. It's what people do." With that, she turned and walked away, not caring to hear what anyone thought about that.

-

Feeling disgusting, you had made your way back to the tent. Not having any clothes, you opted for something of Daryl's. His cut shirts weren't ideal, but they were cooling and non-restricting. His old work pants fit loose, but that's not anything string couldn't fix.

Buttoning the second to last button of the dingy shirt, you heard the opening of the tent begin to unzip. You moved to cover yourself, but ultimately relaxed when Daryl stepped in. He looked up, scanning your body before glancing behind himself, making sure nobody had seen you changing from over his shoulder. He zipped the flap back up, before simply standing there. He was slightly hunched over, as were you, thanks to the small tent.

It was silent.

Your fingers went back to the button, as you ignored your husband's presence.

Daryl moved closer, standing behind you. The air around you two changed. His head fell to your shoulder, his own grime mixing with yours. He stayed there, vulnerable. This was his way of apologizing.

Your body relaxed further, sinking back into him. His arms snaked around your middle, holding you close.

"It's okay." You whispered, only loud enough for him to hear, and not to disturb this newfound peaceful atmosphere. He nodded, moving his hands to your hips, turning you around. His fingers made quick work of buttoning the last button for you.

-

The next morning, everyone was getting ready to leave for the C.D.C. Rick was out in the field, talking to a man named Morgan, the guy who had saved Rick’s life. Lori, Carol, and the kids were helping to load everything into cars. You helped Daryl load up his truck. Hopping onto the tailgate, you helped pull Daryl’s bike up, gently laying it on the truck bed.

“Are ya willin’ to put your life in his hands?” Daryl helped you jump down, glancing at Rick in the distance. Daryl was looking to you for answers. You were always the more level-headed of the two. Daryl would follow you into fire, he’d follow you to the end of the world. And you just might be doing that.

“I think you have to hope there’s a safe place out there. If we don’t hope for it, then we won’t get it. Hope is all we’ve got.” You patted his chest, before walking by him. He watched you, before slamming the rusted tailgate closed.

-

The wind blew through your hair, cooling your face. Daryl drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other near his mouth as he nipped at his fingernails. The leg that was not being used for the gas and brake pedals slightly shook, a trailer to his nerves. You rode in silence.

“”M sorry–‘bout yesterday.” He spoke up first, biting his thumb nail. You turned your head, looking at his side-profile. He didn’t dare to glance at you.

“I know. I am too. We were both on edge; said some things. It’s alright.”

He nodded, pulling his thumb from his mouth. “Ya think Merle’s alright?”

You thought about it. Daryl had told you what they found on the roof and what they had run into.

“I think he’s a tough fucker to kill.” Daryl let out an entertained huff, “He had enough energy to steal the van, so there’s a high chance he’s okay…maybe.”

Daryl let your words marinate. Letting out a deep exhale, he swapped hands on the wheel, placing his right one of your knee. You moved closer to him, placing your hand over his.

-

Guilt was eating at you.

You had all left Jim under a tree. Sure, it was per his request, but that didn’t stop the shame bubbling in your gut. Even miles from where he sat, you had a frown on your face, thinking of him. The turning was inevitable. But the thought of him having to sit there and deal with the feeling of his bones being made of glass, cutting into him with the slightest move, having to deal with that all on his own, hurt you.

Daryl felt the tension in the truck. You sat closer to the door, hands in your lap.

His hand moved toward the radio, before cursing himself. That wouldn’t work in the apocalypse

Grumbling, he leaned over, opening the glove box and blindly digging through. Pulling a cassette tape out, he plucked it into the truck, twisting the volume knob.

It’s what Jim wanted, you kept reminding yourself. But it didn’t make you feel any better about yourself. You just hoped he wasn’t in pain for much longer.

-

Daryl tapped your arm, watching you blink awake. The melody had settled you to a light slumber. Still groggy from sleep, you took in your surroundings. For a moment, you forgot that the world went to shit. The sky was turning a dark orange, sun setting in the distance. But as you sat up in the seat, you could see the bodies on the ground, bugs buzzing above them.

“Wanna get out?” Daryl stared at you as you looked at the huge building through the windshield. Even more bodies laid in front of the building, flies swarming them. Some bodies were mindlessly wandering around.

This was the C.D.C?

Without giving a response, you opened your door, jumping out. Daryl followed, grabbing his crossbow and a shotgun from the floorboard. Walking around the truck, he pressed the gun to your side, getting your attention. You grabbed it and began following everyone to the building.

The stench alone almost had you hurling.

“Alright, everybody,” Shane began whispering, “Keep moving. Go on. Stay quiet. Let’s go.”

The constant buzzing of flies and the horrible smell of decay just might be your own personal hell.

Finally, you were a few feet from the building. Rick and Shane beat on the roll-up doors.

“There’s nobody here.” T-Dog swayed on his feet, turning to look over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Then why are these shutters down?” Rick was holding onto hope; he had to.

“Walkers!” Daryl pulled you by the arm, putting you behind him.

Children screamed, guns cocked, feet shuffled.

“You led us into a graveyard!” Daryl turned, making his way toward Rick. His nostrils flared. Fury behind his eyes.

You stepped in front of him, separating him and what he wanted to do out of anger and frustration.

“He made a call!” Dale interjected.

Daryl rounded you, “It was the wrong damn call!”

Shane stopped Daryl. “Just shut up. You hear me? Shut. Up. Shut up!” He pushed Daryl back, pointing at him.

You quickly walked over, grabbing Daryl’s shoulder before the whole thing could escalate.

Shane turned, walking back to Rick, who still stood at the shutters. “Rick, this is a dead end.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Carol held onto her daughter, but was ignored.

Night was blanketing the sky–fast. You could barely see where the cats were parked from where you stood.

Shane continued, “Do you hear me? No blame.”

Lori acknowledged Carol, “She’s right. We can’t be here, this close to the city after dark.”

“Fort Benning, Rick-still an option.”

“On what?” Andrea stepped forward, glowering. “No food, no fuel. That’s 100 miles.”

“125. I checked the map.” Glenn corrected.

Carl clung to Lori’s legs. She stared at her husband, “Forget Fort Benning! We need answers tonight, now.”

“We’ll think of something.” Rick tried, not meeting his wife’s eyes.

“C’mon!” “Let’s go!” “Let’s get out of here!” Everyone began to make their way back to the vehicles, “Alright, everybody back to the cars. Let’s go, move.”

“The camera– It moved!”

“You imagined it.”

“It. Moved.” Rick didn’t think anything of Dale’s words, walking closer to the camera near the doors. “It moved.”

“Rick, man. It’s an automated device. It’s gears, okay? They’re just winding down. Now come on. Man, just listen to me.” Shane grabbed Rick by his upper arm, trying to drag him away. “Look around this place. It’s dead, okay? It’s. Dead. You need to let it go, Rick!”

Rick pushed Shane off, going to the shutters and beating against them again. He stared up into the camera.

“Rick! There’s nobody here!” Lori yelled.

Rick ignored her, “I know you can hear me!”

Shane began ushering everyone back to the cars. “Everybody get back to the cars, now!”

Rick didn’t budge. “Please, we’re desperate. Please help us.” He begged, “We have women, children, no food, hardly any gas left.”

Lori thrusted Carl onto you, seeing as you were the closest to her, and ran over to Rick. She grabbed him. “Rick-”

“We have nowhere else to go-”

“There’s nobody here.”

Rick continued to pound on the doors.

Carl clung tighter to you.

“Keep your eyes open.” Shane ordered.

“If you don’t let us in, you’re killing us! Please!” Rick yelled at the top of his lungs.

Shane went over, pushing Lori away and grabbing Rick by his shoulders. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”

Carl pushed himself closer to you, hearing his father so desperate but to no avail.

Rick fought against getting dragged back, still staring into the camera, “Please help us.”

People shouted. Carl’s tears soaked into your /Daryl’s/ pants.

“You’re killing us! YOU’RE KILLING US!”

Shane shoved Rick away, watching his face crumble.

“You’re killing us.”

Your eyes widened, holding Carl closer, as a bright light nearly blinded you. The shutters opened, rolling up slowly. A hissing echoed. Everyone gawked, not knowing what to do.

“Daryl, you cover the back.” Shane ordered. Carl let go, running to his mother.

You cocked your gun, joining Daryl. He glanced at you, a questioning gaze set on you. You simply blinked at him, in shock.

Everyone walked toward the light, looking around and gawking at the interior. It smelt clean, a contrast to the horrid, rotting smell outside.

“Hello? Hello?!”

“Close those doors.”

“Watch for walkers.”

“Hello?”

A gun cocking had the group readying themselves, wildly looking around for the source.

A man stood in the shadows, gun in hand. “Anybody infected?”

“One of our group was. He didn’t make it.” Rick answered the unknown man.

“Why are you here?” The man stepped forward, “What do you want?” He put the gun down, looking at all of your grime-covered faces.

“A chance.”

Part 4

•2021-2025 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I do NOT give permission!]

[kaayyyys]

👕

[mee30p]

Broken 🖼️

A/n: sorry this took so long to write i had a massive autistic meltdown two days ago and i have been recovering since then so yeah! (I am okay now i was just overwhelmed)

This fic is inspired by this writing inspo by @dixondisease!

☽ Summary: Even after the break out/apocalypse reader has held onto something very special to her, When Shane finds out about this he scolds her and a few days later he goes on another on of his “survival” tantrums where he breaks readers thing forcing them to watch but Daryl comes to the rescue.

☽ Warnings: swearing, Shane Walsh, physical violence, reader being held down ish?, mention of suicide, mentions of death of a younger child, vomit, pills Daryl punches Shane a few times, swearing.

☽ Word count: 1.4k

“No… i’m okay Shane” You say trying to let him down gently for seemingly the 600th time as Shane tries to get you alone, you sit on your camping chair around the fire with some of the group being Lori, Carl, T-dog, Andrea and Amy, while the others are preoccupied. Shane has been relentlessly trying to get into your pants practically since you first met him even when your boyfriend was still alive. Shane strikes you as a bit of a man-whore as you were under the impression he was interested in Lori then you thought he liked Andrea and now you are a victim of his interest. “Come on girl.. I promise ya aint gon regret it” Shane says lowly as he doesn’t want the others to overhear. You let out a louder sigh and run your hand over your face, it’s taking all your being to stay respectful and calm. “Shane.. I said i’m good i’m not lookin’ for any of that shit right now okay?” 

Your response elicits a loud pissed off scoff from Shane. “Why not? You still strung up on your little boy toy? Well i got news for you sweetheart he’s dead and there ain’t no bringin’ him back or the past back you need to learn to let go” Shane says his voice growing louder and thicker with anger you can tell this is going to lead into one of his “survival rants” again. “What?” You scoff breathlessly as you are taken back by Shane’s words, you thought you’d made it clear you weren’t holding on to the past, sure you get sad and grieve your late boyfriend sometimes but that's because you loved him. 

Shane stands up and before anyone can stop him he storms straight to your tent, ripping open the zipper and somehow like he knew where you hid her he grabs the last precious thing of yours left. The photo frame of your sister before storming back over to the fire in front of you. The whole ten seconds this took for him to grab it you are frozen, stunned and unable to think or move. “See this, this is whats holding you back woman! You need to let go of the past forget everything, it's not real anymore” Shane yells as he holds the frame out of reach. “Shane please don’t do this” You beg, you’ve never begged for anything but right now it’s all you can do to try and save the last relic from your past life.

You know it’s stupid to cling to the past. What's gone is gone, you know that but you’ve had that picture of your sister since she passed away long before the break out. Your sister was only 13 when she committed suicide, it hadn’t been her first attempt God it haden’t even been her 4th but i was her 5th and final attempt that final morning that you found her already cold and grey laying on the bathroom floor surrounded by a broken pill bottle and vomit. You remember screaming bloody murder when you found her, the sobs of your mother and father. 

No one in the group truly knew why you kept that photo, they didn’t know who the young girl not much older than Carl was in the frame. A few people had an idea, Carol had asked but when you shut it down she had already come to a conclusion. It’s not like you showed off the picture you simply had it out one time while moving some stuff around but that was enough to ruffle a few peoples feathers, particularly Daryl, Merle and most of all Shane. Daryl had questioned you plenty of times previously why you kept the photo he never asked who she was he’d just ask curiously under the mask of gruffness and survival why you kept it and why you couldn’t just let go. Every time you’d simply give him a short answer of “It helps me push through seeing her face, Daryl”. 

“NO!” You practically shriek as you watch helplessly as Shane tosses your precious picture into the fire, before you can grab it out he grabs you from behind pinning you to his chest to make you watch. “I ain’t gonna let you be consumed by the past any longer girl” Shane says lowly as he listens to your sobs and pleas. “Shane, why? Please that was all I had.. She was all I had left” Your breathing is becoming fast but laboured as you start to spiral into a panic. The others around the fire are either yelling at Shane or sitting slack jawed.

“The fuck is all this noise bout?” Daryl asks as he turns the corner from behind the RV. He’d been hiding and minding his own business making some squirrel jerky when his precious peacefulness was interrupted but yelling and Shane’s tantrum. That's when Daryl's blood runs cold, you’re being pinned back by Shane in tears and thrashing against him. Sure Daryl’s never liked you alot hell he doesn’t like anyone but you were the first one to treat him like a decent human being so when he sees you in distress being pinned down by a man he isn’t too fond of he sees red. “The fuck did you do to her?” Daryl asks after he’s already pulled you out of the grasp of Shane and swung a powerful and angry fist at him. Shane stumbles backwards but before he can get his bearings Daryl is on him, throwing punches hard and angry. That's the thing about Daryl, he punches first and asks questions later. After everyone ‘lets him’ get a few good hits in, T-dog and Dale mange to pull Daryl and Shane apart and drag Daryl away to prevent him from retaliation again. 

Andrea and Amy were already at your side as soon as you were free from Shane, comforting you and drying your tears. But nothing could fix what's been done, that was the only picture of your sister you had left, it was the only thing you cared about. Her face was the reason you kept going to try to live a life she never got to.

The sun has now set low below the horizon, the only light being the simmering fire and the silvery light of the moon. From where you are sitting the campfire is only a red and orange flicker in the distance as you sit on a rock in the clearing of the forest. You've been hiding since Shanes stunt earlier in the afternoon which left you pissed off, more depressed and embarrassed. Your peace and dwelling is interrupted by a snap of a stick and footsteps to which you whip your torso and head around your pistol following suit to see your killer but instead you are met with a shy looking Daryl. “Easy girl.. Just me” Daryl says softer than you ever imagined he was capable of. You turn your back to him again but he doesn’t go away this time instead he sits down a foot and a half away, resting on his side farthest away from you. Daryl lets the two of you sit in silence for 5 or so minutes before he clears his throat in an almost shy manner as he taps his knee before grabbing the object and handing it to you. “I uhh- I tried to fix it as best I could..” Daryl starts as you look down to see the half charred picture of your sister still mostly intact thanks to the old frame which has been replaced with some wood from god knows where and some wild flowers tucked on the gap. It makes you tear up about how thoughtful it is. “I know it aint gonna be the same but-” You cut Daryl off as you move to your knees and throw yourself at him into a hug, your arms wrapping around his neck and you sniffle into his shoulder before pulling back. “Thank you Daryl.. You don’t understand how much this means to me- this is truly so thoughtful and beautiful” You sniffle as a tear falls down your face. “S’ okay.. Was nothin” Darly mutters shyly as he forces himself to look at you and much to his surprise you lean forward and kiss him on the cheek softly.

“Really thank you”

[hauntedjellyfishwitch-blog]

Too Far.

Summary: He's like a wounded animal when he's angry, lashing out when he feels cornered. He's gone too far this time, snapped and said something he definitely didn't mean, so now he has to fix it.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader (No use of Y/N)

TW: Fighting. Daryl is a dick, but not really, but also he is. Apologetic!Daryl. Alexandria Era. Sex.

A/N: Inspired by an excellent post by @love-norman which I'll link in the comments. I wasn't sure if you were okay with smut, so there's a fairly brief mention of sex but nothing overly explicit.

-

He’s a surprisingly effective communicator, once she can convince him to talk more and with enough time to work out exactly what ticks and grunts mean what. Daryl Dixon’s entire bag is self-sacrifice, so if he can assume that she needs him to tell her what’s going on in the always too busy head of his, he can do that for her without much care for how it impacts him. It’s not his most healthy coping mechanism but it certainly isn’t his worst and the reward? Oh, the reward is sweet. The reward is comfort and kindness and being held; being loved. What’s a moment of discomfort for a lifetime of her?

He's had to practice letting his walls down, slowly but surely since he met her, all the while failing to realise she was just digging her way underneath them. She didn’t ever pry, not really, not in any way that felt invasive, but she’d patiently wait him out; ask the question quietly, softly, and let him linger in the comfortable silence until he chose to answer back. Sometimes she’d work out the information without his need to speak at all; it happened the moment he realised he was fucked, that he was absolutely, irrefutably hers. She’d worked out exactly who he was as a person and he’d barely sad a word.

He’s attentive, and whilst that shocks him it comes as no surprise to anyone around him. He has spent his life fearing that he is exactly who he feared, but those who are lucky enough to consider themselves, correctly or not, close to Daryl never fear for much but his wellbeing. That he is a careful, thoughtful and tender partner surprises nobody but him. That’s not to say they don’t argue, the end of the world comes with its own set of tensions even without the usual relationship concerns, but he’s learnt not to bite first.

-

He shouldn’t have drunk anything, in hindsight, they’re both in bad shape, overwrought and under-fed and they shouldn’t have been at a fucking party, of all places. He definitely shouldn’t have had the four glasses of scotch Reg offered him on a mostly empty stomach. He can’t get used to the Alexandria walls, the houses he never could have afforded to breathe near let alone buy, the soft comforts he’d never had even before the end of the world. He’s never been to a party that hasn’t had a piss-stained couch or an overly full ashtray.

“You know that’s bullshit, Daryl, you’re being ridiculous!” She yells, firmly back in their own living room after he’d practically stormed out of Deanna’s. One minute they’re in full swing, standing talking about vacations from the old days with some new faces, the next his hand is dropping from around her waist and thudding from the front door like she’d said, ‘fuck off’ rather than the word ‘Canada’. He’d slammed the door behind them and snarled about how he would have embarrassed her and her fancy fucking vacations in ‘the real world’.

“Lil’ miss travel abroad and see th’ world cause she’s better than Daryl fuckin’ Dixon”

“What? That’s not-“

“I’m jus’ an idiot redneck with nothin’ an’ you’re this smart chick who saw the world, I get it, I ain’t dumb, th’ fuck would ya have wanted wit’ me?”

Her heart would shatter for him if she wasn’t seething quite so much, the sheer desperation in his words at odds with the tension in his body, clenched hands dragging through his finally clean hair. His eyes are stinging and he absolutely refuses to cry, has never gotten over thinking it makes him weak even when he feels weak.

“Daryl, what the fuck? Why are you being such an asshole?“

“Shut up, always yappin’ about stupid shit, fuckin’ hate ya sometimes!”

He turns quickly, wants to throw something, wants to scream, broad shoulders and harsh angles and all the wind leaves his body when he sees her flinch away from him. She’s cowers backwards, he feels like he’s going to be sick, body collapsing in on itself as he feels the anger leave his bones, replaced with ice laced panic. For a second, a horrifying second that feels ten times as long, he’s his old man. Shitfaced and angry with a glass in hand and if he had a mirror, he knows exactly whose face he’d see staring back at him.

“I would never hurt ya” he whispers, voice low and so broken, full of conviction as his breath hitches in the middle and crumbles at the end and she’d hug him if she wasn’t so shell shocked. Neither of them move for a beat, standing stock still as he trails his eyes over her, clocks the way her gaze refuses to lift to meet his. He can’t breathe. The room is too small for everything he’s feeling, like the walls are inching close and closer and the air is getting less. He tries to move like lightning but his whole body feels sluggish and slow as he inches past her and out the front door, flinching as it closes behind him and he wanders out into the street. He stares back at the house for a moment before deciding he needs a walk to clear his head.

When he comes back she’s sitting on the couch waiting for him, thumbs twiddling, head still down and worry eating her alive. He eases the door shut behind him, loud enough to tell her he’s home but soft enough to show he’s not mad. He wishes a door could convey remorse but it’s taken him long enough to be able to do it with words he doubts a block of wood would be able to in the timeframe he needs. He shucks off his boots, realising he shouldn’t have been wearing them in the house in the first place.

The fresh air has cooled his body enough that he feels less of the alcohol circulating around his system. He tries not to squeeze the flowers he’d plucked from the bush outside Aaron’s place as he stands with his back against the wood.

“’M sorry” he whispers before clearing his throat and repeating it at a higher volume. She turns her face towards him, looking at him over her shoulder. The anger is gone from her face, replaced with a dwelling worry that spikes at him, makes him replay his words over and over.

“What did I do?”

“Nothin’” he insists quickly, pauses before he realises he should say more, that she sometimes needs him to say more, they’ve talked about this “Ya didn’t, I promise”

“I’m sorry”

That does it, rips him from his safe haven by the door because he can’t stand the thought that she deserved anything he said to her, that she’d said anything wrong when he knows she hadn’t. Talking at a party, about stupid old-world stuff whilst her spare, wine glass free hand kept his back warm. She hadn’t said a damn thing wrong, and he’d scared her.

He strides over to the couch, coming round to kneel in front of her. He places the somewhat squashed flowers on the couch cushion next to her. He hovers a hand above her knee, placing it gently on the fabric of her dress when she doesn’t flinch away at the sight. He doesn’t want her to flinch ever again.

“Dun’ apologise to me when ya ain’t done nothin’ wrong”

“I’m so-“

“Dun’ ever apologise to me when i’s my fault. ‘S my shit an’ I shouldn’t take it out on ya”

She knows he loves her, has proven it time and time again, has put his body in front of hers in the face of almost certain death, would protect her with his last breath, would love her with it. But she knows she’ll never be able to unhear it, that some things you can’t take back, that she’ll always wonder, just a little bit if its true. Logic and love are very rarely intertwined.

“Okay”

He can still hear his fathers words ringing in his head, he knows, more than most, the power that words hold over people. He tries not to say anything he doesn’t mean, and he’ll admit he’s acerbic, pointed sure but never cruel, never unnecessarily unkind. He doesn’t know why tonight was different, but he takes her hands in his, locking his eyes on her so she understands.

“I dun’ get t’ speak t’ ya like that”

“No, you don’t” she agrees, voice firmer, back to her usual tone, the one he’s always loved going hand in hand with the certainty she can hold her own. She pauses, bringing his hands up to press a kiss to his knuckles, soothing because she’s terrified that after all this time, he’s still going to break them by thinking he’s not allowed to claim his hurt “You alright?”

He doesn’t answer, instead sitting back on his feet, raising a small hopeful smile at her.

“Tell me about th’ vacation”

“I don’t-“

“Please. Ya said ya still think ‘bout Canada all th’ time”

He really does want to know, he hadn’t been outside of Georgia before everything went down, and she’s mentioned travel but Canada hadn’t come up; he’s not sure if it was that, that set him off or that he felt inadequate in a room full of people with experiences he never got to have.

“I think it was my favourite trip. Packed a bag and went alone on a whim, found a lake in the forest with a little cabin. Just mountains and trees and lakes. It’s the most peaceful I’ve ever felt. I never wanted to mention it, I know you missed out on so much, but then everyone was talking and I-“

“Nah, go on, ‘S’alright”

“When Reg asked…I was going to say that’s what I picture, when I think of life outside of all of this, me and you in Canada”

“Ya think of that with me?” his voice is low, incredulous awe pulled tight at the edges, he was so busy feeling less than everyone else that he’d missed out on the fact she was thinking of him. She nods, smiling at him, working it out without him needing to say it, figuring out what drove him to snap without asking, under his walls and right in the centre of the internal world he’s built.

“We’d have a house, out near a lake with a wooden porch, and a dog, big scruffy one who likes to catch fish. We’d have coffee together overlooking the water in the morning. You’d work at the local garage, ‘cause you’re good with your hands and tools, wouldn’t have to deal with people all day, fix up all the bikes you’d secretly want...”

He’s staring her at in silence, watching her wistful face glow in the lamplight, he can barely breathe let alone find words knowing that she’s not just dreamt about a life with him, she’s thought it out in detail. He wants it, wants that life with her so badly it aches, thinks it’s the first time he’s wanted anything from life except to get through it.

“I’d work at the bar, play guitar at crappy open mic nights and you’d come for a beer after my shift to walk me home”

He hums, all the response he can manage, guilt chewing at him from the inside, clawing at his mind knowing that he’s taken his own problems out on her, told her he hates her all the while she’s dreaming of something so utterly fucking perfect.

“We’d make dinner together and dance in the living room, go camping at the weekends and make love all night long”

“In another life?” he chuckles, warm and full, knowing he’ll dream about this for the rest of his life.

“In every life…If you’d find me”

“I’d find ya”

-

He runs her a bubble bath, still amazed and confused that he can, that they’ve spent months on the road starving and struggling and here there’s a pantry that has bubble bath. The flowers from Aarons front garden are perched in a glass of water by the bed, the lamps turned off and the doors are locked up as tight as they can be. He’s insistent that he shows his apology, but he’s never had a way to do it outside these walls, nothing beyond words and affection and his experience with what women might like is limited at best.

He stands in the doorway, watching as she wraps herself in a dressing gown. He wonders idly if the amount of love he feels for her could kill him; he feels it so deeply in his bones that he physically isn’t sure it should be able to fit inside of one person. He feels it explode warmth around his body when she shuffles forward to rest her head on his chest.

“You know you don’t have to do all of this? I’m not mad”

Later, when he’s apologised again, reassured her and comforted her and she’s convinced him he’s worth loving in return, he takes them both to bed. Touches her with soft, repentant hands that have always been gentle, hands that are gentle exactly because he knows how dangerous they can be. Atonement seeping from every inch of him as he inches home inside of her, cherishes the contended sigh she lets out at the feel of him. He could never hate her, not even if he tried.

He stills when he bottoms out, rests his forehead against hers as her hips press against his firmly, dragging him as deep as he can go.

“Wha’ ya see in me, anyway?” he whispers against her lips, full of self-doubt.

She looks into him with an intensity that almost hurts, brings her hands to the sides of his face, makes sure he believes her as sincerely as she believes his apology.

“Everything”

[zomquette]

Dunno 'er (Part 1)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!Reader

Summary: What was supposed to be just another hunting trip turns sideways when you cross paths with a group of armed, bald creeps who seem more cult than crew. Captured and dragged into their cold, clinical regime, you and Daryl are forced to pretend you’re strangers—just two more bodies in their machine. With your daughter back home, waiting for your return, survival isn’t just about making it out alive—it’s about holding onto what’s yours. You've got to fake it till you make it baby.

Era: Post-six-year time jump.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, some fluff, slow-burn psychological tension, undercover drama, emotional hurt/comfort, dark humour, cult dystopia, established relationship, survival thriller

Warnings: Graphic violence, kidnapping, psychological manipulation, captivity, cult themes (indoctrination/assimilation), sexual harrassment, emotional distress, weapon use, reference to childbirth trauma and motherhood, forced separation, mention of infant loss (as a lie), emotional manipulation, strong language, suggestive dialogue, unhinged banter, mentions of torture, and oppressive regime ideology.

Auther's note: Nothing much to say really if you like this you're gonna love part 2 (it has smut hehehe 😈). Why don't I just write stupid short fluffy stuff so you don't lose your mind tryiing to ptoofread your long ass fics? Oh idk cause i hate myself 😃 Anyway enjoy and lemme know what ya think🙈

The woods were quiet in that honeyed, late-afternoon kind of way—the hour when the light poured down through the pines in long golden shafts and everything seemed suspended, like the earth itself was holding its breath. Somewhere off to the left, a bird called out low and slow, and the trees rustled with the lazy hush of wind threading through branches. It was peaceful in that deceptive, makes-you-forget-you’re-still-in-the-apocalypse kind of way.

Dog was in a world of his own, padding soundlessly through the underbrush with his nose low and ears alert, every inch of him the seasoned scout, weaving between the trees in wide, lazy arcs like he’d done a thousand times. Daryl walked slightly ahead of you, crossbow slung across his back, grumbling to himself like some kind of backwoods thundercloud in a leather vest. Every time his boot hit a stick or his elbow bumped a branch, he muttered louder.

“Y’know,” you called after him, smiling like a fox, "for someone of your supposed stealth caliber, you sure sound like a one-man marching band.'

He glanced over his shoulder, narrowed his eyes. “Ain’t the one who’s soundin’ like they need an inhaler.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you huffed, tossing your arms in theatrical exasperation. “If I knew we were doin’ cardio, I’da worn my good bra. I thought this was gonna be quality time with my husband—not a vivid reminder that breastfeeding ruined my center of gravity.”

That pulled a twitch from the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. "This is quality time," he retorted. "You bitchin', me enjoyin' the view.'

You attempted a scowl his way but faltered completely, just grinning like an idiot. Teasing aside, he would never get used to you calling him your ‘husband,’ and he would never admit to it, but it made his chest flutter slightly every time.

You trotted forward a little until you were close enough to bump his shoulder with yours. “Dani said you looked like a Sasquatch when you dropped her off this. Dunno where the hell she is learning those words from but she told me to tell you that you need ‘less scowl and more sparkle.’ Her words.”

“Told her she was lucky to even get a walk to school. Sulkin in the morning cause we were headin’ out later.”

“You love it,” you said, looping your arm through his as you walked. “You let her ride on your shoulders the whole way there and gave her your bandana so she could ‘look tough like Daddy.’”

“She’s five,” he muttered. “Don’t need to be lookin’ tough.”

“She made you wear her pink backpack the whole way home.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Said it was heavy and her legs were tired.”

You raised an eyebrow. “She rode on your shoulders the entire walk.”

“She said her arms were tired, too.”

You grinned. “Ya know she drew a picture of it in her journal and told her teacher, quote, ‘My daddy’s real strong ‘cause he can carry me and my stuff and he only complains a little.’”

That one cracked him, just a little. His mouth tipped into a slow, reluctant smile and he shook his head. “She’s too damn smart for her own good.”

“Gee, wonder where she gets that from,” you said sweetly, leaning into his side. “Not from you, that’s all I’m gonna say.”

“Oh yeah?” he raised his eyebrows in question; “What did she get from me then?”

“The patented Dixon brand of sulking in silence until someone guesses what’s wrong. She does it when I don’t cut her sandwich right.”

Daryl made a face like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t. Not when it was true. Not when you were looking at him like that.

“She’s a drama queen,” he replied, wiping a smudge of dirt from your face to get a reaction from you, which of course worked, with you swiping his hand away to do it yourself. “Gets it from you,” he finished with a smirk.

“She gets it from me?” you echoed, all mock-offended. “You’re the one who gets all worked up when someone goes near your bike.”

He shrugged, noncommittal—but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the start of a smirk he was trying to swallow.

“You mean to tell me,” you went on, walking backwards so you were facing him, “that you, Daryl Dixon, most dramatic man in the tri-county area, think I’m the diva?”

In two long strides he caught up to you, now toe-to-toe, his hands found your waist like second nature—fingers curling around your hips, thumbs sliding beneath the hem of your shirt like he’d been waiting for an excuse. 

He dipped his head, murmuring low, close to your mouth. “I think you talk too much.”

“Jokes on you - you married me.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said—gruff, teasing—then kissed the corner of your smirk just to shut you up.

You laughed into it, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching, eyes fixed on you like he hadn’t heard anything more true. “Mhmm.”

You smiled at him, leaning in slowly, lips brushing his—soft, smug, almost taunting. He caught your bottom lip gently between his teeth, tugged just enough to make you gasp, then kissed you proper—slow and greedy, like it was his favorite habit.

You lingered, lips still brushing his; “hey, y’know, I was thinking—it’s pretty quiet out here—”

“Don’t,” he said immediately, sidestepping you.

You gasped, mock-offended. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say!”

He gave you a look—half fond, half warning. “Always know what you’re gonna say. You get that look in your eyes when you’re about to start somethin’.” He pointed lazily at your face. “That one. Right there.”

“Oh, but it’s already started,” you said, catching up to him with a wicked little smirk.

You slung your bow off your shoulder, circling him with that slow, swaggering walk he always pretended not to watch. “Tell you what - first one to drop dinner wins,” you said, all innocent-like. “Loser’s gotta go down tonight.”

Daryl blinked, once. Then narrowed his eyes. “You serious? What is it with you n’ that?”

You gave a dramatic little shrug, like it didn’t mean anything at all. “Because it usually works out pretty well for me - that’s why.” 

By ‘pretty' well you mean 'mind-blowing-level' well but that goes without saying.

“I mean, unless you’re scared,” you said, drawing out the word like it was a dare. “S’fine if you don’t think you can perform under pressure.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched—trying not to smile.

“Aww,” you teased, leaning in just enough to crowd his space. “What’s the matter, babe? You chicken? C’mon. Rules are simple; win, and I’ll make you see stars. Lose, and I get to sit on your face. Sound fair?”

He rolled his eyes like you were exhausting, but his hand was already going to his crossbow. “…You’re on. Ten says you scare everything off with your talkin’ before you even get a shot off.”

You were already stepping backward into the trees, walking in reverse with a wink. “Mmhm. Go ahead - put your money where your mouth’s gonna be—literally.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared you down like he was already fucking you with his eyes. He walked over to you, stopping when you were face to face with him, his hand going to your ass and delivering a playful squeeze.

“When I win,” he said, voice low and rough, bringing up his finger to point at your mouth; “I’m gonna sit back and letcha prove just how smart that mouth of yours really is.”

"Hmmm," you hummed, stutting further into the underbrush with a sway of your hips before calling back to him; “better shoot straight then, baby.”

——

Your arrow cracked through the trees like a knife —clean, sharp, final. You didn’t even need to check. You already knew you’d hit it.

Daryl exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man holding back a lot of things: irritation, pride, arousal, maybe all three.

You turned on your heel with a grin so smug it could power a small city. “Ha! Well, well, well. Looks like I win.”

He didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look. To anyone else, that look would’ve read like a death glare—sharp, lethal, the kind of stare that promised blood and followed through—but you knew better, knew the twitch in his jaw wasn’t rage but restraint, the low simmer of a man three seconds from calculating whether the tree line offered enough privacy to absolutely rail you into the moss without a single goddamn witness. You ignored his stare; for the most part.

“Oh, don’t give me that face,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder with a victorious little sway. “Last time you looked at me like that, we ended up with Dani—so unless you’re prepared to give her a sibling, I suggest you remember the deal. I won fair and square, Dixon.”

Still nothing from him. Just that tight-lipped, jaw-flexing silence that always meant he was trying real hard not to rise to your bait.

You clicked your tongue, triumphant, and started backing away toward the fallen squirrel with a grin that was all teeth. “Better start hydrating now, baby,” you called over your shoulder. “I don’t wanna hear a single complaint when you’re down there fulfilling your husbandly duties later.”

That got you a grunt. Low. Muted. Real damn close to a groan. Which meant you were winning twice.

“You know,” you added, voice sing-song, “I’m starting to think you let me win. Missed your favorite meal, huh?”

“Get your damn squirrel, woman, and let’s go,” he snapped—but his voice cracked just enough to tell you exactly where his head was at.

You smirked, stepping into the trees with a little extra sway in your hips. “Eager,” you murmured. “I like that.”

You turned with a victorious little strut, weaving through the brush toward the base of the tree where your prize had dropped. The woods were quiet, still golden with afternoon light, the kind of peace that made you feel safe in a way you knew better than to trust.

You bent to withdraw your arrow and scooped up the squirrel by the tail, turning it over to check the shot placement—clean, right through the chest—when a sharp rustle hit your ears. Not the kind made by an animal. Not random.

The sound that cracked through the hush was sharp and calculated, a deliberate misstep masked as accident, but you knew better than to believe in coincidences this far from the walls. 

You didn’t make a noise Because just up ahead, Daryl was standing still—not stiff, not frozen by fear or surprise, but loose in that heavy, deliberate way he only moved when his senses were screaming louder than his words ever could, the kind of stillness that meant something had gone very wrong and his body was already three steps into the fight before the threat even had time to finish blinking.

Your eyes scanned the clearing, carefully, patiently, reading the space the way others might read a prayer—quiet, reverent, alert—and it didn’t take long to count them.

There were five of them, strangers in dark clothes with cruel faces, positioned like they’d done this sort of thing before—two flanking, two circling, one front and center like a stage actor performing for an audience he didn’t think could fight back.

One of them held Dog by the collar, gripping so tightly the poor mutt was practically vibrating with restrained fury, his snarl pulled taut like a bowstring and his teeth bared in a promise that would’ve made most men hesitate, though this one clearly wasn’t most men, because he didn’t seem to care.

Three more stood behind Daryl, their stances loose but not casual, one of them spinning a knife in lazy loops that didn’t look practiced so much as ritualistic, the rhythm hypnotic in its disregard for the tension winding the air between all of you.

But it was the man in front—the one who made your stomach coil and your fingers press just a little harder against the bowstring—who really mattered.

He stood tall and unmasked, built like a man who knew how to make his body a weapon, the kind of posture that said he didn’t need backup to be a threat. A jagged scar curved down the side of his face like a branding iron pressed into bone, catching the light with every tilt of his head — not the kind of wound that happened by accident, but one someone chose to wear like a name. His skin was pale, almost waxy in the half-light, but his features were all bite: sharp cheekbones, cruel mouth, and eyes the color of shattered ice. He had that look — the kind that made people cross the street, that made authority hesitate, that said he’d hurt things for fun and walked away clean every time. Al Pacino’s Scarface looked like a knockoff toy version of him. This guy was the real deal.

“Well, shit,” he drawled, voice smooth and slow, like he was savoring every syllable as he gave Daryl a long, sweeping once-over, his eyes dragging across him not with curiosity, but with the kind of sick appraisal that made your skin itch. “Ain’t this a surprise.”

Daryl didn’t react - just stared him down as if that would be enough to make them go away. The man stepped closer, boots soft on the mossy forest floor, hands swinging loose at his sides in a mockery of casual calm, the kind of predator confidence that didn’t need to raise a weapon to make a threat known.

“Didn’t think we’d find anyone worth our time this far out,” he continued, words syrupy with false friendliness, though the blade underneath it was unmistakable, “usually it’s just loners, runners, half-starved little roaches crawlin’ through the woods hoping not to be noticed.”

Still, Daryl said nothing. His eyes flicked—barely—past the man’s shoulder. Toward you. His gaze was quick, tense. Go.

You stayed exactly where you were, crouched in the shadows, the bowstring already kissed and humming beneath your fingers, your breath ghosting slow against your lip as you waited—not with fear, not with panic, but with the bone-deep patience of someone who had done this before and would do it again.

The man didn’t step forward. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, squared in the clearing like he’d already laid claim to it, his hands at his sides and his voice calm enough to scrape the nerves raw.

“My name is Marshal,” he said, not bothering with flair or warmth, the syllables crisp and almost bureaucratic, like he was introducing himself at a staff meeting instead of standing over a bloodstained forest floor. He didn’t wait for a handshake. Didn’t expect one. The name was a statement, not a courtesy.

Daryl said nothing. Not even a twitch of his jaw.

But Marshal, to his credit, didn’t seem offended. If anything, the silence appeared to amuse him, like he’d been hoping for it. He let his gaze wander lazily over Daryl’s frame, not in assessment, but with the idle confidence of someone who always assumed they held the upper hand.

“You know,” he said eventually, his tone lighter now, but no less pointed, “the quiet ones are always the ones with the best secrets.” He tilted his head just slightly, the edge of a smirk curling one side of his mouth like a reflex more than an expression. “So I’ll ask nicely—only once. You out here alone?”

Nothing. Daryl’s jaw ticked. Without realising, you pulled back harder on the string.

“That a yes?” the man pressed, voice light but sharpening at the edges. “Or you just don’t like my face?”

The silence that followed was heavier than any answer.

Daryl’s jaw ticked—just once, sharp and hard—and the tension pulled so tight inside your chest you thought it might snap.

“Yeah I’m alone. Just me and the Dog out here.” The lie rolled naturally off his tongue, however it didn’t seem to do the trick.

From the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Knife Guy shifting behind Daryl, like he was about to pat him down or worse. That was the moment. That was it.

The itch in your fingers was too much. You let go.

The arrow sang through the clearing, slicing the air in a single, unbroken line that barely rustled the leaves it passed, and in that fraction of a breath between release and impact, the world stood still in the way it always did just before violence made itself known.

It struck the man in the chest with a dull, wet crack—not a scream, not a roar, just a sudden and final exhale as his body recoiled, legs buckling beneath him like a marionette with its strings severed, the momentum of the shot folding him backwards onto the earth as though the ground had opened up to reclaim him.

The silence that followed was not shock but calculation, the space between impact and response stretched just wide enough for one heartbeat—yours—and then it all rushed forward at once.

The nearest man spun toward you with a shout tearing from his throat, his feet thundering over the forest floor as he charged with his weapon raised, but you were already moving, already rising, already meeting him head-on with the kind of brutal, practiced grace that turned instinct into muscle memory.

You caught his arm before the swing could land, your fingers locking around his wrist as you turned with the motion and brought your knee hard into the bend of his leg, using his own speed against him, driving him down into the earth with a thud that forced the breath from his chest and the balance from his bones.

Before he could recover, before anyone else could reach you, your knee was braced against his back, your handgun was out, and the cold metal of the barrel was pressed flush against the side of his skull.

Click.

The sound of the safety disengaging cut louder than any shout, and in that moment the clearing froze again, every movement suspended in an uneasy stillness, the tension folding in on itself as weapons hovered half-raised, as Dog growled low and furious in his captor’s grip, as Daryl’s eyes flicked between you and the men like he was already choosing which one he’d drop first.

The man beneath you stayed very still.

“Easy there little lady,” the man said, but still not lowering his weapon “no one else has gotta die here… not unless you make it so.”

“Sounds pretty tempting,” you said, gun pressing harder into the man’s temple.  Dog let out a whine, as if begging you not to make things worse; but that was kinda out of character for you.

“So you aren’t alone,” The guy said to Daryl, voice slightly rising in volume. 

“I am… dunno her,” he replied, eyes darting between you and scarface.

You arched a brow, not breaking focus, but somewhere behind the tension you appreciated the quick thinking, the way he slipped into the lie without hesitation, the way it played into your hands like you’d planned it together.

“Yep,” you said, your tone breezy despite the gun still pressed to the stranger’s temple, “figured I’d be a good Samaritan and step in to save the poor guy and his dog. Y’know, just doing my civic duty. You boys believe in that sort of thing, right?”

The sarcasm slid off your tongue like silk, but the truth was already shifting beneath the surface of the moment, something you could feel in your stomach before your mind could name it.

You spoke again, this time with more stern;  “Listen here Mr Clean; you’re gonna let this guy and his dog go, and we can all go on our merry way.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat; something told you that these guys wouldn’t go for the bait.

“Or what?” Marshal asked, his voice low and almost amused, like the whole exchange was nothing more than a curiosity, a story he’d tell later. “You gonna shoot him, then kill all of us?”

He looked you over from head to toe—not with fear, not with caution, but with the kind of condescending smirk that said he didn’t believe you had it in you.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he said this;

“Do it.”

For the first time since your arrow flew, your grip wavered—not with fear, not with doubt, but with confusion, because there was no tremble in his voice, no hint of bluster or false courage, just calm, almost bored resolve.

You studied his face, searching for a crack, a flicker of guilt, something—anything—that would mark him as human, but there was nothing there beyond ice and conviction.

“What, getting nervous now?” he asked, cocking his head as he gestured wide to the men around him, to the man you were pinning, to the man holding Dog, to Daryl, to the still body behind him cooling in the leaves. “See, there are plenty more where he came from. He’s replaceable. We all are”

Your stomach turned slowly, something cold creeping along the edge of your spine, and when you looked to Daryl, his expression mirrored your own—no longer tense with violence, but with something deeper, something stranger, a knowing that this wasn’t just another ragtag ambush in the woods.

You looked down to the man beneath you, expecting resistance, maybe a flicker of fear, but instead you found him staring back up with calm, hollow eyes, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to plead or protest.

“To serve The Creed is to survive.”

You blinked once.

The words didn’t register at first, not fully, not with the weight they carried.

They sounded rehearsed. Like a motto. Like something he’d said a hundred times before.

You looked around the clearing again, to the others, to their expressions—unmoving, unwavering, untouched by the death or the danger or the very real threat of violence.

Either they were the best bluffers you’d ever seen…

…or they were completely unhinged.

You drew a long breath, slow and deep, and exhaled it like you were shedding something heavy.

Then, with a soft mutter beneath your breath—“I’m not gonna shoot ya”—you eased the gun back from the man’s head and stood slowly, offering him your hand like a peace gesture carved from something sharp and ironic.

He hesitated, just briefly,  perplexed, then accepted it nonetheless .

You helped him to his feet with a small, polite smile, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulders as he looked at you, clearly confused, clearly unarmed, clearly wrong to assume anything.

From the edge of the clearing, one of the armed men let out a low, amused chuckle — the kind that reeked of dismissal and cheap bravado. His gaze dragged lazily down the length of you, then flicked back to his companions with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Knew she didn’t have it in her,” he muttered, like he was doing them the favor of stating the obvious.

You met his gaze without blinking, something colder curling behind your eyes — not fire, not fury, but that hollow kind of calm that came just before something terrible.

“Right.” SNAP.

The motion was fast, practised, fluid—nothing about it hasty or messy. Blink and you missed it.

You stepped forward, reached around the man you had just pulled up from the dirt, and without a single wasted moment, you braced your hand at the back of his head and twisted sharply to the side.

The sound that followed was quiet but final—a soft, vile crack that echoed louder in the silence than any gunshot.

The body dropped like dead weight.

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t look down.

You just stood over him, breathing slow and steady. The rest of them stood stunned, as if the script had suddenly changed and no one had passed them the new lines.

Except for him.

Except for the one who had been watching you the whole time like he had been waiting for this exact moment, like he’d known what you would do before you did it.

He turned to face you fully, his head tilting slightly, and the grin on his face never once slipped.

“Now you’re definitely coming with me bitch.” His voice was almost reverent, almost amused, eyes glittering with something dark and pleased. “You just cost me two of my brothers. ”

You stepped into the clearing with your bow now drawn, arrow notched, your posture calm, steady, lethal.

The third arrow rested against the string like a promise.

“Three if you keep talkin’.l”

The scarred man laughed—full-bodied, amused, like you’d just entertained him far better than he’d expected to be today.

“Oh, I like this,” he said. “This is fun. This is real fun.”

Then his voice changed. It was subtle. But you heard the shift. A coldness bleeding in around the edges.

“Bag ‘em both,” he said.

Before you could let your arrow fly—before you could even fully shift your weight—something slammed into your ribs from behind, a hard, focused jab from the butt of a rifle or a boot or maybe just someone’s elbow delivered with military precision.

Your knees gave out before you even realized they’d locked. The ground came up hard and unyielding, slamming into your shoulder and hip, bark and grit grinding into your skin, your cheek mashed into the loamy earth that smelled like rot and pine sap. Your lungs stuttered against the weight of it, each breath arriving late, shallow and wrong, your limbs jerking in spasms that looked more like refusal than resistance. You weren’t out, not fully, Dog's erratic barking was still very much echoing through all of Virginia, but whatever was coursing through you had hijacked your body, pulled the strings loose and left you twitching, scrambling, powerless.

Daryl moved before he thought. “Hey—” The word cracked out sharp and rough, more breath than voice, but it carried. It punched through the silence like a warning shot, a reflex yanked from the gut, unfiltered and fast.

And then he stepped.

He didn’t lunge, not fully. Didn’t throw the first punch. But the second your body hit the dirt, he surged toward you, a single pace, like muscle memory alone had yanked him forward. He didn’t even realise he’d done it until the barrel of a rifle knocked sideways into his ribs and a hand shoved hard against his chest.

“Don’t try it,” someone snapped, the safety click loud and deliberate, like punctuation on a threat.

“I told you,” Daryl said through clenched teeth, “I don’t fuckin’ know her.”

“Mhm,” you muttered into the dirt, “and yet you’re still talkin’.”

You were halfway upright, already shifting your weight to stand—ready to hold your ground, to meet whatever came next with teeth bared and spine straight—but something struck the side of your head—not with the full intent to kill, but with enough weight behind it to scatter your thoughts like broken teeth in the dark.

You barely heard the crunch of leaves before Daryl’s voice cracked through the static one last time.

Then nothing.

———-

You woke to the sound of your own breath—shallow, uneven, catching in your throat like it had been fleeing something long before your eyes opened. The cold wasn’t the natural chill of the woods —it was the kind that clung to poured concrete, lifeless and stale, a chill that sank into your bones and made your skin feel thinner.

The light overhead was a jaundiced white, flickering just enough to make the silence feel haunted. A low electrical whine buzzed at the edges of your ears, almost imperceptible but persistent, like a mosquito in the dark.

When you moved, you felt the rope first. Not coarse, not kind—just tight enough to rub skin raw if you tested it. Your arms were cinched behind the back of a metal chair, your ankles fastened to its legs. A pulsing ache had settled into your shoulders.

Across the room—bare, concrete, windowless—Daryl sat slouched in a matching chair. His posture was deceptively slack, but you knew better. His fingers twitched faintly behind the ropes, already reading the bindings like a map, already planning. His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Blood streaked down his temple, painting a line along the crease of his jaw, and his hair hung damp against his face, but none of it masked the panic beneath his scowl. His chest rose too fast, too shallow, like his lungs hadn’t caught up with the sight of you still standing.

His gaze scoured your face first—your pupils, your mouth, the side of your head where the blood had dried—then dropped down, darting across every inch of you like he was counting injuries. Like he was checking for anything you weren’t showing. His eyes burned into the rope at your wrists. Your knees. Your posture. Your breathing. Every tiny thing you didn’t say.

You good? he mouthed, jaw tight, eyes wide and wild with restraint.

You gave the smallest nod, not because it was true, but because it was the only answer you had. Survival wasn’t pretty—it didn’t leave much room for poetry. Your lips were split. Your head throbbed. But your spine was still holding, so that was something.

His jaw twitched. He looked back at the door behind him, then back to you.

Then—barely a whisper, rough as gravel and sharp with hope—“Think you can slip outta them ropes?”

"workin' on it,' you whispered back. You can worry about your rope burns getting infected later if you managed to get free. You couldn't do that if you were dead.

The door opened with a groan of metal dragged against metal, loud and long and intentional. Marshal stepped in, wearing a grin too wide to be real, accompanied by two other foot soldiers who stood guard by the door. The man's familiar scar ran from temple to jaw on one side of his face, cutting through the smile like a wound that never healed right.

He didn’t speak. Not at first. Just let the silence stretch thin and mean between the three of you, like he was waiting for the atmosphere to sweat.

Finally, Marshal stepped forward, boots echoing on the floor, his hands loose at his sides like he had all the time in the world to get what he wanted.

“So,” he murmured, circling the space between you. “Still sticking to the story? You two don’t know each other?”

You kept your eyes steady on his face, refusing to glance at Daryl. Any slip, any twitch, could give you both away.

The man’s boots tapped a steady rhythm across the floor, the kind of pacing meant to unnerve, each step heavy with intention, like he was winding something up inside the room. “I’ve seen a lot of liars,” he began, dragging the words out with lazy confidence, his voice pitched just low enough to make your skin crawl. “I’ve been lied to by the best—hell, I’ve trained people to lie. But even the good ones crack when someone they care about’s in the room.”

He came to a slow stop in front of Daryl, studying him the way someone might examine a mutt at a shelter—curious, condescending, waiting for signs of obedience. “She’s awful protective of you,” he continued, and though his tone hovered on the edge of admiration, the smile curling at the corner of his mouth was anything but kind. “Kinda sweet. Funny, too. For a stranger.”

Daryl didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn his head, just kept the man’s gaze. But the cords in his neck stood out beneath the dirt and sweat, tight as drawn wire, and though his body stayed still, the tension radiating from him was loud enough to be deafening.

The man turned to you, slowly, like he was savouring the moment, dragging it out just to see how much discomfort he could pull from the air. “And you,” he said, eyes glinting, “I gotta say, I like your style. All that mouth. All those arrows. Righteous little bitch, huh?”

“Actually, that’s 'Little Miss Righteous Bitch' to you, Marshal Microdick.” You gave him your sweetest smile, the kind that usually came right before bloodshed Daryl exhaled through his nose, low and sharp, shooting you a look that said plain as day: You just had to make it worse, didn’t you?

Marshal's smile grew wider, his eyes never leaving your face as he moved to crouch in front of you. This guy had a PhD in being creepy; looking up at you now, his eyes bore into yours, it made you feel so irrevocably exposed. His stare didn’t undress you; it dissected you — like you were the frog in a middle school science class, and he was the kid who smiled too much while holding the scalpel. “Tell me something,” he said, his voice falling softer now, almost curious. “You got any kids?”

The question landed wrong, jarring in its shift, as if someone had skipped a page in a story. There's deflection and then there's deflection. You just called his dick tiny and now he wants to know about your family status? You looked to Daryl, to see if you had misheard the question, only to see that he was staring back at you, face slighty pale. Yep, you heard the man right. Your breath caught for the smallest of moments before you answered, a beat too fast to be smooth. “No.”

It wasn’t believable. You knew it as soon as it left your lips. And from the way his eyes narrowed, the slow smirk that pulled at his face, he knew it too. The knife appeared in his hand with unsettling ease, as if he hadn’t drawn it so much as conjured it from the very bones of the room.

His presence was so close now that you could taste the rot on his breath, could feel the heat of his body where the cold had ruled before. The blade teased the fabric of your shirt where it dipped over the valley of your breast, and you went still—not out of fear, but out of instinct, knowing that any twitch, any tremble, would only feed him. If he simply pushed forward, that was it. You were dead. Behind your back, your fingers curled against the rope.

Daryl surged forward in his chair, the scrape of the legs loud and jarring, his growl nearly animal. “The fuck you doin'?”

Marshal didn’t acknowledge him. He dragged the blade through your shirt with a kind of methodical cruelty, not rushed or frenzied, but deliberate — like he’d done it before and wanted you to know it. The fabric didn’t tear so much as it surrendered, parting inch by inch beneath the tip, splitting with a sound too soft to match the violation of it. First your bra came into view, then the smooth plane of your abdomen, the curve of your navel, the soft rise of your lower belly — until your shirt was no more than a pathetic flap clinging to your spine, the flimsy remains of modesty hanging on by a thread. The light betrayed, the sweat that covered your upper body apparent.. From behimd you heard footsteps shuffling closer. The 'guards' apparently needed to keep a closer eye on you now that your shirt was no more.

Daryl’s shoulders shifted with a sudden, barely-contained jerk, his wrists twisting hard against the restraints like he could brute-force them apart on willpower alone. His breathing was shallow, nostrils flared, eyes fixed on you with a rising panic he couldn’t mask anymore—like every inch of his body was screaming to move, to reach you, to stop whatever the hell was about to happen.

You forced yourself to breathe, slowly, deliberately, as the chill hit your skin, and when his fingers reached for the button of your jeans, you flinched despite yourself. He peeled back the waistband, just enough. Enough to see.

Your scar. Pale and unforgiving. A line etched by love, by pain, by survival.

He sat back slightly, something sharp and curious glittering in his eyes now, as if the final piece of a puzzle had fallen into place. “Interesting,” he murmured, dragging the point of his knife along the edge of the scar. “Saw this earlier—back in the woods. Just a flash. But up close? That’s a birth scar. Can’t be more than a couple of years old tops.

You closed your eyes, expecting to feel the white hot slicing of your flesh, but it never came. The chill that swept through you then was not from the room. Daryl’s voice cracked the air in response, not loud, but deep and fierce, a line drawn in blood. “Stop.”

That single word seemed to please the man more than any scream would have. He turned to Daryl with something wicked behind his eyes, something giddy, like he’d finally peeled back the last layer of a game he’d been playing alone. “Didn’t take much to get you talkin’, huh?”

Still, Daryl didn’t rise to it. He looked at your defeated face, then at your abdomen; “she’s someone’s mom.”

There it was—truth spoken like a prayer, low and reverent and shaking beneath the weight of restraint. His eyes flashed to yours, then to that familiar scar on your abdomen that he had traced, kissed, caressed a million times, only now it hurt to look at, because it meant leverage for those who wanted to hurt his family.

“The baby,” you said, and the words caught sharp behind your teeth like barbed wire, dragging as they came out. “She didn’t make it.”

You kept your eyes pinned to the floor, as if looking up might shatter the last fragile thread holding your composure together. The lie burned on your tongue, every syllable tasting like grief you didn’t want to imagine. But your voice didn’t crack from pretending — it cracked from the truth underneath it, from the unbearable thought of her not surviving, even in fiction. Your chest ached with the pressure of it, tears welling in your eyes, hot and honest. You didn’t look at Daryl. You couldn’t. One glance and whatever was left of your control would splinter to pieces.

You sat motionless, the remains of your shirt clinging to your ribs, the scar exposed, your skin aching with shame and fury and the deep, gut-level fear of being seen in a way that had nothing to do with nakedness. You finally met Daryl’s gaze just for a heartbeat, and the grief that passed between you was heavy and wordless—because he was pretending not to know you to protect you, and that lie was a noose around both your throats.

The man stepped back at last, brushing off his hands like your body was something he was done dissecting. “You got pretty lies,” he said, too calm now. "Cry pretty too."

You glared at him with a glassy stare. Usually now you would make some bitchy remark about his bald head, but you couldn't fimd the words.

Before Daryl could protest, before you could brace yourself, the two men who were standing idly by were on you—grabbing, lifting, and dragging you.

You didn’t fight. Not then. Not because you were afraid, but because your fight was still calculating. Still waiting. You turned your head just enough to catch one last look at Daryl, whose eyes were burning with fear.

The door slammed shut with a finality that stole the air from your lungs, and the cold rushed in again, swallowing you whole.

——-

They didn’t simply shove you through the doorway—they dragged you like something unwanted and inconvenient, a burdensome weight rather than a person, their hands impersonal and rough as they gripped your upper arms and forced you forward until your boots scraped against the concrete with resistance. One of them, the taller one with the dead eyes, pressed the cold muzzle of a rifle against your spine with just enough pressure to remind you who held control, and when the rusted door finally groaned open on hinges that screeched like an animal in pain, they didn’t hesitate—they tossed you inside like you were nothing more than trash at the end of their shift.

You hit the ground hard, the collision knocking the breath from your lungs and sending a jolt of agony up your shoulder as it took the full brunt of the fall. Your hip followed, then your knees, scraping raw against the grit of the floor as dust and gravel scattered beneath you, clinging to your torn clothes and skin as if eager to mark you further. Your hand landed on something sharp—metal maybe, or broken plastic—and you hissed through your teeth, curling your palm protectively while trying to gather what little dignity you had left.

For a long moment, there was no sound but the slow settling of your breath and the final clunk of the door as it slammed behind you, sealing in the cold and sealing out any remaining illusion that you were still in control of your fate.

You stayed on your knees longer than you should have, arms shaking from the tension you’d been holding since they first separated you from Daryl. The silence was thick, suffocating, broken only by the fading echo of footsteps and the distant hum of something electrical—a light perhaps, or a fan that hadn’t worked in years but still emitted that nauseating buzz. The air smelled of mildew and rust, thick with the sour scent of old sweat and something that reminded you of dried blood, and though you hadn’t yet looked around, you already knew what kind of place this was.

When you finally lifted your head, blinking the grit from your eyes, you took in your surroundings with the caution of someone half expecting to see bones. The cell was narrow and windowless, the walls poured concrete, cracked and flaking in places where time had eaten through the paint. Old graffiti—names, tallies, desperate phrases carved with fingernails or knives—clung to the back wall like ghosts, and in the far corner, a cot sagged with the weight of neglect, its mattress stained, its frame bent inwards like it had given up the effort to hold weight long ago. Near the center of the room, a small drain was embedded in the floor, surrounded by a ring of dark discoloration that your brain refused to label, and scrawled into the concrete above it, deep and angry, was a single phrase that made your stomach tighten.

TO SERVE THE CREED IS TO SURVIVE.

The words from earlier - that man's final words

You closed your eyes, heart pounding, the words branding themselves into your brain. You wanted to laugh, maybe, or scream, but your throat was too dry for either, so instead you leaned your head back against the wall and let the ache in your bones settle while you clutched at the fabric of your torn shirt, trying to warm yourself, trying to feel something other than helpless. But the silence didn’t last.

Somewhere beyond the wall, muffled but close enough to bleed through the cracks, you heard the sound of voices—low at first, then louder, angrier, the kind of cadence that made your body stiffen instinctively. You held your breath and shifted toward the source, pressing your ear to the chill of the wall as you tried to decipher what was being said.

Then you heard it—a grunt, unmistakable, raw with defiance and pain—and your heart stopped mid-beat.

Daryl.

You froze, every muscle going rigid, and then a second sound cut through the tension like a blade—something sharp, like a fist against flesh, followed by the low scrape of a chair dragging across concrete and the dull thud of boots shifting unevenly beneath weight.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening.

You could picture it clearly—the way he would sit with his chin low, his shoulders coiled like a spring, his hands curling into fists even though they couldn’t swing, the look in his eyes daring them to try harder. Your breath hitched as you imagined his face—the blood, the stubborn set of his mouth—and when the door creaked open again somewhere down the hall and another voice joined the fray, colder, more practiced, you knew without a doubt that this was the man in charge.

You didn’t need to see him to know what was happening—didn’t need to watch the blows land or hear the chair legs screech to feel the echo of it vibrating in your ribs like a warning. You knew Daryl’s body like your own. You could hear the way he held pain in his breath, could imagine the stubborn set of his jaw as his fists curled against rope and frustration, knew he’d be taking hits with that same quiet defiance that made people hate him or fear him or both. And you knew—without a shred of doubt—that he hadn’t said a word.

Not until they made him.

Not until they started looking for cracks.

There was a lull in the rhythm now. You heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged, the low murmur of voices you couldn’t quite catch. Then came the familiar cadence of boots on concrete, slower this time, almost casual in the way only true danger could be.

Marshal.

His voice cut through the corridor like a blade dulled by disuse—still sharp, but serrated around the edges. “Y’know, the thing about people,” he said, tone light with that salesman swagger you remembered too well, “is they’ll tell you everything you need to know without ever opening their mouths. You just gotta know where to look.”

Silence followed.

You leaned closer to the wall, breath held tight in your chest, every nerve alive with the kind of tension that left you aching.

“I found somethin’ on her,” the man continued. “Thought it was cute at first. Real sentimental.” You could hear fabric shifting, something small and metallic being fished from a pocket, and the pause that followed was deliberate, practiced, designed for maximum effect.

Another voice stirred behind the silence—one you would’ve missed if you didn’t know it like muscle memory. Daryl exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that came with effort, like he was trying to swallow something back before it could escape.

The man chuckled softly. “See, I thought maybe it was just a trinket. She looks the type, doesn’t she? Nostalgic. Soft around the edges, even with all that bark.” His voice dropped a little, laced with something colder now. “But then I took a closer look.”

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, fingers curling against the concrete as you waited for the hammer to drop, because you didn’t know what he was holding—but Daryl did.

“Know what this is?” the man asked, his voice eager and chirpy. “She was wearin’ this on her ring finger. It’s a wedding ring.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “Custom made, even. Not bad work. Bet it was handmade. I’ve seen one like it before—twisted copper, that rough-welded join. Real pretty.”

Daryl said nothing.

But the air shifted. Your breath hitched in your throat before you even knew why, some muscle memory reacting faster than thought, and without meaning to, your thumb brushed across the skin where the ring should’ve been—an automatic, unconscious gesture born from countless mornings waking up beside him, from years of grounding yourself on the familiar twist of copper wrapped around your finger. But this time, there was nothing. Just skin. Bare and foreign. The absence was so stark, so wrong, it made your stomach twist, your heart lurching in your chest like it couldn’t find its rhythm. That ring had never left you—not through blizzards or ambushes or illness or childbirth. You had clutched it through nightmares, twisted it when words failed, kissed it during times you needed Daryl with you but he couldn't be there, and now it was gone, ripped from you without you even knowing, and held by the same bastard who had tried to peel you open with a knife. Daryl had made that ring for you, and asked you to be his forever. That ring means more to you can words can comprehend.

The man hummed as if savouring the discomfort. “I reckon she never takes it off. Women like that… they don’t take things like this off unless they have to.”

Still no response.

But that silence—it deepened. Got denser. Tighter.

And then came Daryl’s voice, low and flat, the kind of tone he only used when the restraint was about to crack. “You oughta give that back.”

The man didn’t laugh. He just tilted into the quiet again, dragging it out like he wanted to catch something—anything—in the stillness.

“Why?” he asked, but the word was laced with interest, not confusion. “Why would I give it back?”

Another pause.

And then Daryl answered, too slow, too cautious, like he was measuring every syllable against a cliff’s edge. “’Cause it’s hers.”

Nothing else. Just that.

You couldn’t see his face, but you knew the look in his eyes—that storm of fury behind the ice, that helpless rage masked as indifference. You imagined him still bound to the chair, bleeding from the mouth, hands flexing behind his back with the kind of restraint that tore muscle from bone, and yet somehow still managing to sound like he didn’t care.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not quite.

Because Marshal let out a sound—low, curious, not convinced but not dismissive either. “Hers, huh?” he repeated.

There was a moment there, so fragile it barely held, where you could feel the man teetering between suspicion and satisfaction, like he wanted to push a little harder but couldn’t quite figure out where to press. The silence stretched again, elastic and dangerous.

And then the crack came.

Not in the lie but in the man’s patience.

The first punch landed, so harsh you swore you felt it, like it was you who had just been hit and not Daryll. You heard the dull smack of fist against flesh, followed by the scrape of a chair leg as Daryl’s body recoiled but didn’t fall. Then another—harder, this time—and a wet sound that meant blood.

“You're gonna break. Just a matter of time,” the man said, colder now, less amused.

Daryl spat—on the floor, maybe at his feet, maybe just to get the taste out. “You asked a question. I answered.”

Another hit followed.

Then footsteps retreated, not rushed, just done for now.

You backed away from the wall as silence crept in again, this time different—heavier. It sat in your chest like stone.

It felt like hours before they opened your door again.

When they finally dragged him in, his boots dragged behind him and his shirt was soaked with blood, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—they found you instantly. He said nothing, didn’t reach for you, didn’t flinch when they threw him into the opposite cell and slammed the bars shut with a sound like a gavel.

But that ring, the one you didn’t realize was gone until just now, that small, sacred thing—they still had it. And Daryl knew it.

And that was almost enough to break him. Almost.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

There was no breath left for it, no courage or comfort that words could offer now—not when the distance between your cells felt like a chasm, not when the only thing separating you from him was a strip of concrete and an iron silence too wide to cross.

He sat where they left him, slumped against the wall like gravity had finally caught up to him, one leg crooked, one arm trembling just slightly at the elbow where he tried to shift his weight and failed. Blood was drying at his temple, smeared across the side of his face like paint, and there was a bruise blooming over his jaw, so dark it swallowed the shadow. But his eyes stayed on you, steady, hollowed, wild. It hurt to even look at him now, in that state.

It reminded you of that time he came home late, muttered something about a long day and being tired, barely even looked at you as he slipped through the door. That in itself wasn’t strange—Daryl had always been quiet when he needed space—but what threw you was how he didn’t even spare you a glance, didn’t give you the usual kiss hello, that soft, wordless way the two of you always reconnected after time apart. You’d racked your brain trying to figure out what you’d done wrong, replayed every moment from earlier that day and came up empty. Eventually, you chalked it up to a mood and let him have his space, curling up on the couch with Dog for the night.

The next morning, you found out why. He’d tried to sneak out early to head to Denise’s, hoping to get patched up without you knowing. What he didn’t count on was you lying there wide awake—because of course you hadn’t slept. And when he turned toward the door, you saw it: the black eye, the swollen jaw, the way his knuckles looked like they’d been through a grinder. You’d flipped, right there in the doorway. Turns out he’d run into a couple of less-than-neighborly types. He gave the usual “you should see the other guy” deflection, but he hated that look you got when you saw him like that—wide-eyed, sick with worry, on the verge of tears or homicide, maybe both.

That’s why he’d avoided you altogether.

You’d made him promise not to do that again. To stop shielding you from the aftermath like you weren’t part of it. But you both knew he would, if it meant sparing you the worry.

But not today - he knew that you heard what went down just momemt sago, and it was useless to pretend not to.

You curled in tighter, hands pressing against your knees, clutching the torn fabric of your shirt as if it could still hide the places that had been exposed, the places that still burned. Your skin felt cold where the scarred man’s fingers had lingered, colder still where your ring used to rest.

Daryl’s gaze dropped. Not away from you—but down. Down to your hands. Your bare fingers.

His breath caught. He didn’t mean it to. It was too small to be a gasp and too soft to be a curse, but you saw it, felt it across the space like a tremor underfoot. And then his jaw locked. His hands, still bound in front of him, curled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened beneath the dried blood. Not because of pain. Not even because of anger. But because the truth had landed now, fully. Your ring—his ring—was gone, and not by your choice.

You saw it, the realization settle into the lines of his face like dust. He didn’t ask where it was. He didn’t need to. He knew. He always knew.

“He must have taken it off me when I was out,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, brittle and breaking in your throat. “It feels wrong not wearing it, like—” Your voice cracked before you could finish. “ Like I'm missing a limb."

He didn’t answer right away.

Just sat there, staring at your hand, his brow furrowed like he was trying to rewrite time itself, like maybe if he looked hard enough, it would just reappear on your finger, copper catching the light the way it always had when you fidgeted with it during long watches or sleepless nights.

His voice, when it came, was low. Hoarse. Not sharp. Not angry. Just tired.

“I know.”

And you did.

You knew he believed you. You knew it without question.

But there was still something in his face—something fragile and dangerous and flickering behind his eyes like a fuse that had been lit but hadn’t yet reached its end. Not rage. Not yet. Just fear wearing the mask of restraint.

He shifted, dragging himself up with visible effort until he could lean back against the wall properly. The movement sent a wince through his features, and his left hand went instinctively to his side where the bruises were darkest. But his gaze never left yours.

“They touch you?” he asked, voice rougher this time, like the words tasted like blood on the way out.

You hesitated, and that pause alone was enough.

He turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough that you saw the cords in his neck tighten again, that silent storm building. But then he breathed in, slow and jagged, like he was wrestling with the need to stay grounded—for you. For her.

“I’m okay,” you said, which wasn’t true, not even a little, but it was the only thing you could give him right now.

He closed his eyes at that, not like he believed you, but like he needed to pretend he did. For just a second. For the sake of sanity.

Across the floor between your cells, the silence stretched long and heavy, like a third body laid out between you. You looked at him, really looked, and for a moment, it wasn’t the pain or the bruises or the blood that made your chest tighten—it was the way he looked at you like you were still whole. Like even here, even now, you were still the girl he slipped that copper ring onto by moonlight, with hands that shook like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

He didn’t move for a long time, not even to sit up straighter, just let his head tilt against the back wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright, his gaze flickering to your face and then away again like he couldn’t quite hold it without cracking. The blood on his shirt had started to dry in heavy patches, and every shallow breath he took looked like it cost him something he didn’t have to spare. And still, he hadn’t said a word. Not yet.

You wanted to reach through the bars. Crawl to him. Stitch your hands into the bruises on his ribs and tell them to give him back. But your body stayed locked to the wall, knees drawn up, arms crossed tight over your torn shirt, and your fingers—gods, your fingers—wouldn’t stop tracing that empty groove on your hand where your ring should’ve been. You’d touched it a hundred times a day without noticing, the curve of it like punctuation to every thought. Now it was gone, and the hollow space it left burned.

“…I ain’t ever wanted to kill someone that bad.”

The words rasped out of him like sand dragged across stone, slow and sharp, and they hung there between you, suspended in the cold with nowhere to settle. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded and rimmed in purple shadows, but now he turned fully, jaw clenched against pain, and the look he gave you wasn’t just fury—it was grief, raw and unravelled.

“Not since the Sanctuary,” he said, and the way he said it, like he was reaching through memory to some long-buried rage, made your stomach twist with the weight of everything he wasn’t saying aloud.

You didn’t answer him. You just looked back, open and hollow, the silence between you not cutting this time, just bearing down slow like fog in the woods.

“When he grabbed your shirt,” he murmured, and already you could hear the break coming in his voice, that thin edge he tried so hard to sand down, “I thought he was gonna—” He stopped, swallowed, shook his head like he could throw the image off if he just tried hard enough. “Didn’t matter why. Didn’t matter what he was tryin’ to prove. All I could think about was gettin’ my hands around his neck.”

You pressed your forehead to the bars. Your knuckles had gone bloodless.

He exhaled harshly, stared down at his lap, and for a moment you thought he might stop there, might wall himself back up like he always did when something hurt too much. But then he spoke again, and his voice was quieter now, almost unsure.

“And then I saw it. Your scar.”

You didn’t mean to flinch. But the words hit like cold water, and your spine curled in instinctive defense.

“Never really got why ya didn't like it,” he went on, a little steadier now, “Guess it puts it into perspective...How close I came to losin’ you. How close we came to losin’ her.”

You clenched your jaw and said nothing. You didn’t trust your voice not to break.

“He made it ugly,” you whispered finally, and it wasn’t even the words—it was what they meant. What they’d twisted inside you. That something sacred could be used as a threat.

“Nah,” Daryl said, and it was the first time in hours his voice didn’t sound broken. “He tried. That’s all. He tried. But he don’t get it.”

Your eyes flicked to him through the dark, heart caught in your throat, waiting.

“I remember when she was just shy of 2 years old,” he said, and something in his expression softened, like memory was the only comfort left to him. “You were sleepin’. Out cold. Couldn’t blame you—you hadn’t slept for shit in weeks. She was wide awake though. Just starin’. Fussin’, but not cryin’. Just lookin’ at you like you were the moon and the stars n'... somethin’ else she didn’t have a words for yet.”

Your breath caught, chest rising in a silent hiccup.

“She kept pokin’ your stomach,” he went on, and there was a warmth now, like even here, even in hell, he could conjure the glow of your home. “Kept touchin’ that scar. Over and over, real careful, like she was tryin’ to figure out what it was. I asked her what she was doin’, and she looked up at me, so serious, and said, ‘Mama’s got a zipper.’”

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. It was cracked and watery and half-swallowed by a sob, but it was real.

“I told her that's how she got here”, he said, rubbing at his jaw like he could still feel her small hand in his. “Like we unzipped you and there she was—all red and mad and louder than a goddamn siren.”

You buried your face against your arm to muffle the sound you made.

“She thought it was magic,” Daryl said softly, smiling. “Still does. Says it’s her magic door.”

You tried to breathe around the ache in your chest. “And now he used it like a weapon.”

“He can’t touch that,” Daryl said. “Not really. Not where it counts.”

You didn’t reply, didn’t need to. Your silence was agreement, was gratitude, was a desperate tether to him across the cold and the dark.

You stayed quiet for a long time after that.

Not because there was nothing left to say—there was too much, in fact—but because your throat felt thick and raw, like you’d swallowed a scream and hadn’t managed to keep all of it down. You held your knees tight to your chest, fingers digging crescents into your arms, the cold from the concrete floor bleeding up through your spine, but that wasn’t what was making you shake. It wasn’t the chill. It was the memory.

You were still trying to scrub it from beneath your skin—the way his hands moved with that awful, clinical deliberation, like he’d done it before, like peeling you open wasn’t an act of violence but one of strategy. Fingers curled beneath your shirt like they were reading a map, like your body was just terrain to him. You hadn’t felt fear for yourself, not at first. Not until he saw it. Not until he stopped smiling.

That scar—your scar—the one you barely remembered unless Dani asked about it, the one that lived in the blurry corners of mirrors—had never once made you feel ashamed. Sure, you occasionally cringed at it, how it contrasted so heavily with your skin, but it was a shallow insecurity. That meant nothing in comparison to how you got it. Your scar had meant survival. It had meant sacrifice. It had meant her. But tonight, when his eyes landed on it as if it was something he could exploit, something he could weaponise, you felt it shift inside you—like he’d tried to rewrite what it meant without your permission. He’d looked at it and seen leverage. He’d seen life.

And you’d lied, again and again, your voice breaking under the strain of trying not to name her. You’d bitten your tongue so hard it had bled, afraid that if you said it—if her name slipped, if the wrong syllable cracked in your voice—they’d know. They’d take her from you in some unthinkable way, even from miles away. You hadn’t even let yourself imagine her face. You were too afraid it might disappear.

But now it was full dark.

And Dani was alone.

You let out a breath that wasn’t steady, rested your forehead against the bars, and felt the cold press against your skin like punishment. The ring finger on your left hand ached with phantom weight, and you rubbed at the empty space instinctively, even though it made you feel worse.

“I’ve never—” The words caught on the raw edge of your voice, so you swallowed hard and tried again. “I’ve never spent a night away from her before.”

Across the dark, Daryl stirred. He lifted his head, humming in quiet acknowledgment, but didn’t speak — didn’t push. He hated being away from you and Dani, but sometimes it was unavoidable. Runs happened. Patrols needed bodies. And when it came down to it, both of you knew how to handle yourselves out there. You weren’t some stay-behind-the-walls housewife — hell, you were one of the best shots in Alexandria — but even so, your time away from her was always measured in hours, not nights. You could stomach a day trip, a supply loop, even a walker-clearing route that ran long, but you’d always made it home by nightfall. That was the unspoken rule. The line you didn’t cross. Because when the sun set, Dani would be tucked in between the two of you — warm and safe and dreaming in her corner of the bed. And now that line had been shattered. For Daryl, being away hurt. But for you, sitting in this cold cell with no idea if she was scared, crying, alone — it wasn’t just pain. It was unbearable.

“She never falls asleep where she’s supposed to,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice low and fragile, like you were afraid saying it too loud might shatter the memory. “Even when she starts in her own bed, she always finds her way back to ours. Tiptoes in like she’s some kinda thief, all quiet and sneaky, even though she always brings Spaghetti with her and he rattles — you know that damn giraffe has the loudest little bell stitched in his neck.”

A breath of something close to a laugh passed through your nose, but it caught in your throat halfway. You pressed your cheek against the cold bar and closed your eyes, trying to picture it — the creak of the floorboards, the soft pad of her feet, the way the blanket lifted and that tiny furnace of a child wedged herself between you and Daryl like she was born to belong there.

“She always curls into me first,” you said, the ache blooming sharp in your chest now. “Little arms around my waist, nose tucked against my stomach, just like how it was when I was pregnant. She says it makes the monsters go away. And I stroke her hair real slow until she settles and falls asleep.”

You paused, voice nearly trembling with the memory.

“She always hums. Not a song — just this little noise, like a sleepy cat. You can feel it through her ribs.”

There was a silence after that, heavy with feeling, and then Daryl’s voice cut through it — quieter than before, like it was meant only for you. “She never stays on your side, though.”

A faint smile touched your lips. “No. She doesn’t.”

“She always ends up rolled over on me,” he said, and there was something so painfully tender in the way he said it — like it physically hurt to remember. “Uses me like a goddamn jungle gym. Then she falls asleep with her arm across my throat like she’s tryin’ to choke me out.”

You let out a wet laugh, burying your face in your arms.

“And then if I move,” he added, “even a little — I mean, just tryin’ to breathe — she gets all huffy and dramatic. Throws that little arm over her eyes like I’ve wronged her somehow. Then flips back over to your side and acts like I don’t exist.”

“She’s a mama’s girl,” you said softly, chin trembling.

“She’s a damn traitor,” he muttered, voice rough but curling at the edges with that rare kind of smile that lived somewhere behind the gravel. “Wakes up a daddy’s girl every single time—no matter what.”

Then, softer, like it slipped out without thinkin’: “It’s alright though. I’ll take the mornings, and you can be her favourite the rest of the time.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing against the lump in your throat. “Best part of my day,” you whispered. “Waking up like that. With both of you. Her all tangled up between us, snoring like a piglet.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but when he did, his voice was softer than ever. “It's the best part of my day, too.”

Your hand curled against the cold floor, aching with the absence of her weight, the way her little fingers always found yours without looking, the way her whole body seemed to relax the second it touched skin — yours or Daryl’s, didn’t matter, just so long as it was home.

“She’s gonna wake up,” you said, barely audible now. “And we won’t be there.”

There was nothing in the world more awful than that thought. Not pain. Not captivity. Not even death. You pressed your cheek to your arm and blinked hard against the tears that clung to your lashes. “She’s gonna wake up scared,” you whispered. “She’s gonna look around and—”

“She’s gonna be fine.”

Daryl’s voice wasn’t loud, wasn’t soothing, wasn’t even certain—but it was solid. It cut through the dark like a root finding earth.

You looked over at him slowly, heart tight.

“I promise,” he said, the syllables uneven but anchored. “We’re gettin’ outta here. You’re gonna hold her again. Gonna tuck her in. Gonna... tell her some dumbass bedtime story about how Mama and Daddy escaped a bunch of bald freaks and came runnin’ through the woods like some forrest trolls.”

A laugh pushed out of you before you could stop it—wet and shaking, the kind that hurt your chest. “That the bedtime version?”

He shrugged faintly, wincing again. “Gotta leave out the part where you snapped a guy’s neck with your bare hands. Might give her ideas.”

“She’s your kid,” you muttered into your arm, letting the tears fall without apology. “She already has ideas.”

He gave a quiet huff, something close to a laugh. “Last week she told me she’s gonna be a monster-catcher. Said she needs a big stick and a helmet with spikes on it.”

Your chest ached with something warmer than pain. “Spelled her name on the stick with a backwards N, didn’t she?”

“Mhmm. Wrote it twice,” Daryl said, his voice soft with pride. “Said if the first one rubbed off, the monsters would still know it was hers.”

“She said you helped her paint it,” you whispered, that bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

He nodded once. “Told her I’d make it glitter-proof. Said you’d be mad if it ended up in Dog’s fur again.”

You exhaled slowly, like trying to fold yourself around the sound of her voice in your memory. “I don’t want her to think we left her.”

“She won’t,” Daryl said immediately, like the idea offended him. “You didn’t. We didn’t. We’re comin’ back. That’s it.”

There was no poetry in his tone, no sentiment. Just truth. Hard and clean.

You didn’t answer right away. Just let the quiet hold you both, not in silence, but in something steadier. Something shared.

Eventually, your voice found its way back, worn thin but clearer than before. “They’re gonna watch us closer now. We’re not gonna be able to fake it forever.”

“No,” Daryl said, adjusting his position with a grunt, one arm braced along the wall behind him. “Just till we get outta here.”

You nodded faintly, already feeling the gears in your brain shift into something sharper, colder.

“We figure out the shifts. How often they switch guards. Which ones carry blades and which ones don’t. Who blinks first. Who watches the gates. We act useful until it makes them lazy.”

Daryl tilted his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You really up for playin’ nice with these assholes?”

Your mouth twitched. “Nice is flexible. I’ll be civil. Until I don’t need to be.”

“Attagirl.”

You leaned back against the wall, not for comfort, but to look at him properly again—at the weight of him across from you, bruised and bloodied and still yours. That thin stretch of space between your cells felt narrower now, less like a canyon and more like a line in the dirt that both of you already knew how to cross when the time came.

“We’ll get back to her,” he said again. “No matter what it takes.”

And this time, when the words reached you, they didn’t land like a promise. They landed like a vow.

_____

At some point in the endless dark, your body gave out—curled stiff against the wall, head tipped sideways, sleep dragging you under like a tide. But your dreams were shallow and feverish, half-shaped memories tangled in terror, and every sound outside your cell pulled you half back to the surface, heart pumping in your throat, ears straining for a voice that never came.

Now, morning—if it could be called that—bleeds in through the cracks of artificial light. The overhead fluorescents hum back to life with an electrical sigh, flooding the corridor in a washed-out white that burns the back of your eyes. There’s no sunrise here. Just power. Control. Permission to wake.

You were already awake.

Opposite you, Daryl shifted with a wince, jaw clenched tight against a groan as he rolled his shoulder. You watched the stiffness in his body, the way he flexed his fingers like they didn’t want to obey. His gaze found you in the quiet, and you held it for a second too long before the sound of boots marching snapped it.

But then the footsteps came.

They moved too efficient for you to stay seated. No slamming doors. No barks or shouts. Just the faint, synchronised drag of boots against the floor outside, followed by the mechanical hiss of the cell locks disengaging. You and Daryl were already on your feet before they opened the doors.

He didn’t look at you, not directly. But you felt the twitch in his jaw, the unspoken question that passed between you in silence. You gave the smallest nod back. Ready.

They led you out of your cells and through a different corridor this time—no graffiti, no rust, just bare, bland walls that hummed with faint electricity. You couldn’t here anything other than the artificial hush of a place designed to swallow sound.

When they finally brought you to the room, you thought at first it might be another cell.

He was stood at the center of the concrete chamber with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, spine ramrod straight, not a wrinkle in sight. He was younger than you expected. Mid-forties maybe, sharp-featured, clean-shaven. Everything about him looked deliberately scrubbed of history—like he had burned his past away to make room for something purer.

Marshal stood motionless by the doorway, his usual sneer absent, the silence around him sharp enough to draw blood. It was the first time you’d seen him quiet, and somehow that unsettled you more than any of his smirks or taunts. Something about his stillness spoke of obedience, of a hierarchy so firmly entrenched that even his cruelty bowed to it.

The guards guided you and Daryl into the centre of the room with practised precision, keeping just enough distance between your bodies to make the separation deliberate. No contact. No whispers. No comfort. When Daryl was moved into place, his shoulder brushed briefly against yours—a single, accidental point of contact. Or perhaps it wasn't accidental, and the two of you were losing all sanity by not being able to touch each other - it was anyone's guess. He kept his face forward, locked in a mask of unreadable resolve.

The man at the center of the room—unassuming in build, dressed in uniform so plain it could have been borrowed from any one of the men beside him—did not speak immediately. He simply regarded you both in silence, his eyes cold and analytical, his head angled with a quiet sort of curiosity, like a man observing the structural integrity of something already cracked. He wasn’t asking if you would break. He was calculating when.

And then, with all the ceremony of someone setting a glass down on a table, he spoke.

“There is an infection that lives in the world.”

The words left his mouth with a measured calm, each syllable laced with precision rather than urgency. His tone was not raised, not even slightly, but something in the quiet demanded attention, made your ears strain for every word. There was no theatrics, no raised voice or dramatic flourish—just the steady cadence of a man who knew he never needed to shout to be heard.

“It festers in communities. In settlements. In families.”

He moved slowly as he spoke, not pacing—but measuring distance. The way a surgeon might measure an incision.

“It takes the form of attachment. Affection. Mercy. And when allowed to grow unchecked, it spreads through the body like rot.”

He stopped in front of Daryl, but didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to.

“The Creed,” he announced, “removes infection. Before it kills the host.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

“We are not here to offer comfort,” he continued. “We are here to build something that will not die. That will not bend. That will not be weakened by nostalgia or grief or love.”

He finally turned, his gaze landing on you.

“If we are to rebuild, we do it clean. Cold. Absolute. Every cell of the body must serve the same function. To serve The Creed is to survive. To waver is to contaminate.”

Still no raised voice. Still no need.

Behind him, mounted on the wall in scorched iron, the symbol loomed—an unbroken chain of identical hands, each gripping the next. No variation. No faces. Just function.

“Commander,” Marshal called out, stepping forward with a measured gait, his arm lifting slowly, deliberately. His fist was clenched tight around something unseen, knuckles pale from pressure. And then — without flourish, without even turning — the Commander held out his hand. And of course, Marshal dropped something into the man's hand immediately upon being beckoned, like the obedient Marshal he was.

“Hey Marshal,” you said sweetly, tilting your head like you were asking about the weather, “blink twice if he’s pegging you under duress.”

A snort broke the silence—one of the Creed men on the left, a younger guy who looked like he hadn’t fully grown into his rifle yet. He tried to smother it into his sleeve, but it was too late.

Marshal didn’t move. Just turned his head—slow as a cocked rifle—toward the offender. That single, glassy-eyed glare was enough to choke the air out of the room. The younger man stiffened like he’d been slapped, spine ramrod straight, the color draining from his face.

You leaned back a little, grinning. “What?” you said innocently, eyes still locked on Marshal. “Your safe word get revoked?”

Still nothing. Not a flinch. Not a word. He just stared at you with that carved-from-ice face, something unreadable and venomous glittering behind his eyes. You heard a grumpy redneck mutter 'Jesus Christ' under his breath from beside you.

The smirk faded from your lips—just a little.

Because suddenly, you got the feeling he was quiet, not out of rage, but satisfaction. He knew something you didn’t. And that was never a good sign.

The Commander regarded the object he had just been handed with clinical detachment, rolling it once between his fingers, not like a sentimental object, but like a contaminant. A defect in the system.

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look at Daryl.

Instead, he walked—slowly, with eerie precision—toward the hearth at the center of the room, where a small controlled flame crackled low in a steel brazier. The fire wasn’t for warmth. It was too precise for that. It burned like part of the architecture, like something ritualistic.

He held something out between two fingers like it was nothing more than a scrap of trash. But you saw it. The shape. The glint. Your ring.

Your stomach dropped so fast it felt like your body forgot how to hold itself up. Every thought in your head screamed at you to reach for it, to snatch it from his hand, to put it back where it belonged before it got any colder—but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. Not unless you were ready to take a bullet to the skull for lunging at a glorified cult leader with a loaded entourage.

“A symbol,” he said calmly, almost conversationally. “Of choice. Of devotion. Of weakness.”

The word settled like ash. Only then did his gaze lift, sweeping from you to Daryl. Not accusatory. Not cruel. Simply final.

“There is no place for it here.”

And with no ceremony, no smirk, no grand display, he flicked the ring into the flames like it was nothing. Just a gesture. Just punctuation.

You couldn't breathe.

The copper glinted once as it spun through the air, and then it was gone. Swallowed by fire without a sound, as if it had never been at all.

A small, strangled gasp caught in your throat, but you bit it down hard, like you could crush the sound before it gave you away. Tears surged behind your eyes with such force it made your vision blur, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Your throat had closed up too tightly to speak, too tightly to breathe, and your fingers twitched at your sides with the phantom impulse to lunge—grab it, save it, stop this.

But you didn’t move.

You stood your ground, even as something in your chest caved inward. Even as your ribcage became a coffin for what that ring meant—the promise, the history, the busload of bullsshit the both of you had survived to be married at all.

You could still feel the weight of it on your hand. Could still feel Daryl’s fingers slipping it on, rough and reverent, back when forever was something you fought for with teeth and blood and hope. And now it was gone.

And you just stood there. Because you had to.

Because this performance—the pretending, the restraint—was the only thing keeping you alive. And if that meant swallowing your scream and letting the ashes cling to your skin like grief, so be it.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t move. But your body reacted like you’d been struck—something inside you recoiling so sharply your knees locked, your breath caught high in your throat, and the air left your lungs without permission.

Daryl’s eyes never left the fire. His face didn’t change. Not to them.

But you saw it. The flicker of something dangerous curling in his expression like smoke off a fuse.

The Commander turned without waiting for a response.

“Begin their assimilation.”

The words were dull, mechanical.

A switch flipped. A process resumed.

As they pulled you out of the room, your body remembered movement before your mind did, and the silence followed like a second shadow. If this was just the start of assimilation, then great — things were already going to shit. They’d taken your ring. You just had to hope you could last long enough and come out the same person.

[d1xonss]

Daryl with a fem reader who’s love language is physical touch? Like whenever they’re cuddling she’s always burying her head into his side or neck. Or another one is acts of service so imagine when they first came to Alexandria she noticed Daryl was the only one in the group who still hasn’t bathed so she offered to do it for him.. he just sits in front of her in the bath while she cleans his hair and scrubs his body

Soap and Bubbles

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : Season 5

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : Fluff

✧ Word Count : 1.1k

AN ~ I’ve been slacking on requests big time:( But recently I got my wisdom teeth removed and the whole recovery has been kicking my ass, so sadly I just haven’t felt motivated to write anything new. Though I’m hoping this lil oneshot makes up for it and you guys don’t completely hate me lol.

Hope you enjoy! xoxox

He was stubborn. You were persistent. It was like when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. But in the end it was almost painfully obvious who won those battles most of the time.

When the group first arrived to Alexandria; a safe haven that was gifted to you by the grace of God himself, it was no secret that Daryl was one of the first who didn’t trust it. He was constantly tense and on high alert most of the time, when in reality there was never any real danger to begin with. But his thoughts seemed to haunt him, not necessarily because he felt the constant need to protect himself, but because he felt the constant need to protect you.

You were the most precious thing to him, like a delicate flower that he was constantly worried about squishing under his boot if he wasn’t too careful. And just the thought of you being in this unknown place that none of you really knew, it was safe to say it took him a while to even sleep. And it took him even longer to feel comfortable enough to bathe.

After the first few days of getting comfortable in the new community, you couldn’t help but notice that Daryl was the only one who hadn’t taken advantage of the luxury that was given. He hadn’t slept on one of the actual beds, he hadn’t even eaten any of the food that was stocked to the brim in each of the houses. The man just continuously hunted for his own food nearly every single day instead, working for it as if he felt like he had to. And he was one of the last people to use the nice new bathroom that everyone else had been hogging.

It was hard seeing him like this, knowing without even having to ask that he was slightly uncomfortable here. In the end when the place didn’t seem that dangerous, you knew he only really stayed so you had a roof over your head, and that was it. He always seemed to put you first before anything else and it never failed to melt your heart in the best way. But at the same time, you wanted to help him. You wanted to ease him into everything so he could learn to eventually call this place home.

Which is why you ever so slowly tried to coax him into taking a bath. Like a dog who was afraid of water.

“Nah.” was his original answer when you first asked him, that stubbornness really shining through as he put his foot down at the idea. Knowing that he didn’t feel safe enough to be so vulnerable.

But then you offered to help him, and that seemed to change the game as his interest piqued.

So after just a little more convincing, you finally got him into the tub filled with warm water, even adding some bubbles just to make it a little more enjoyable. And although he scoffed at the sight, he clearly wasn’t complaining as he practically melted into the warm water.

You sat yourself behind him as you ran your fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp as you cleaned it with a fresh shampoo. His eyes fluttered closed at your softness when touching him, even letting out a satisfied groan or grunt here and there just to let you know how much he was enjoying it. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself every time he did so, dragging the process out just a little bit longer upon seeing how relaxed he was.

Your nails gently scratched his scalp every once and a while which you knew he thoroughly enjoyed, loving the soothing feeling you provided as he slowly came to the conclusion that maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. His muscles twitched as you rinsed the bubbles out of his hair, feeling the warmth running down his back.

A smile stretched across your lips as you looked down at him, “Feel good?”

He nodded slowly as he let out a long and satisfied sigh, keeping his eyes closed as he was certain he could fall asleep within seconds. “Thank you.” he muttered.

Your face softened at his gratitude, “You’re welcome.” your sweet voice spoke, leaning down to place a kiss on top of his head.

He smiled to himself when he felt the touch of your lips, relaxing even more as you continued on for however long you wished. He wasn’t complaining, nor was he going to stop you anytime soon.

You then ran some conditioner through his hair, being able to run your fingers through the full length of it smoothly as you removed all the tangles. It smelled like heaven and it made his hair feel nearly brand new after not having it clean and fresh in so long. You then took your time washing his body, which to him was his favorite part of this whole thing. Your hands worked delicately, watching the soap run down his arms and chest as the remaining dirt just melted off his body.

A few more cuts were now more prominent on his skin as you continued to wash him, making some kind of mental note to help him clean those when he got out of the porcelain bowl. With being on the road for so long you had no idea how long they had been there, now being thankful you had everything you needed to fix him up. Seeing him constantly putting you before him in every single scenario, you wanted to do the same for him whenever you could. Though he was thick headed and usually refused, he did occasionally like being showered with affection like this.

Once you were done and the water was now a bit colder, you opened your mouth to tell him that he should probably get out. But you stopped yourself upon seeing the look on his face, seeing him finally looking content for the first time in months. You figured a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt as you began to drag your nails through his hair again.

“I love you.”

It was so soft you almost didn’t catch it. But the second his words met your ears you couldn’t help but freeze. He had never said that to you before.

Though you knew he always loved you, showing it in the little ways he knew how, you knew he felt a deep love for you that he couldn’t even describe. His actions speaking much louder volumes than words ever could. But now hearing him admit it out loud, you could feel a warmth spreading through your chest as you smiled, continuing to run your fingers through his hair as if to pretend it didn’t affect you as much as it did.

“I love you too.”

~ Thanks for reading!

[dixons-sunshine]

Good Job! | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: When out gathering supplies with Daryl, he successfully catches your dinner. To show him how proud you were, you bestowed him the highest honour you could at that moment—a sticker.

Genre: Fluff.

Era: Prison.

Warnings: Animal death.

Word count: 1.2k.

A/N: Inspired by a post I saw by @darylsdelts. I hope y’all like this!

The sun was shining brightly in the sky. Birds were chirping merrily from their sanctuary in the trees and the air just felt fresher than usual. If it were the old world, you would have spent the day lounging next to some body of water, a cold beverage in your hand as you soaked up the vitamin D the sun provided.

But it was not the old world. Instead of spending the day relaxing or something along those lines, you were instead trudging through the woods in clothes too long to be worn in such intense heat, wearing shoes so heavy you were seriously amazed that people wore them simply because they wanted to before the dead started walking, lugging a duffle bag full of supplies and deadly rifle along with you—a weapon you never would have thought you would be able to handle with the immense skill you now possessed.

Despite all those nuances that, under normal circumstances, would have had you complaining, you could not find it in yourself to do so, because it was not normal circumstances. The harshness of the world run by the dead had toughened your resolve and made you realize that some discomforts definitely were not as bad as you once thought them to be. Sure, you absolutely despised having to eat worms when the situation called for it, but you held your tongue because it was certainly better than the alternative, which was to starve.

Very rarely did you complain about anything nowadays—well, that is, if you did not count in the amount of times you had complained about Glenn’s snoring before, but that was all more in good fun. And a good chunk of what you knew to survive in a world like this was all thanks to the man you were trailing behind; your partner, Daryl Dixon.

As if somehow sensing that you had been thinking of him, Daryl glanced over his shoulder at you, his blue eyes sparkling with a softness reserved only for you.

“You alright back there?” he called back to you, despite already knowing what the answer would be. You were not the type of person to complain much about anything, and that was an attribute about you that he loved.

You nodded your head and adjusted the rifle’s strap over your shoulder. “I’m fine, Dar,” you assured him, sending him a radiant smile.

He nodded his head and turned his attention back in front of him. He kept his crossbow trained in front of him as his eyes searched for any dangers that could be lurking in the shadows, be it a walker, a wild animal, or another person. His main mission was to get the two of you to his bike that had been left abandoned for the time being, as the two of you had been forced to go on foot to the cabin Michonne had come across whilst on her search for the Governor.

The cabin—which had been in pretty decent shape despite being abandoned—had been stocked with supplies. You and Daryl, along with some other people, would have to go back in the morning to get the rest of the supplies. The two of you had stumbled across a metaphorical gold mine.

“So, Daryl,” you began, deeming it safe to strike up a conversation when the man in question grunted in acknowledgement. “What’s your favourite bird?”

The unexpectedness of the question made Daryl chuckle. He shrugged nonchalantly, keeping his eyes trained forward. “I don’ know. Maybe a bluejay?”

You nodded in approval at his choice, although he could not see you do so. “Great choice.”

Daryl hummed, glancing back at you. “Why’d ya ask?” he inquired. However, his attention got diverted when he heard something in the distance, his senses jumping to high alert.

“Just curious, is all.” You transferred the duffle bag from your one hand into the other, nearly sighing in relief when the blood began circulating through it again. “What—”

“Shh,” he shushed you quietly, instantly shutting you up. He motioned for you to stay put as he quietly stalked towards the bush where the source of the noise was, his crossbow raised and ready to be fired at a moment’s notice.

The perpetrator quickly got revealed in the form of a raccoon when Daryl pulled the leaves back. It hissed up at the archer, but it quickly got silenced when one of Daryl’s bolts pierced through its body. The pained whimper it let out right before it died made your heart ache a bit, but you quickly reminded yourself that it was necessary. It meant that there was the slightest bit more nutrition to bring back to the prison. Its death would not be in vain.

Daryl picked up his bolt, the raccoon’s body sat on it, before turning back to you. He simply raised the arrow a bit, shrugging a bit as he looked at you.

“Got us our dinner,” he said simply, as if it was the most natural thing to say.

You laughed lightly at him, shaking your head. However, it was as if a lightbulb went of in your head. Placing the duffle bag on the ground, you leaned down and zipped it open before rummaging through multiple cans of food and other supplies, in search of something you had bagged for little Judith to play with.

“Ah-ha!” you exclaimed victoriously when you found it, taking it out of the bag to reveal a small sticker book. You stepped towards your partner while flipping through the pages, searching for the sticker you had spotted when you had initially looked through it the first time.

You found it after a few moments. You gently peeled the sticker off of the page and pressed it against the archer’s beloved vest, the bright, neon-like yellow ‘good job!’ standing out against the gray leather. You smiled and gently patted his chest, before taking a step back.

“Good job,” you repeated the words on the sticker, giggling to yourself.

Daryl rolled his eyes at you, but he could not help the small smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks,” he drawled sarcastically, trying not to laugh at the silliness of the situation. “S’much appreciated.”

“Oh, come on. I know you love it,” you told him through your small fits of laughter, your eyes sparkling as you looked up at him.

Daryl simply shook his head. “You’re ridiculous, ya know that?” Despite his words, he could not help the warmth that bloomed in his chest. He felt oddly touched by the small gesture, felt appreciated. He could not explain it.

You laughed and picked up the bag again, before beginning to walk again. “Yeah, but you love that about me.”

Among a lot of other things, Daryl thought to himself. However, he shook the thought from his mind and caught up with you, this time falling into step beside you rather than being in the lead.

As the two of you walked the remaining short distance to Daryl’s bike, with you striking up another conversation, Daryl simply admired you. He felt like the luckiest man alive for being able to say that you were his girl.

And if he got teased by the members of his found family for the sticker that remained on his vest for the rest of that day, he could not have cared less.

Taglist: @holdmytesseract @thevegandarkelf (comment/DM/inbox me to be added/removed!)

[millermouth]

Part 1 | Part 2 | masterlist

"Are you scared, little bunny?" Summary: You didn’t mean to be here. You didn’t mean to see this. The motel door had already been cracked open, a splintered frame, a hint of something wrong curling in the air. You should have turned around, left, pretended you never saw the blood on his knuckles, the way it was painted across his throat. But then he looked at you. Slow, unfazed. Like you walking in on his carnage was nothing at all. You didn’t know why your breath shuddered. You didn’t know why your fingers itched to touch. And you sure as hell didn’t know why you didn’t run. || DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT 🕊️ horror, Dark!Daryl Dixon, blood and implied violence, no walkers, motel room encounters, morally gray reader, predator/prey vibes, dubious situations and dubious consent (the reader whole heartedly consents they're just trying to reason with themselves that this is a terrible idea), serialkiller!Daryl, reader walks in on something she shouldn’t, fear-turned-arousal, misattribution of arousal, thanatos / death drive theory. || a/n: thank you so so so so much to my friend @dixonsdarkelf for beta reading & giving me the boost I needed to post this! Inspired by these gifsets x x

The drive home always dragged.

You let out a long, exhausted sigh, fingers tightening on the wheel as the road stretched endlessly ahead. This wasn’t how the weekend was supposed to go. You were supposed to stay with your family for two more days—grit your teeth through the small talk, sit through the passive-aggressive questions about your job, your life, your choices. Smile. Nod. Pretend. But instead, you were barely a few hours in before it all fell apart.

Dinner had started fine. It always did. But then one question turned into a pointed remark, then into something sharper, something meaner. The same fight, just recycled into different words, but this time, you weren’t in the mood to swallow it down. This time, you pushed back. Voices rose, tempers flared, and before you knew it, you were grabbing your keys, shoving out the door, leaving behind the half-eaten meal and whatever thin thread was still holding the conversation together.

Now you were here—alone on the highway, miles of darkness stretching in every direction, headlights carving a path forward. 

Traffic jams bled into one another, each red taillight blurring into the next, the clock on your dash creeping past midnight. Eventually, the further you went, the emptier the roads became, until it was just you and the long-haul truckers, their rigs groaning under the weight of whatever cargo they hauled through the night.

Your eyelids grew heavier, dipping lower with every mile. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, but exhaustion clung to you, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t just the late hour—it was the crash after the adrenaline of the fight, the weight of too many words you couldn’t take back pressing down on you.

You told yourself you’d be fine. Just another two hours to go.

Then a deafening horn shattered the quiet, and before you even realized what was happening, your tires veered across the lane. You gasped, jerking the wheel hard, the car lurching as you barely corrected in time. The highway was nearly empty, but that didn't matter—your heart was pounding, hands clammy where they gripped the steering wheel, the sudden shock of how easily that could’ve ended differently locking your breath in your throat. That was it, you knew you needed to stop, needed to pull off and find a place to get some rest before hitting the road again in the morning. 

You took the next exit, into a town that was barely a town at all, just a forgotten smear of civilization on the side of the highway. The streets were empty, the buildings slumped and decayed, as if the place had given up on itself long ago. A gas station, a diner with its ‘Open 24 Hours’ sign flickering in and out of life, and a squat little motel, its vacancy sign buzzing weakly in the dark.

Pulling into the parking lot, your headlights washed over cracked pavement and weeds pushing up through the concrete. Only a few cars were parked outside, most of them old and rusted, as if they’d been sitting there for far longer than a single night’s stay. The only light came from the neon sign overhead and the sickly yellow glow spilling from the front office window, casting shadows that felt too long, too stretched.

You swallowed, gripping the steering wheel. Something about this place felt…off. Not in an obvious way—no shattered windows, no ominous figures lurking in doorways—but in a way that made your skin crawl. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting. These were the kind of motels in movies where you’d scream at the protagonist: Keep driving, idiot! Find someplace else!

But there was nowhere else, and you couldn’t risk driving another hour to find the next rest stop.

It wasn’t ideal. Hell, it was probably a breeding ground for bed bugs, or worse–the kind of place where people checked in but didn’t always check out. But the thought of curling up in your car for the night, stiff and vulnerable in an empty parking lot, wasn’t much better.

All you had to do was get the key, lock the door, and make it through till morning. You’d toss your clothes the second you got home, scrub this place off your skin like it never touched you.

It was fine. It would be fine.

The fluorescent lights in the front office buzzed overhead, their hum just a little too loud in the unnatural silence. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of something overly sweet—like someone had tried to cover up years of cigarettes and mildew with cheap air freshener.

A small bell sat on the counter. You hesitated, then tapped it once, the chime ringing out sharp and hollow.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, the feeling of being watched crawling up the back of your neck despite the room being empty. Just as you were about to hit the bell again, a figure shuffled out from the back.

It was a woman, older, her expression carved from stone. Stringy hair pulled back into a loose bun, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers, her nails yellowed from years of nicotine.

“What can I do for ya?” she drawled, exhaling a long stream of smoke. It curled thick in the air, stale and cloying. You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, ignoring the burn in your throat.

“One room, please. Just for the night.”

She tapped at the ashtray on the counter, knocking the embers loose without looking. Her gaze stayed on you, too steady, too knowing, as if she was peeling you apart one layer at a time.

“You travelin’ alone, honey?”

Your spine straightened.

“No,” you said a little too quickly. “My dad’s waiting in the truck.”

She hummed, dragging another long inhale from her cigarette as her beady eyes stayed on you. Like she could tell it was a lie, no matter how sure you tried to sound.

“So, two beds?”

“Just the one is fine,” you said, tightening your fingers around your bag strap “We’ll manage.”

"Cash or card?" she asked, watching, peeling away whatever confidence you tried to have.

"Card," you murmured, fishing it out with stiff fingers.

She slid it through an ancient-looking reader, her other hand tapping the desk with the long, deliberate patience of someone who had nowhere to be. Her name tag was smeared, almost unreadable, and the glass of the front desk window was covered in a film of grime. 

She handed the card back, then a single brass key, its tag worn soft with age.

“Room one eighty,” she said, sliding it forward. “End of the lot.”

You took it quickly, fingers brushing against the cold metal.

The woman leaned back, taking another drag, her lips curling around the cigarette. “You let me know if y’all need anything, alright?”

You forced a nod, but something about her stare made your skin prickle. You turned toward the door, gripping the key so tight it pressed sharply into your palm.

Outside, the air felt too thick, like the humidity had climbed in the last few minutes, settling heavily on your skin. 

Then, you felt it again.

That thick, crawling awareness pricking at the back of your neck. That quiet, animal instinct that told you someone was watching. You turned your head before you could stop yourself.

Across the parking lot, just beyond the neon glow of the motel sign, a man stood under a broken street light. At first, he was nothing more than a dark shape, half-obscured by the flickering light, his face hidden in the deep hollows of shadow. 

He was just… standing there. Watching. 

You didn’t recognize him, and he was too far away to make out anything but his built form, the broadness of his shoulders. But there was something in the way he stood, still as stone, his body angled just slightly toward you, his gaze locked and unblinking.

The look in his eyes, dark and unreadable even from a distance, sent a shiver licking down your spine.

You turned quickly, your nerves on fire. But as you made your way down the long stretches of rooms on the outer perimeter, the railing overlooking the parking lot, you began to hear signs of life. The sounds seeped through the walls, slipping under doors and filling the narrow stretch of concrete. A bass line thrummed from somewhere nearby, muffled by thin walls as it seemed to pound with the rhythm of your heartbeat. Somewhere farther down, men shouted, their voices rising and falling, drunken or angry or both. Laughter burst out, sharp and sudden, followed by the distant clatter of something knocking against a table or a wall.

When you turned around and looked back across the parking lot, the man was suddenly gone.

TVs droned from multiple rooms, the glow of static flickering through slatted blinds. Someone had left theirs too loud, a newscaster rehashing old stories like it wasn’t the middle of the night. A couple was arguing behind one of the doors you passed, their voices biting and loud, words slamming into each other with no space to breathe. Something crashed—glass, maybe, or a chair knocking over—and you picked up your pace without realizing it.

Anywhere else, maybe it would have felt normal. Just people awake too late, passing the time, waiting for morning. Here, it only set your teeth on edge. Something about it felt wrong.

The fact that so many people were still awake at this hour made the muscles in your back pull tight. You weren’t alone here. But that didn’t mean you weren’t isolated.

Then, a heavy thump.

It came from the room to your right, sudden and jarring, loud enough to shake the thin wall between you. Your breath caught as you flinched back, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was movement, the slow creak of weight shifting, but nothing else followed. No voices, no explanation. Just silence settling too quickly, like whatever had happened had stopped the second you reacted to it.

Your feet moved faster, a reflex more than anything, carrying you down the walkway before you could think too hard about it. The numbers on the doors passed in a blur—178, 179, and finally, 180—your fingers tightening around the key as your room finally came into view. 

You fumbled once, just once, hands suddenly damp, but the second the lock turned, you pushed inside, slamming the door behind you.

The second it shut, you turned the lock.

The noises outside dulled, voices and music muffled the moment you closed the door and slumped your back against it, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a half-marathon instead of walking across a motel lot. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, gripping at nothing, your pulse a frantic beat against your ribs.

You dragged in a breath, trying to slow the restless thrum in your veins. Just get through the next few hours, get some rest, and then you’d get the hell out of Dodge.

It was fine. It would be fine.

Except, sleep didn’t exactly come easy. You tossed and turned on top of the stiff bedspread, every shift of fabric loud in the silence, ears straining for any sudden sound beyond the walls. A door shutting, footsteps outside, voices carrying just enough to make you wonder if someone was too close to your room.

After what felt like forever, you gave up, flipping on the TV just to drown out the rest. The low murmur of late-night programming filled the room, casting weak blue light over the cracked ceiling, but it didn’t do much to settle you. You weren’t sure anything would.

The one thing you couldn’t ignore in favor of sleep, though, was the slow, gnawing ache of your stomach.

You should’ve stayed for the rest of dinner. Sat through the tense conversation, swallowed the words you wanted to throw back at them, and picked at your plate even if you had no appetite. At least then you wouldn’t be thinking about stepping outside again, not in the dead of night, not in the seediest motel you could’ve possibly stumbled across.

But the longer you lay there, the worse the hunger got.

Every motel had a vending machine, didn’t they?

You sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face, already hating where this was going.

You just had to be quick. In and out. Then you’d lock yourself in and actually try to sleep.

You knew it was wishful thinking to assume the vending machine would be easy to find. It was never that simple. You circled the building twice, passing the same cracked pavement, the same rusted-out cars, the same rooms with their curtains drawn too tight.

By the time you finally stumbled across the middle hallway, the glow of a single overhead light barely illuminating the space, you were already regretting this. The vending machine sat in the corner, humming under the flickering fluorescents, the metal frame dented, the glass fogged with fingerprints.

Your fingers hovered over the rows of snacks, barely able to focus on the choices, your body still on edge from the walk over. The motel felt alive, like every sound behind every door was something you weren’t supposed to hear.

The machine hummed under flickering light, the buttons worn down to the plastic. You fed it a couple of crumpled bills and tapped at one, then another, and waited. A loud mechanical churn. Then—nothing.

Great.

You smacked the side of it. Nothing again. Your stomach twisted painfully, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since you’d last eaten. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face, and turned to leave.

And that’s when you noticed it.

A door, cracked open at the very end of the hall.

The frame was splintered, like it had been forced open.

Something in your gut tensed.

You should walk away. Right now. Get back to your room, lock the door, and pretend you never saw anything. But something about it—about the stillness of it, the way the dim glow of a bedside lamp barely reached the threshold—made your feet stall.

Someone could be hurt. Or worse.

You swallowed hard, pulse in your throat as you crept closer, every instinct screaming at you that this was a bad idea. The air shifted the closer you got, thick with something you couldn’t name, something wrong.

And now that you were standing at the threshold, staring at the cracks in the doorframe, splintered from some kind of forced entry, your eyes drifted lower. Something dark and sticky was splattered on the ledge of the door, thick streaks leading onto the carpet inside.

Your heart stopped altogether. It was no longer rattling in your chest from fear, but fully frozen, skipping and halting as if trying to jumpstart itself while you stared into the dimly lit room.

At first, it was just shapes—shadows swallowing each other, the motel’s tiny lamp and the flickering TV casting everything into uneven light—warm and dark one second, sharp and cold the next. As your mind caught up to your eyes, it sharpened, the darkness peeling away, and you finally realized what you were looking at.

On the queen-sized bed in the center of the room, the bedspread was untouched, barely rumpled, except for the body laying perfectly still atop it.

Like someone had laid them there on purpose.

A mess of red had soaked deep into the fabric, fresh enough that the air was thick with it. The copper scent was overwhelming, clinging to the back of your throat, so metallic and sharp you could almost taste it. There was so much blood. More than you had ever seen in one place. Too much for it to be okay, too much for it to mean anything other than the obvious. You should have turned around. You should have stopped looking. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything except stand there, heart frozen in your chest, as your brain worked double time, locking onto every detail like it needed to catalog the carnage in order to make sense of it. The body was positioned too neatly, arms at its sides, legs straight, head turned away just enough that it felt unnatural—like whoever had done this hadn’t just been brutal, but deliberate.

Your stomach clenched. The smell invaded your nose again, worse now, thick and nauseating, making something cold claw its way up your spine. You stumbled back a step, your hand flying to clamp around your mouth before you could decide whether you were about to scream or be sick. You needed to move. You needed to leave. You needed to call someone, do something, but your limbs refused to cooperate, locking up as if freezing in place would somehow make this all disappear. Your body was waiting for direction, for instinct to kick in, but it never did.

Then, the bathroom door on the other side of the room swung open, spilling yellow light into the dim space as a man stepped out.

At first, it was the fluffy pink robe that threw you off, a ridiculous contrast against the raw violence laid out before you. Your brain latched onto it, desperate for anything that made sense, anything that didn’t belong to the nightmare in front of you. But then your eyes dragged upward, and you saw it—the blood.

It was everywhere. Splattered across his throat, smeared up his neck, drying in dark, uneven streaks along his collarbone. His hand was coated in it, the thick, dried red cracked over his knuckles, like he hadn’t bothered to wash it off. Like he hadn’t cared enough to try.

Panic reared its head, shoving its way into your chest, squeezing your lungs tighter than before. It was one thing to stumble across a body, to witness a crime. It was another to look into the eyes of the man who had done it. Your body understood before your mind did—the liquid fire of adrenaline flooding through your veins, your muscles locking up in place, every nerve screaming caught, caught, caught.

His gaze locked onto you, heavy and assessing, and even from where you stood, you could tell his eyes were the deepest ocean blue you had ever seen. There was no rage in them, no madness—nothing that fit the sheer bloodshed he had left behind. He was unnervingly handsome, despite it all. Maybe because of it.

He inhaled, dragging another slow pull from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips before shifting his weight, completely unconcerned.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Well,” he muttered, voice rough and edged with disinterest as he let out a puff of smoke, “shit.”

You should have run.

You should have turned and bolted down the hallway, thrown yourself outside, screamed for help—something. But you didn’t. Your body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t let you turn and run from the scene in front of you. Your limbs were locked in place, rooted to the motel floor like they had forgotten how to move, how to respond, how to do anything but tremble.

He seemed to notice, and flicking his cigarette, he made his way slowly toward you. He was so slow and careful it was almost predatory, like he was trying to camouflage into whatever normalcy was left in the room. Like he was trying to convince you that this was completely normal and he wasn’t some axe murderer in a pink fluffy robe.

“C’mon now,” he muttered, stepping toward you with zero hesitation, like your presence here was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Least shut the damn door.”

He moved with easy, unbothered confidence, reaching past you, pressing his palm against the motel door and nudging it inward. It swung heavy on its hinges, closing behind you with a soft, final click.

Your breath shuddered. You were really stuck here now, with him, and for some reason, the panic in your chest wasn’t flaring like before. You remained stock-still, frozen, waiting for him to make his move, to put you out of your misery for being a witness to his crime. What was his weapon of choice? Did he have a knife? A gun? Did he kill with his bare hands?

The man stepped in close, standing just in front of you now, close enough that you could see the uneven streaks of blood drying against his throat, close enough that you could smell the mix of cigarettes and sweat and something deeper layered with the metallic tang of blood. 

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, head tilting ever so slightly, like he was turning over a thought in his head, working something out.

Then he exhaled, lifting a hand—slow, deliberate, like he was giving you a second to react—and twisted a lock of your hair between his fingers.

His touch was light, but it sent a bolt of something electric straight through your spine, and yet, still, you didn’t move. You should have pulled away. You should have slapped his hand down. But your body wasn’t yours right now. It belonged to fear.

He hummed low in his throat, almost to himself, turning the strands between his fingers, studying them with an unreadable expression.

“You’re real pretty,” he muttered, almost absentmindedly, like it was a passing observation, not something meant to soothe you. His voice was low, rough, dragging over the syllables like he didn’t use them often. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Your throat locked up, lungs seizing against the flood of adrenaline. You weren’t even sure if your heart was still in your chest based on the way blood was roaring in your ears, drowning out every rational thought. He was teasing. Curious. And—God—flirty?

If you didn’t know better, if you hadn’t just stepped into this room, hadn’t seen the blood, hadn’t noticed the body stretched out too perfectly on the bed—you might’ve… you might’ve…

You swallowed hard, but your throat was too dry to get any sound out. Your pulse slammed in your ears, your heartbeat betraying everything you wanted to hide. He watched you for a moment longer, then let your hair slip from his grip, rubbing his bloodstained fingers together as if testing the softness.

“You’re shakin’,” he observed, mouth pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but leaned in that direction, like your fear was interesting to him… like it was cute.

His fingers twitched then, and after a pause, he reached up again after sticking his cigarette in his mouth—this time, just barely brushing his knuckles along your jaw. The touch was fleeting, but enough to make you tense even more.

He made another small sound in the back of his throat, mock sympathy edging into it.

“Like a scared little bunny.”

You should have been running. Screaming for your life. You should have turned and bolted the second you saw the blood. Why weren’t you fucking running?

The part of you that should have been shutting down, the part of you that should have been clawing for survival, digging its heels into your fogged, terrified brain to pay fucking attention—that part of you…

It was curious about him too.

You watched as his face changed then, watching your reactions like a predator tracking in his prey, eyes narrowing as they darted around your face, reading you, piecing something together. His lips twitched like he was amused, like he had figured out something you didn’t even understand about yourself yet.

“No…” he said, pulling his hand away, head tilting slightly before his face split into a grin, pulling the cigarette out between his fingers, “you’re not scared, are you, little bunny? You like this.”

“No!” The word ripped out of you, barely a whisper at first, but then louder, cracking in the dim room around you., “No.” Your breath stuttered as you tried to sound more confident, your whole body wired too tight, but the denial felt weak even to your own ears.

“Oh, there she is,” he said, watching you closely, pleased that he had finally drawn something out of you. “You gotta name, sweetheart?”

Your lips pressed together, your jaw tight, but your eyes sharpened, taking him in, really seeing him now. His blue eyes were dangerous and beautiful and terrifying all at once, cutting through the haze of your fear like a blade. There was blood splattered up his face, drying along the sharp structure of his cheekbone, disappearing into the strands of dark hair that hung loose in his eyes. It should have made him look monstrous. It should have made him unrecognizable as anything human.

But it didn’t.

It made you want to lean forward. Your mind flashed with the idea, and you did everything you could to keep your body from following, the idea that you wanted to trace the sharp cut of his jaw, to drag your tongue over the remnants of metallic blood he had missed along his lip and—

No.

No no no no no.

The thought seared through you like an open flame. Your breath caught, your skin igniting in humiliation, a flush so deep you wanted to disappear. You couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe your own body, couldn’t believe the way your stomach clenched, the way something hot and ugly was overlapping the sheer horror of what this man had done. There was fear, yes—a lot of it. But there was something else crawling underneath, something just as intense, something that made your pulse skyrocket as his hand moved.

His hand pushed the cigarette into the wooden frame, the hiss of the burning end snuffing out by your head. His fingers then found the strap of your shirt, curling around the fabric, dragging it down over your shoulder with his bloodstained grip.

“No name, huh?” he murmured, watching your face, watching every shift in your expression, like he was memorizing what you looked like when you trembled. His voice was lower now, quieter, dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud or obvious, but steady and unshaken. He leaned in closer, close enough that the heat of his breath ghosted over your throat.

“That’s okay, bunny,” he muttered. “I don’t got a name either.”

Your stomach dropped.

And then, to your utter horror, he kissed your shoulder.

Not deep. Not forceful. Just the slow, deliberate press of his mouth against your skin, his lips barely parted, dragging warm and rough over the place he had just exposed.

It sent a violent shudder down your spine. The sensation—the heat of him, the quiet intimacy of it, the way he didn’t move away after, just lingered there—lit something in your chest, something sharp and unbearable. Your nipples, the traitors, hardened underneath your shirt, poking through the thin fabric that stretched across your chest. A gasp left you before you could stop it, your eyes widening in shock.

The man huffed softly against your skin, something amused in the sound.

“You like this, bunny?” His voice was slow, edged with something almost thoughtful, like he was figuring it out as he spoke. His nose brushed the side of your throat, his breath warm as he tilted his head, inhaling the scent of your perfume.

“You like a man like me takin’ advantage of just how scared you are?” His hand tightened just slightly at your shoulder, his mouth ghosting along your jaw before he murmured, “That it, bunny? You like the fear?”

His lips brushed your pulse.

“The shame?”

His fingers traced along your collarbone, the metallic tang of copper filling your nose as his hand got closer and closer to your face again.

“You turned on by a little bit of blood?”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers curling at your sides, and you knew whatever you said next would change everything. You should have lied. You should have denied it, should have shaken your head, should have shoved him away and run before it was too late.

Your mouth parted, your chest heaving like you had just surfaced from drowning, but before you could answer, his hand snapped up, grabbing the nape of your neck, fingers lacing in your hair. His other hand suddenly gripped your jaw, forcing your face to tilt toward him.

It was fast, sudden, a flash of violence that slammed through you like a bolt of electricity, it made you gasp sharply, eyes going wide.

His grip wasn’t bruising, but it was firm, unyielding. His fingers dug into your jaw just enough that it bordered on pain, enough that you felt the quiet threat humming underneath him.

His eyes narrowed, sharp, dark, and hungry, locking onto yours like a predator seeing prey for exactly what it was. His grip tightened for a split second, his thumb dragging rough over your cheek, the dried blood flaking slightly against your skin, crumbling like dust beneath his touch.

“Say it,” he rasped, voice still calm, still steady as stone, but something inside it had changed—harder now, more dangerous.

Your body locked up, trapped between the heat of him and the cold reality of what was happening, of what had been happening for longer than just that moment.

Because it hadn’t started when you stepped into this room.

It didn’t start when you saw the blood. It didn’t even start when you heard the body hit the floor.

It started long before that.

You’d always known something was wrong with you. The way fear didn’t keep you away—it called to you, wrapped around your ribs and had you in its grip. The way you’d always looked for danger, for the spike of adrenaline that made your heart hammer against your ribs, made you feel more alive than anything else.

You could’ve stayed at your parents’ house. You could’ve forced yourself to sit through another dinner filled with questions about your future, their expectations suffocating you like a cage you were never meant to fit inside. But you didn’t.

You left in the middle of the night, peeling away from their house like something inside you was clawing to be free, chasing an impulse you hadn’t fully understood at the time.

You hadn’t stopped driving until exhaustion forced your hand. And when you pulled into this motel, when you stepped onto that cracked pavement, when you heard the distant sounds of raised voices, of something heavy hitting the ground—your pulse hadn’t stuttered in fear.

It had spiked.

And while you tried to ignore it, ignore that pull, to force yourself to sleep, you couldn’t say no to that part of you that needed to see. You’d left your room, weaving through the shadows of the motel, passing this exact door. The vending machine hadn’t been the excuse you told yourself it was. It wasn’t hunger for food that had your stomach twisting, your body restless against the scratchy motel sheets.

It was hunger to know.

To see.

To find the blood, the body, and the man who did it.

And now he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he already knew all of it. Like he’d read the answer in your dilated eyes, in the way your breath had hitched when you first saw him, in the way you were still here, still trembling under his grip but not running.

Your mouth was dry, your body refusing to move, refusing to break free of his hold. Because the worst part wasn’t that you were afraid.

The worst part was that you liked it.

You made a small, broken noise, your fingers twitching, your whole body tight as a wire as you reached up, your hands sliding around his  forearm.

“Yes,” you whispered. It was barely a sound, barely more than breath, but his eyes flickered, something shifting beneath them.

The pressure released all at once.

His grip loosened from your jaw, tracing down the side of your throat with something slower now, something more deliberate. You let your hands fall, reaching for him instead. His thumb dragged along your cheek, wiping away the remnants of old blood he had left there. His lips lingered, the warmth of them stark against your skin, a slow drag over your jaw as he exhaled. The scent of him—smoke, sweat, the faint metallic ghost of dried blood—was thick in your lungs, wrapping around you, leaving no space for anything else.

His lips barely moved as they traced your jaw again when he spoke, the words slipping against your skin, low and quiet, like they weren’t meant for the space between you but meant to sink into you, settle deep, curl around something inside you that you didn’t even have a name for.

“I know, bunny.”

It was soft, almost affectionate, but threaded with something deeper. Something knowing.

Like he had been waiting for you to admit it to yourself first.

His fingers, the ones still tangled in your hair, tightened slightly—not rough, but firm, keeping you in place, keeping you still for him. He turned your head just enough to guide you, slow, like testing a skittish animal, like making sure you wouldn’t bolt the second he took what you were already offering.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name.

And none of that mattered.

Your hands, trembling but restless, lifted before you could stop them, pressing against the warm plane of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. He was solid. Real. Your fingertips brushed against the edge of the pink robe he still hadn’t bothered to shed, the soft, ridiculous fabric clashing with the rough scrape of stubble along your throat as his mouth continued its path downward.

You felt the shift in him before you even saw it, the slight pause of his breath, the way his grip in your hair flexed before tightening further. His tongue peeked out from his mouth, tracing the vein of your artery along the column of your neck. You shuddered against him, eyes fluttering closed, and he chuckled, low and breathless against your skin, the sound of it vibrating against your pulse.

“That feel nice, sweetheart?”

You opened your eyes to look at him, and his were darker now, heavy-lidded, focused entirely on you, taking in every shuddering breath, every small twitch of your lips, the way your pupils had swallowed nearly all of your color.

Then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was ravenous. Not just hungry but starved. The slow, intoxicating drag of lips and teeth and heat blurred every thought, every warning screaming in your head turning into static. You felt one of his hands skim lower, tracing the dip of your waist, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your shirt like he was debating whether to rip it from your body or take his time peeling you open.

His mouth moved over yours like he already knew you’d open for him, like he had been waiting for it, waiting for this.

And God, you let him.

[starlessea]

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]

Chapter 2: Wide-Eyed

Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend

Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.

This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.

Daryl had seen eyes like that only a few times before.

The first, he’d been seven-years-old, roaming the streets of Northern Georgia with his no-good brother. Their parents never did care a rat’s ass about where they ended up, and this time, they’d found themselves in the bad part of town. The epicentre of trouble. 

Merle had been hanging around some older boys back then, the type who got off on taunting his kid brother. Sneak up on the local kook, they’d told him. It’d be funny; he’d be a chicken if he didn’t. So Daryl—filled with a newfound sense of bravado—agreed, and dumped his can of orange Crush over some man too cracked out to notice.

Until he did.

The way the guy’s eyes popped open—bloodshot, bulging—was burned into Daryl’s memory. Even now, thirty-some years later, he could recount them in astounding detail. They were the same shell-shocked eyes as those nasty bastards his daddy used to hang about. The ones hardened by their daddies and so on. 

They were eyes Daryl saw far more often these days. Came across them in the fleeting glances of their ragtag community—from the stragglers of Woodberry to the drifters that had no place else in the world. After a few weeks of decent meals, sleep, and a safe place to shit, most of them lost that look. Replaced it with all sorts of stuff he didn’t really care for.

But most recently, Daryl had found it again, stamped onto the face of Glenn’s newest rescue. Whilst he’d pitied you at first, shaking like a newborn gazelle on Carol’s arm, that pity quickly morphed into something colder.

Catching your eyes, Daryl suddenly felt seven-years-old again. It wasn’t a passing thing, that look, nor did it mask something deeper. It was simply a fixture of your face. The result of whatever shit storm you’d endured.

Even with all the time in the world, Daryl wasn’t sure you’d ever shake it.

“Man, I’m telling you. Shit felt like The Shining—” 

A voice drags Daryl back into the room. Around him, a group had gathered in their usual corner, chairs pulled together in a circle. Bob has the floor, soaking in the attention as he recounts an abridged version of the day’s events. 

He’s new, too, and Daryl hadn’t taken to him yet. 

“—Glenn will tell you. Suddenly, she’s staring at us with those big bug eyes,” Bob goes on, bringing his pointer fingers to his face. “Kept getting wider by the second.”

Across from him, Glenn shifts uncomfortably. “It wasn’t that bad,” he retorts. “She’s not deranged just because she doesn't blink much.”

Daryl feels himself scowl. He’s got his back against the stone, arms crossed as he watches the exchange. He doesn’t usually involve himself in these little powwows, but something about this one is wearing his patience thin.

“Fifteen times,” he gruffs. Eyes turn to him as he pushes off the wall. “Tha’s how much most folks blink in a minute—fifteen.” 

Daryl moves in closer, stopping just short of the circle before shaking his head. “She blinked once in three.”

The chatter is replaced by silence, thick and uneasy.

“I’ve seen people like that,” Bob says after a moment. His voice is more subdued now, like he's been grounded back to that floor and not the pedestal he'd been put on. “Usually, it’s on their way back from war.”

The words hit hard. For once, Daryl finds himself agreeing. There was something about you, something off that made him feel like a kid again, standing in the shadow of a stranger’s unpredictability. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Wha’ever shit went down there,” he says, “ya can bet yer ass it weren’t pretty.”

“It wasn’t,” Glenn confirms.

His tone leaves no room for elaboration. 

At the other side of the room, Rick, who—like Daryl—had been doing his utmost to not get involved, straightens. “Glenn, brother,” he starts, “I know you mean well, but do you think she’s—” 

Rick doesn’t say it, but Daryl can hear it in the silence. They all can.

Beyond saving.

Carol clears her throat. “A bit of a feral cat,” she adds, after a beat. 

It’s a poor attempt to lighten the mood; no one laughs. Least amused is Glenn, who rakes a hand through his hair before letting out a hefty sigh. “What was I meant to do, just leave her there?” 

He doesn’t aim the question, but the lack of response only urges him on.

“You didn’t see it—that place was hell.” His voice tightens, the day’s frustrations bleeding through. “Not everyone’s lucky enough to have someone to pull them out of it. That could’ve been me, or you, or any one of us.”

The group slinks back as Glenn gestures around, trying not to let themselves land at the end of his pointer finger. 

Michonne—who’s been sitting quietly at the edge of the group until now—finally speaks. “Give her time,” she says simply. Her words are directed at no one in particular, but carry the kind of weight that can’t be disputed.

Daryl glances at her, and for a brief moment, their eyes meet. 

He’s come to appreciate Michonne; her short replies made life easier in the months they’d spent tracking the Governor. She never wasted breath on stuff that didn’t matter.

She has a point now, too. You hadn’t been here long—a couple hours at most. Hell, Daryl had taken longer naps. And it’s not like you were going anywhere. Not on those weak knees. 

For the time being, Cell Block D was the best place for you. It was the only one still needing repairs, a little dingy and a whole lot of space, which worked out fine. You likely wouldn’t cope well in the ones filled with people.

That’s why Daryl slept in Block D, too.

In the minutes that follow, an air of deliberation settles over the group. It’s an uncomfortable sort of quiet, with everyone seeming to retreat into their own thoughts. Daryl considers leaving; he’s got plenty to be getting on with. In truth, he’s not sure how he ended up here in the first place. But before he can make it across the room, he crosses paths with Maggie, coming in like a storm through the main entrance.

She looks dishevelled: her shoulders rounded and tiredness evident in the contours of her face. Sidestepping Daryl, she picks out Rick in the crowd. She shakes her head at him. “That pregnant lady in Block E is having trouble again,” she says, “My daddy’s gonna keep an eye on her tonight. Beth too.”

She takes a moment to flatten her hair, willing the stray strands into submission.

“They’ll come see the new girl in the morning,” she explains. Then, with a sidelong glance toward Glenn, asks, “What’d you call her again—loony bin?”

Glenn cringes. He reiterates your name, which he’d likely pried from you earlier in the truck. 

The sound of it takes Daryl by surprise. It’s a pretty name—one he’d never pin to you. He almost wonders if hearing it can give him a glimpse into your past, at the person you used to be. But then again, not everyone suits their name. Perhaps you never had.

“Well…” says Rick, more decisive now, “let’s get ‘er to eat in the meantime.” He stands to dust off his jeans. “Or clean up.”

There’s a collective murmur of agreement, and almost immediately, the group starts to disperse. Daryl’s first to move, but Carol catches his arm before he can make it out the door.

He throws an annoyed glance back at her.

There's an apron tied around her waist; Michonne had brought it back from some tacky gift shop they’d raided not long ago. The fabric was already stained—the pattern made dull from hard work. Carol was on cooking duty again; Daryl knew because he unintentionally looked forward to those days. 

“Any chance you could get something for her?” she asks, gesturing to the crossbow over his back. “Fresh?”

There’s hesitation in her voice, her lips pressed together like she’s bracing for something.

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “Sure. Ya want ribeye or sirloin?”

Carol bats him lightly across the shoulder. Then she offers him a small smile—one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Daryl dislikes it.

“She’s just so skinny,” she eventually says. That teasing tone he’d grown to expect is gone now, replaced by something more serious. “I lifted her, and—well, it was like lifting Sophia.”

The name lands like a stone. Daryl stills, his jaw setting. 

“I’ll find something,” he mutters.

Carol nods, sending him off with a small ‘thank you’. 

Daryl readies his crossbow and hunting gear before heading out into the yard. It’s bustling, as it always is these days—children weaving around him, adults trying to strike up conversation. He shuts them down with a look that says he could care less for chit-chat right now. There’s too many of them for him to handle.

Already got another damn mouth to feed.

He has half a mind to turn around, but Carol’s words propel him forward, clinging to the back of his mind like burrs.

He'll find something.

—

The cropped-haired woman comes to collect you at dinner. 

She tells you her name is Carol, and that she has something special prepared for you. Her tone is light, airing on excitement as she helps you along the metal catwalk and down the stairs. It’s an easy, practiced motion—her arm brushing against yours. But with each stroke, you feel it: that itch in your chest. 

You’ve never been fond of surprises. In fact, you hated them. The uncertainty, the lack of control, the unfamiliarity of this place… Every step tightens the grip around your lungs.

Breathe, you remind yourself. In. Out.

Carol notices the shift in your demeanor, must feel it in the stiffness of your shoulders. So she opts for distraction. As the two of you walk arm-in-arm, she attempts to fill the space between you with reassurance—even if it doesn’t quite reach you. 

She details life at the prison—everything they’ve worked towards in the last few months—and the other refugees who now called this place home. There's a semblance of stability behind her eyes as she recounts it all. “We’ve come a long way,” she says. “It’s been hard, but we’re getting there. You’ll see.” 

You want to believe it; you almost do. But talk of warm-water showers, birthday celebrations, and even tending to livestock leaves you doubtful. It’s too reminiscent of life before everything fell apart. 

There had to be a catch. There’s always a catch. 

Whatever it is, Carol doesn’t let on. But you’re not convinced she believes the narrative she’s selling, either. She won’t say it, but you can hear it in the pauses. It’s something you’ll have to decipher for yourself.

When the two of you pass a mirror at the end of the hall, your step falters. 

Who is that?

You recognise Carol, of course. Her face is familiar enough, grey hair catching the light like silver, but the one beside her—you—is someone else entirely. Your throat tightens as you take in the face staring back at you. 

That’s not you; it can’t be.

When had you become this gaunt—this filthy? 

Your cheeks are hollowed out, their colour lost entirely. The lips below are dry and cracked. Whatever was on your head, you could no longer call it hair. It was a matted thing that trailed like rope to the backs of your knees. 

Staring into the mirror, you find nothing of yourself in that reflection. Everything you’d ever thought endearing, gone. Even your voice is not as it was. You doubt it could still carry a tune. 

It’s all too much. The sight of yourself—the thing claiming to be yourself—triggers emotions you hadn’t encountered in quite some time. Before you can stop it, your eyes are burning.

You fight the sensation. Squashing it down to the depths, you stamp it dead. You can’t afford to break now. Not here. Not in front of her.

“Come on,” Carol says gently, nudging you away from the mirror. 

Could she feel it? The way your heart jumped in your chest—how your legs threatened to give way? 

You try not to think on it. Instead, you nod.

Once you reach the communal area of the cell block, you’re escorted to the same dilapidated table you’d noted earlier. People are still gathered there—some you recognise, others not. They don’t stare outright, but you feel their eyes. You begin to tremble in response, as though your body is trying to shake them off. Wordlessly, you let Carol guide you to your spot.

A plate is already set in front of you. There’s meat on it; you're told it’s rabbit. One look, and you’re reminded of the bunny you raised as a kid—a fluffy white thing, pure as snow. It was decapitated by the neighborhood fox one evening. You never did find it's head. At the thought, nausea grows within you, but like everything else, you push it down. 

No one else is eating, you notice. You’re aware that you’re likely turning their stomachs just sitting here. The word ‘shower’ had been thrown in your direction more times than you could count, but nobody had followed through with the threat—yet. Instead, you are offered a bucket of water to rinse your hands. It turns brown from just a few passes.

“Thought you could use some meat on those bones,” Carol quips, the words blunt but not unkind. “Daryl caught it fresh.” She then gestures for you to take a bite, to eat rather than stare.

You nod. Stowing your hatchet safely on a nearby seat—you had refused to leave it in the cell—you reach for the cutlery laid out on the table. There’s a knife and an odd spork-like utensil. They seem intentionally blunt, and in your hands, too, they don’t properly fit. 

It’s been far too long. How did you use these, again?

With each stroke of the knife, your anxiety mounts. You can’t seem to get a clean cut. The meat is sinewy, too alive—nothing like the canned mush you’d survived on for the last year. It takes everything in you to keep the tremors from taking over, to keep your hands steady enough to continue.

As you poke about the rabbit on your plate, a woman who introduces herself as Maggie strikes up a conversation. “The old community college, huh?” she asks, in spite of cautionary glances. “My sister used to go some weekends. Probably finger paintin’ or singing kumbaya,” she adds. 

You catch the playful hint in her tone, and when she laughs, it’s a sound you’re not sure you remember how to respond to. It’s pretty—the kind that’s easy, like it hasn’t been twisted by everything bad. 

“Did you start there, or just end up there?” she asks, casually.

“St—started,” you manage. You’re not sure she hears you, but she leans in, trying to catch the words.

“Hmm?” 

“Started,” you repeat, louder, though it feels like a strain.

Beside Maggie, a darker, leaner woman shoots her a look. “Let the girl eat,” she says. There’s something practiced about the way she carries herself. You sense she’s the type not to pry, and you’re thankful for that. Her kind are few and far between. 

"You're right, Michonne," replies Maggie, and with her answer, you learn another name.

Despite the warning, a boy, not even in his teens, lingers near the table. You’d noticed him earlier, coated in a sort of pessimism unsuited to his age. “Were there a lotta walkers?” he blurts. He’s wearing a sheriff’s hat—one he hasn’t quite grown into—and is eyeing you from under its rim. “My dad said the worst place to be is somewhere like that. Bet there were a bunch of people during the outbreak.” 

The leader of the group, Rick, flicks his hat in warning. But it’s too late—the question’s out. Your stomach twists again as you focus on the meat, trying to chew through the knot forming in your throat.

Across from you, your eyes meet Glenn's. He’s the only one here who saw it: the halls rotting with bodies, the blood-soaked floors. Even then, he still doesn’t know the full extent. 

And what would he do if he did know? If he found out what happened there—what you did? Would he have brought you back?

Your mind starts to spiral. You shove a piece of the rabbit into your mouth, hoping to distract yourself. It goes down like tar. Your hands are shaking now, clattering the mismatched cutlery against your plate. No matter how hard you try,  you can’t prevent the shudder that rips through your body.

Carol, tempered by concern, leans in. “Did you get separated from your group?” she asks gently. “Is there anyone—”

Before she can finish, Daryl speaks up. “Would y’all quit it?” he says, his eyes flicking from Carol to the others. The gruffness of his voice stands in complete opposition to their concern. “Yer givin’ me indigestion and I ain’t even eatin’.”

For a moment, all attention is directed away from you and onto him. You’re grateful for the space it grants you—no matter how small. The next breath you take is intentionally drawn.

“I—” you lock eyes with Daryl, hoping to convey your gratitude. Instead, something else makes its way to the surface. “I’m going to be sick,” you announce.

There’s no time to stop it. The first to react, Michonne dumps the bucket of water out over the floor. You can’t hold it in anymore. Your head falls into it just in time to let the bile spill out. It’s a pitiful sort of retching. There’s no vomit; your stomach is too empty to give up anything more.

Behind you, someone rubs your back. You don't know who, but their cool hands are a welcomed reprieve to the clamminess of your skin. Your body betrays your mind as you instinctively arch into them. It’s only for a split second, before you pull away.

What have you done?

Head emerging from the bucket, you force yourself to look up. There are eyes on you again, more persistent than before. And in them, you see it, the swell of emotions:

Pity. Annoyance. Indifference. Disgust—

Your chair screeches against the floor as you dart out of it. You leave the table smelling even worse than before.

—

It’s mid-evening when Daryl catches sight of you again, scurrying along the catwalk to your cell. 

You’re still a mess, though slightly improved since dinner. He takes a passing look. You haven’t bathed yet—probably still shaken by that whole interrogation—but there’s something less rabid about you now. Your hair, still a matted mess, is pushed behind your ears, and you’re wearing an odd ensemble: jeans far too big for you and a shirt likely belonging to Glenn. They were clean, at least.

Daryl crosses you without a word. Tired eyes and heavy steps, he’s hell-bent on returning to his own cell for the night. He’s halfway down the catwalk, hand on the door, when he registers it. A voice, barely above a whisper:

“D—Daryl?” 

He stops upon hearing his name. Turning, he finds you right behind him—staring up with that wide-eyed expression.

He tries not to flinch. When the hell had you gotten there? You were just… 

Daryl’s gaze drops instinctively. Bare feet. That’s why you hadn’t made a sound. 

“—m sorry about the food.” 

He tunes in to your words. They’re coming out too haltingly, too polite for the situation. 

Daryl doesn’t know how to respond. Eat the food, don’t eat the food. Normally, he wouldn’t care. But something about the way you say it—so fragile, so damn apologetic—leaves him grasping at straws. He’s not good at this, never has been.

You keep going nonetheless. “It wouldn’t stay down... I’m sorry to w—waste it.”

A nervous stammer creeps into your words, and with it, fans Daryl’s agitation. He wants to bite back. To let you know he’s got better things to do than watch you throw up food he went out of his way to catch. But something inside of him chooses restraint.

You’re teetering on the edge; everyone within a five-foot radius can see it. And when he looks at you, for some reason, his mind deciphers it as fear. He’s just unsure whether it’s the fear of breaking you, or the fear of what you’ll do if broken. 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Mm,” he mutters. “Don’ matter. Can always get s’more.”

You don’t say anything after that. The silence hangs between you, heavy and awkward. Daryl shifts on his feet, mapping out the route back to his bed, and how quick he can get there.

“Jus’ eat the next one, a’right?” he says, with finality.

You nod, your gaze not lifting from the floor. “Goodnight.” 

“Night,” Daryl mutters back. Then he watches you disappear into the darkness of your cell, waiting for the clink as you lock it shut.

But it’s not a good night. 

It starts a few hours after they all turn in. Daryl bolts upright at the curdling scream ripping through the air. His heart slams against his chest, and instinct kicks in. He’s already got his crossbow in his hands before the panic can register.

Torchlight flickers along the catwalk as the others begin to scramble awake. There’s a cacophony of voices, footsteps on metal, guns cocking, and Rick barking orders as he joins Daryl to locate the source.

The sound echoes again. It’s coming from your cell, a god-awful shrieking that has him preparing for the worst. Rick’s master key turns in the lock, and the door swings open.

Daryl steps in behind him, crossbow aimed high as he searches for walkers—hell, for anything that could warrant those screams of utter terror. His heart pounds in his ears as he sweeps the room.

There’s nothing. No threat—no you. 

A flashlight shines over your cot, but it’s empty. Daryl follows the edges of the light,into the shadows and all four corners of the room. He finds you in one of them, curled up in a ball, rocking on the soles of your feet.

He gestures to Rick, who—spotting you there—lowers his gun. “Hey,” he says, with a tone like he’s negotiating you off a high-rise building. “Hey, it’s okay.” 

There’s no response. Your head is buried in your knees, arms wrapped around your legs as you sit twisted in blankets. The shrieking has stopped now, but your silence, Daryl finds, is far more unsettling.

Rick steps aside, exchanging a glance with Daryl. It’s a subtle signal for him to take the lead. He’d rather not, but it’s Rick, so he listens.

Lowering his crossbow, he edges forward. “C’mon, snap outta it,” he growls. The cut of his voice makes him cringe; he’s never been good with words.

When you don’t react, Daryl tries again—a little closer this time. His hand reaches for your shoulder despite his better judgement. 

A switch flips the second he touches you. Without warning, your arm shoots out, a blur of motion that sends your hatchet swinging wildly. The instinct to defend yourself—to fight—is so ingrained that it comes as natural as a breath. 

Daryl barely manages to dodge the assault. He pivots back, feeling the blade against strands of his hair. Then, as quick as it started, it's over.

You're looking at him now—not through him. Sweat is beading on your face, running down your cheeks like tears. Daryl knows better than to wipe it. As he stands out of his crouch, realisation flashes behind those massive eyes of yours. 

“God—I’m sorry,” you gasp, breath ragged. “I’m so sorry... I thought you were—” You don’t finish. You don’t have to. He knows. Everyone knows exactly what you thought you were seeing.

Rick let's out a sigh: half relief, half exhaustion. He throws a backwards glance at the gathering crowd, raising one hand in a calm gesture. “Go on,” he says to them, “back to bed.”

Daryl hears their protests. It's understandable; they'd raced from their rooms only to find the source of the threat was some raging loon having a nightmare—as harsh as it sounded.

“You gave us quite the fright there,” Rick continues, turning his attention back to you. At this moment, he's demonstrating more tact than he shows his own children. “Do you need someone to stay with you?”

You shake your head, barely lifting your eyes. “No.”

Rick shifts his weight, searching for something else to say. He doesn't believe you, Daryl can tell by his stance. But that's not his problem.

By now, Daryl had already retreated to the door, watching you from a safe distance in the dim light. He’s seen this in people before—the way the world cracks them open like an egg. It’s never pretty. And it would have been less pretty if he'd been standing just a half-step closer to you.

“Well, if ya do,” Daryl says, his voice still edged with sleep, “it ain’t gonna be me. I wanna keep my head.”

The words come out harsher than he intends, but he doesn’t care enough to fix them. He’s tired, irritable, and the way you can’t meet his eye right now is getting under his skin. So Daryl steps back into the corridor, leaving Rick alone to deal with you.

His cell isn't the same as it was a-half-hour ago. It looks the same, doesn't feel it. It's quiet, but in his mind, that scream still rings like an alarm he can't shut off. On his cot, too, he fights with the covers. They're everywhere—too hot, too stifling. Too reminiscent of your emaciated body, tangled in bedsheets as you looked to Daryl for answers.

And he'd just left you there: wide-eyed and afraid.

Daryl doesn’t sleep that night.

Neither do you.

A/N Merry Christmas and happy holidays, lovers! I hope you've had a good one. I have eaten such ungodly amounts of cheese. That said, enjoy this lil gift from me. I busted my balls to get it out today - alternating between stuffing me face and putting words on the page. So do let me know if you like it! I also hope the change in POV isn't too confusing. I want to tell this story from both of their perspectives, since reader is a little bit of an unreliable narrator haha. Enjoyyyy x

[xoxo-sarah]

A Trapped Memory

My Wife part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Series Masterlist

↝a/n: I finally found the time to upload; sorry for the delay! The next chapter might have a little bit of smut- you didn't hear it from me, though! 🙊

↝pairing: season1!Daryl Dixon x wife!reader

↝warning: not proofread, the usual TWD gore and stuff, flashback, eating, eating steak? Lord knows Daryl isn't doing without meat, CDC, mention of suicide, alcohol

↝⎙ 3.18.25

|| Disclaimer: I do not own Daryl Dixon, or any character from The Walking Dead. I only own y/n and any characters I create with my own brain. ||

Daryl Dixon Masterlist | Main Masterlist

“That’s asking an awful lot these days.” The man stepped forward. Fear coursed through your veins just as your blood did. The man looked frazzled, not only with the gun shaking in his hands and the uncertainty on his face, but his hair was wild, shirt stretched and wrinkled like he had been woken up. His eyes looked tired; not sleepy-but emotionally exhausted.

“I know,” Rick shifted his weight, hoping and praying the man would have mercy. The man’s crazed, unsure eyes searched all of you, watching as you all held baited breath.

The barrel was becoming warm under your grip. Daryl stepped closer to you, looking behind himself just to make sure any walkers didn’t get too close.

The pale man finally spoke after staring, weighing his options. “You all submit to a blood test. That's the price of admission.”

Rick sighed in relief, “We can do that.” He nodded.

The man put the gun down, “You got stuff to bring in, you do it now,” he pointed at the shutters, “Once this door closes, it stays closed.”

Feet shuffled across the yard, back to the vehicles. People grabbed anything they deemed important. Everyone seemed to already have everything.

You didn’t.

Something was holding you back.

With one last look at Daryl as he shuffled through another set of doors, you ran back. Past the smell of rotten corpses and straight to the truck.

Daryl yelled after you.

Slinging the old, creaky door open harshly, you immediately pulled the vizor on the driver’s side down. A white rectangle fluttered down into the worn seat.

Daryl ran to the truck, beating on the hood, and looking at you like you were crazy. Maybe you were.

Grabbing what you came for, you slammed the door shut, running back to the building.

Daryl wavered behind.

Reckless; that’s what your actions were.

Everyone stared as you ran back, Daryl on your tail at that point. The blond/greying man stared at you, then to what you had in your hand. He swiped a card, “Vi, seal the main entrance. Kill the power up here.” Gears rattled, doors clanking.

Still trying to catch your breath, you avoided Daryl’s eyes as he glared into the side of your head, eyebrows knitted. Inhaling deeply, you looked down. Flipping it over, you stared at the picture. A trapped memory.

~flashback~

You had just bought the camera. You had seen it while walking through a thrift store before heading home. The sweet lady at the counter had let you know the camera needed film, giving you a heads up that a store down the road carried some. Arriving at your second stop before heading home, you bought some blank white polaroids.

Stepping in the house, you didn’t expect there to be a delicious aroma wafting through the small house. Daryl walked out from the kitchen, eyes practically lighting up at seeing his wife.

He put the dish rag down after wiping his hands, before walking over to you. The door shut behind you as you put the bag and your keys on the table by the door. His hands sat on your hips as you put the camera down beside the bag.

“How’s work?” Daryl kissed your forehead, looking down into your eyes.

“Just another day,” you sighed. “What’s that smell?”

“Supper. Steak, potatoes. Stopped by and got stuff for salad.”

“You hummed, already having your mouth water. “Haven’t had steak in a while.” You stepped out of your shoes as he nodded, pulling back.

As he went back to the kitchen, you went to your bedroom, changing into something more comfortable. By the time you walked out of your room, Daryl was setting the plates. Given his childhood, setting the plates, eating at the kitchen table, cooking together- hell, even just having a non-toxic relationship was foreign. It wouldn’t matter how long you were together for. He tried, you both did. The majority of the time, you would eat dinner on the couch. Sure, many grandparents would probably curse you for it -burn you at the stake even- but it didn’t matter. It was your house, your couch, your life--together.

Walking up behind him, you put your arms around his waist. He continued scooping mashed potatoes on each of your plates, before scooting yours over.

“Bon-apple-teet, or whatever the French say.”

A chuckle slipped past your lips before you let go of him, grabbing your plate.

Daryl made sure he turned the oven off, before opening the fridge. You grabbed your plate, along with his, and walked to the living room. Setting the plates on the coffee table, you sat down, reaching for the remote, before switching through the channels.

Daryl walked in, lifting an open beer bottle to his lips, a glass in his other hand, wine bottle under his arm. He flopped on the couch beside you. He made quick work of pouring you a glass of wine as you tried to find something to watch.

All that seemed to be on were reruns or some crappy tv show with terrible acting and a worse plot. Sighing, you gave up, sitting back as some rerun played.

You both began digging into your food, sitting in comfortable silence aside from the laugh track of the show. The flavors melted on your tongue. You silently thanked yourself for teaching Daryl how to season food correctly. He silently did the same from beside you. Daryl would eat anything, no matter the taste. If it was food, he was fine with it. Anything is better than starving.

He swallowed before grabbing his beer, turning to you, “Fixed my bike today.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What was wrong with it?”

“Brake pads. Drained the old oil, too. Keepin’ myself busy ‘til you got home.”

“Maybe we could go for a ride tomorrow.”

Daryl’s eyes lit up again. Going on rides through the backroads was always relaxing after a long week. Saturdays were usually the days you could both let loose. Wind could blow through your hair, taking the burden of the week with it. Daryl loved that rugged bike, and in turn, you did too. “Sounds like a plan.”

The tiny tapping against the hardwood floor averted your attention. “Ball of fluff.” Daryl tsked, watching the dog stretch from her nap. Before walking over to sit by your feet.

“She needs a bath.” You smiled, already knowing Daryl was readying a sigh and eye roll combo. The puppy hated baths. Usually Daryl took the lead as you guarded the door, towel ready to wrap around her soaked body. It’s not like you didn’t try to swap roles, Daryl persisted every time. He didn’t want you getting scratched– like he has plenty of times.

Finishing your plate, you scooted to the edge of the couch, grabbing a napkin to wipe your mouth.

“I stopped by that thrift store Mary, from work, is always talking about.”

“Whatcha get?” He took another swig of his beer, watching you stand and walk over to where you had set the bag down. Bringing it over, you put an empty polaroid film in the camera. A sneaky grin etched across your face before Daryl could guess what you could possibly be planning. Before he knew it, you turned the camera around, clicking the button.

He grumbled, reaching for you. You moved away, giggling as you waited for the picture to develop. He watched as you smiled at the picture.

“Throw it away.” He squinted his eyes up at you, keeping eye contact as you walked over, sitting back down. You threw your legs over his lap. His hands instantly went to your calves, massaging the stress from the work day.

I want one of us.” You bit your lip, putting the picture aside, before angling the camera toward the both of you. You paused, licking your teeth, before baring them at him. “Anything in my teeth?” He looked before shaking his head.

He continued looking at you as you raised the camera, smiled, and took the picture. When the picture developed, you frowned before actually raking in how he was looking at you. In awe. You could actually see the love he had for you.

The picture instantly became your favorite.

Sadly, you had put the camera on a shelf and forgot about it.

The picture of Daryl was put in your car, the other put in Daryl’s truck. He loved it just as much as you did, even if he didn’t admit it.

You were both happy in the few years you were together. It wasn’t until a couple years later that Daryl got down on one knee.

Sure, the portrait of you two wasn’t perfect, with your fingers covering some of the lens, and it being slightly slanted. It was a perfectly imperfect representation of your relationship.

“Don’t throw that one away.” He picked the polaroid from your fingers, looking down at it.

You weren’t going to tell him that neither were going to be trashed.

~~~

The elevator hummed. Everyone was packed tightly in the box like sardines. You stood beside Daryl, staring down at the picture in your palm. Daryl shifted from beside you, scooting in on himself to give you more room. It didn’t help.

“Doctors always go around packin’ heat like that?” Daryl asked, crossbow in one arm and shotgun in the other.

Dr. Jenner glanced back, “There were plenty left lying around. I familiarized myself.” He nodded, looking around at the strangers he had let in. “But you look harmless enough.” He gave Carl a look, “Except you. I’ll have to keep my eye on you.” Carl tried hiding his grin.

Stepping out of the elevator, Jenner led you down the hall.

“Are we underground?” Jenner looked at her, “Are you claustrophobic?”

“A little.”

“Try not to think about it.”

“Vi, bring up the lights in the big room.”

A halo of light lit up overhead a bunch of machines and computers.

“Welcome to Zone Five.”

Rick followed the doctor further into the big room.

“Where is everybody? The other doctors, the staff?”

“I’m it. It’s just me here.”

Lori began questioning the doctor, “What about the person you were speaking with? Vi?”

“Vi, say hello to our guests. Tell them.. “Welcome.””

A robotic voice emitted from all around, “Hello, guests. Welcome.”

Jenner threw his hands up, frowning. “I’m all that’s left. I’m sorry.”

-

Laughter emitted from everyone around the tables that were pushed together to make a large table.

Dale was ever the jokester.

“You know, In Italy, children have a bit of wine with dinner.” He laughed, raising his bushy white eyebrows ar Lori, who held her hand out for the glass of wine the elder was pouring. “And in France,” He added.

“Well, and when Carl is in Italy, or France, he can have some then.” She took a swig from her glass, letting the liquid coat her mouth with its rich and complex flavor.

Dale grabbed your glass, refilling it with the Merlot.Rick chuckled at his wife covering Carl’s cup when Dale turned back toward them. She gave Dale a stern look, turning to her husband.

“What’s it gonna hurt? C’mon. C’mon.”

Dale laughed, watching Lori stare down Rick, before turning to Carl, before shrugging. She moved her hand, letting Dale pour a little in the cup. “There you are, young lad.”

Carl took the cup in curiosity, sipping at the liquid. He quickly put the cup back down, pulling a face of disgust that made you laugh. “Ewww!” He shook his head, trying to rid the pungent flavor off his tongue. Lori patted his back with a proud expression, “That’s my boy,” she reached for hid cup, pouring what was left into her glass. “That’s my boy.”

“Yuck! Tastes nasty.”

“Well, stick to sodapop there, bud.” Shane commented from behind his conjoined hands, elbows sat on the table.

“Not you, Glenn.” Daryl moved from his spot beside you. The younger man looked up, confused, the alcohol already taking its effect, “What?”

“Keep drinking, little man. I want to see how red your face can get.”

You smiled as people hollered.

A clicking against a glass and Rick standing up drew everyone's attention.

“It seems to me we haven't thanked our host properly,” You glanced over at Jenner, who sat at a small table a little away from the conjoined tables. T-Dog raised his glass, “He is more than just our host.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Here’s to you, Doc. Booyah!” Daryl raised the wine bottle, smiling down at you.

Everyone started their own conversation. You looked down at your plate, zoning out.

Daryl walked over, squatting beside you. “You alright? Haven’t said nothing.”

You shook your head, “Yeah, just tired.” You offered him a small smile. He hesitantly stood, topping off your glass before taking a swig out of the bottle.

“Been a while since I was able to have wine. Should’ve grabbed a case before going to the city.” The thought of wine collecting dust in your old house brought a frown to your face. Maybe another group of survivors would run across your house and be able to take the edge off. Maybe they would need it more than you.

Daryl placed his other hand on your shoulder, slowly kneading the wound up muscles.

You gave him a close-lipped smile, patting his rough hand across your chest.

“So, when are ya gonna tell us what the hell happened here, Doc?”

At Shane’s question, the little bubble of normalcy was popped. Everyone stopped smiling, finding their empty plates or the bottom of their glasses all the more interesting. Shane stared at Jenner, wild eyebrows raised. He liked the attention now being brought on Jenner, as if he still owed you all something after letting you in. “All the uh-the other doctors that were supposed to be figuring out what happened. Where are they?” Shane grabbed his glass, sloshing the wine around.

“We’re celebrating, Shane.” Rick sent a warning glare to his bestfriend, the bestman to his wedding, the man that held the record for the most stubborn man that Rick knew. The man that didn’t know when to quite. “Don’t need to do this now.”

“Woah, wait a second. That’s why we’re here, right?” Shane countered, holding his palm up to Rick. “This was your move- supposed to find all the answers. Instead we-” Shane cut himself off with a humorless chuckle, “We found him.” He snorted, pointing at Jenner with his thumb. “Found one man. Why?”

Jenner spoke up, “Well, when things got bad, a lot of people just left. Went off to be with their families. And when things got worse, when the military cordon got overrun, the rest bolted.”

Shane licked his plump, chapped lips. “Every last one?”

“No, many couldn’t face walking out the door. They…opted out.”

You brought the wine to your lips, swollowing more than what was normally appropriate.

“There was a rash of suicides.” Jenner looked away, “That was a bad time.”

Andrea didn’t waste much time before questioning him herself, “You didn’t leave. Why?”

“I just kept working, hoping to do some good.”

Glenn stood, walking over to sit at a table near instead of a counter where the alcohol was making seem way higher than it really was. The boyish grin from before was gone. Everyone was sullen with how the dinner had ended up.

Glenn looked at Shane.

“Dude, you are such a buzzkill, man.”

Part 5

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•My work is not to be translated, copied, modified, and/or reposted on any other site without my permission. [I do NOT give permission!]

Tags for people who enjoyed the last 3 chapters: @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch @wwalkergutzz @buckyssbestgirl @darylmysavior @queen-of-bad-ideas @notmirnda @vomiting-blood @i93jjk @multifandomfan @gaudesstuff @cymbalta-slut

[kaayyyys]

hii dear, can you write something with daryl x reader in a relationship where he had just gotten used to receiving physical affection from his gf and since then he cannot stop holding ou being clingy with her even in public? it could be at the prison bc i miss earlier seasons daryl😭

We love clingy relationships .

Yesss the prison era was soon memorable it's been on my mind recently

The watchtower creaked a mournful song in the wind, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their sanctuary. But tonight, in the relative quiet of the prison block, the sounds felt distant, muted. Daryl sat beside you on the edge of your cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort but enough for the two of you to huddle together. The ever-present tension that coiled tight in his shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly as his calloused hand found yours.

It was a marvel, really, how far they'd come. Just months ago, the idea of Daryl Dixon, the gruff, solitary hunter, initiating any kind of physical contact beyond a necessary pat on the back would have been laughable. Now, he sought it out. Not with words, of course. Daryl wasn't one for grand pronouncements or flowery language. But the way his eyes followed you, the way his hand instinctively reached for yours whenever you were within reach, the almost imperceptible softening of his features when you touched him… it spoke volumes.

The change had been gradual, almost imperceptible at first. A lingering brush of his hand against yours as he passed you a knife, a shoulder bumping yours a little harder than necessary as you walked side-by-side on a scavenging run, a fleeting touch to your back as he guided you through a crowded room. Each small gesture a tentative probe, a silent question: Is this okay?

And you, understanding the vulnerability hidden beneath his rough exterior, had answered with gentle smiles, a returning squeeze, a comfortable lean. You understood that for Daryl, physical touch wasn't just a sign of affection; it was a language he was only just beginning to learn. A language of safety, of trust, of belonging.

The prison, for all its grimness, had fostered a strange kind of intimacy. Shared hardships, the constant threat of death, the necessity of relying on one another… it had stripped away the layers of pretense and forced them to confront their rawest selves. You had seen Daryl at his most vulnerable, witnessed the pain that haunted his eyes, the scars, both visible and invisible, that marked his past. And he, in turn, had seen your strength, your compassion, your unwavering hope even in the face of despair.

Tonight, the silence between you wasn't uncomfortable. It was a companionable quiet, filled with unspoken understanding. Daryl’s thumb traced circles on the back of your hand, a small, repetitive motion that was strangely soothing. The gesture grounded you, reminding you that even in this broken world, there was still tenderness to be found.

He hadn't always been so open, so… clingy, as Carol had teasingly called it the other day, earning her a glare that could curdle milk. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Daryl wasn't used to having someone to hold onto, someone who wanted to be held. He'd spent so long pushing people away, building walls around his heart, that letting someone in was a completely foreign concept.

And now that you were in, now that he had finally allowed himself to be vulnerable, he seemed almost desperate to maintain that connection. It was as if he feared that if he let go, even for a moment, you would disappear, vanish like a mirage in the harsh desert of their reality.

The hand-holding had started subtly. A brief clasp of fingers during a particularly tense moment on a supply run. A comforting squeeze when one of the younger children had a nightmare. But lately, it had become almost constant. Walking through the prison yard, waiting in line for food, sitting around the campfire at night – Daryl’s hand was invariably intertwined with yours.

At first, you had found it endearing, a sweet and awkward expression of his affection. But now, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in his demeanor when your hands weren’t connected. A furrowing of his brow, a slight stiffness in his posture, a barely perceptible unease in his eyes. It was as if a part of him felt incomplete, adrift, without that physical connection.

You had noticed this most acutely on a recent scavenging run to a nearby town. The streets were eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the crunch of their boots on shattered glass and the distant moans of walkers. Daryl, as always, was in the lead, his crossbow raised, his senses on high alert. You walked close behind him, your hand hovering near his, but not quite touching.

You wanted to give him space, to avoid being a distraction. He needed to focus, to be aware of his surroundings. But as the minutes ticked by, you could feel his anxiety growing. He kept glancing back at you, his eyes searching your face, a silent question in their depths.

Finally, as they rounded a corner and encountered a small group of walkers feasting on a fallen corpse, Daryl stopped abruptly, his hand shooting out to grasp yours. His grip was tight, almost painful, but you didn't pull away. You understood. It wasn't just about physical comfort; it was about reassurance. It was about knowing that you were there, that you were safe, that he wasn't alone.

He dispatched the walkers with brutal efficiency, his movements swift and precise. But even as he reloaded his crossbow, his hand remained firmly clasped in yours. It was only when they were back inside the relative safety of the prison walls that he finally released your hand, but not before giving it a lingering squeeze, a silent thank you.

Now, sitting beside you on the cot, you knew you had to address it. You couldn't let him continue to rely on you so heavily, to use physical touch as a crutch. It wasn't healthy for either of you.

"Daryl," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tensed, his eyes darting to yours, a flicker of apprehension in their depths.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice gruff, his hand tightening its grip on yours.

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. "Everything's fine," you reassured him, "But... I've noticed you've been... needing to hold hands a lot lately."

He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. "So?" he mumbled.

"So," you continued gently, "I love holding your hand, Daryl. I really do. But I also want to make sure you're okay. That you're not relying on it too much."

He remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on your intertwined hands. Finally, he looked up, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and defiance.

"It makes me feel better," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Makes me feel like... like I ain't gonna lose you."

Your heart ached for him. You understood his fear, his need for reassurance. But you also knew that he needed to learn to trust, to believe that you weren't going anywhere.

"I'm not going anywhere, Daryl," you said firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "I promise. But you need to know that you're strong enough to stand on your own, even without me holding your hand. And I'll always be here for you, whether we're touching or not."

He searched your eyes, his expression searching, questioning. Then, slowly, a flicker of understanding dawned in his eyes.

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Okay," he said, his voice stronger now. "Okay, I'll try."

You smiled, relieved. "I know you will," you said, leaning in to kiss him softly. "And I'll be right here, every step of the way."

As you pulled away, he hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was a sign of trust, of vulnerability, of a love that was growing stronger with each passing day, even in the face of the apocalypse. And as you leaned your head against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you in a comforting embrace, you knew that even without holding hands, they were still connected. Connected by something far deeper, far more profound. Connected by the unbreakable bond of love and trust that had been forged in the fires of their shared survival. The prison might be a cage, but within its walls, they had found freedom in each other.

[mee30p]

Links page

Needs you to sleep ˗ˏˋ♡ˎˊ˗

☽ Summary: Daryl finds himself after a sleepless start to his night wandering down the street of Alexandria until he arrives at your house.

☽ Warnings: nothing really? Fluff, Talking about sleeping with shoes in the bed

☽ Word count: 0.8k

It’s an ungodly hour but Daryl can’t seem to get to sleep at all so he found himself laying on his back in his bed staring at the ceiling. A common reoccurrence for him. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t settle into Alexandria as quickly as the others have, it feels wrong like he’s waiting for it to all come crumbling down again the second he lets down his guard. Hell it took him a whole fucking week to stop sleeping fully clothed boots and all with his cross bow ready incase something happened.

 Daryl had been tossing and turning in bed for what felt like hours yet he couldn’t find a single position that would allow him to silence the chaos in his head. Sure Alexandria seemed relatively safe, safer than most places he’s been in a long time. But no matter what he did or how many people he spoke to he could never manage to let down his guard. He couldn’t bring himself to enjoy the luxury of this seemingly peaceful and safe life. Maybe it was just a little too domestic for his liking. the woods were all he knew, since childhood he’d never really settled into normality. 

Like clock work for the past few weeks every few days. Daryl finds himself once again walking down the dark empty streets of Alexandria towards your house. He tells himself it’s just to clear his head and try to tire himself out but like always he finds himself gripping the handle of your front door and pushing it open before he can even think about the time seeking the comfort of your presence as much as he hates to admit it. 

Much to his surprise you are already awake sitting in the living room of your small house at a table smoking a cigarette, a near finished glass of what seems to be whiskey in your hand. You purse your lips and hum before taking a long drag of your cigarette and letting the smoke curl out of your mouth “couldn’t sleep again?” you hum with a tilted head. Daryl shakes his head in response despite you telling him you don’t mind him coming over anytime there's always an embarrassed but hard to miss expression on his face as he rubs the back of his neck. He scans the room, his gaze locking with yours as you look at him. “Nah.. tried but couldn’t. Ended up here again” He mutters, his voice low and tired. 

“Seem to always” you point out in a mutter but your tone is soft and clearly suggesting that you need his company as much as he needs yours. You nod to the chair opposite you at the small square table. Daryl grunts in agreement as he flops down into the chair, his body sinking into the wood. He rubs his hands over his face, clearly exhausted. "Yeah, it seems like it." he sighs, his gaze flickering to the glass of whiskey in your hand before meeting your eyes once again. "You wanna finish this off?" you offer as you stand up and slide the whiskey glass over to Daryl. You put out the butt of your cigarette on the ashtray before sighing loudly. You watch the last of the amber liquid disappear into Daryl’s mouth then down his throat before you grunt softly and start walking.

 “Come on” Is all you say but it’s all he needs to hear as Daryl follows you to your bedroom, a thing that has become a wordless routine for the both of you. You climb into your side of the bed before watching as Daryl toes off his boots and pull off his jeans leaving them on the floor before climbing into bed next to you.

Once you determine that Daryl is in a comfortable position you shimmy over to his side and drape a leg over his and an arm over his midsection before laying your head on his upper chest. Daryl tenses initially like every time before he melts into the touch, both of you don’t dare to utter a word because you both know this isn’t something best friends just do and stay strictly just friends. You let out a final sigh before your eyes flutter shut quicker than they do without Daryl laying next to you hand on your hip. 

Despite Daryl's seemingly never ending insomnia the moment he feels you let out a final sigh a wave of content and drowsiness washes over him. As much as he hates to admit it, Daryl needs this, he needs you to sleep, he needs to feel your body pressed against his and he needs to feel your soft breathing as you sleep safely against him. Sooner than expected Daryl feels his eyelids become heavy with the weight of sleep before he gives up and shuts them fully, his mind and body finally at peace even if it’s just for tonight your presence is one luxury he allows himself to delve in. 

[ars0nists-lullabye]

massage

pairing: rick grimes x reader

summary: you’re sore after a supply run. rick *ahem* massages you 😏

warnings: smut, fingering, MDNI, +18

word count: 2k

----------------------------------------------------------------

You’ve just gotten back from the supply run, and it’s been a long, exhausting day. The sun had been setting as you and Rick made your way back to the house, your legs sore, your mind drained from the constant tension of being out there. The world outside is unpredictable, but here, in the quiet comfort of your shared space, it feels like a small slice of normal.

Now, you’re sprawled out on the couch, your legs tense and throbbing as a dull ache settles into your muscles. You’re shifting uncomfortably before you feel a dip in the couch and warm hands are lifting your calves. You blink your eyes open to see your legs now resting on Rick’s lap as he begins working on your aching muscles. His gaze is soft as he glances at you and you sigh contentedly. His hands are already making slow, firm movements along your calves, his fingers digging into the knots that have built up from hours of walking.

"Feels good," you mutter, your eyes fluttering closed as you settle deeper into the cushions, the weight of his hands soothing you more than you expected.

Rick smiles down at you, his fingers working expertly into your muscles. "Yeah? Good. You pushed hard today. Had a feeling you’d be sore."

You nod, too exhausted to argue. It had been a long haul, and you definitely hadn’t been thinking much about taking breaks when you were on the run. But now, with Rick’s hands on you, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you in this small house, in this rare moment of peace.

He shifts his position slightly, and you can’t help but be aware as his hands slide up your thighs, his touch gentle but firm. His fingers move in a slow, methodical rhythm, and it feels… good. More than good, in fact. You’re suddenly hyperaware of the way his hands feel against your skin, the way his touch is so natural, so deliberate.

You try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach, but when his thumbs press a little harder into the sensitive muscle just above your knee, you can't suppress the soft breath that escapes your lips. Rick doesn’t miss it.

He pauses for a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours again. There's a knowing look in his gaze that makes your pulse spike.

You see a glint of something in his eyes, curiosity maybe. He continues to massage your muscles, this time moving further up your inner thighs.

You gasp quietly and he grins.

"What is it, baby? This getting you going?" he asks, the teasing edge to his voice impossible to ignore.

Your heart races, and you feel your face flush instantly. You don’t know how to respond, so you look away, suddenly embarrassed. Your gaze drops to your hands in your lap, trying to distract yourself from the heat building in your cheeks.

Rick chuckles softly, and you can feel his smile more than see it. "Don’t get shy on me now, honey," he says, his voice warm but with that playful undertone that always manages to make your heart skip a beat. "Just tryin’ to help you out."

You look up at him then, the words failing you. He’s still smiling, still focused on you with that confident, steady presence. The way he looks at you—like he can see through all your defenses, like he’s known you better than you’ve known yourself—has your stomach doing somersaults. His hands never stop their work, though, and slowly, the sensation of him massaging your legs begins to ground you again. But you can’t help but feel that something has shifted in the air between you two. The teasing in his voice, the way he seems to be aware of your reaction—it’s all a little more… intimate than it was a moment ago.

"I… I didn’t mean to…" you stammer, still trying to find your bearings. But you can’t quite get the words out. The vulnerability of the moment, the way he’s looking at you, makes you feel exposed, but in a way you can’t deny you crave.

Rick’s grin softens, his touch becoming more tender, almost as though he’s reassuring you. "You don’t gotta explain it," he says quietly, leaning in a little closer, his face just inches from yours. "It feels good, right? You’ve been working so hard and I’ve been so busy, I haven’t really been taking care of you properly have I?."

You swallow, your throat dry as you let his words settle over you.

His fingers move further as he continues speaking, not really massaging anymore but lightly grazing, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

‘Why don’t you let me take care of you now, huh? Been such a good girl. You want me to make you feel good?’.

You nod a little breathlessly and he smiles, his touch just skimming where you need him most and moving to the button of your pants. He undoes them and begins to pull them down, murmuring. ‘Lift up for me, sweetheart’.

You do so, embarrassingly fast, and he has to bite back a smile at how eager you are. He feels a little guilty too, knowing how long it’s been since he was able to take his time with you, to make you squirm, to make you cum. Until now, that is. His gaze darkens and his eyes lock on yours as he pulls the pants off your legs, leaving you just in your underwear and top.

The pressure, the heat of his hands, the quiet intensity of his gaze—all of it mixes together, and you feel your body relax even more than before.

Rick shifts so he’s leaning over you, his body warm and pressing you down into the couch. He kisses you gently, cupping your face in his palm as his tongue slides over the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. You grant it and feel him invade your mouth, his tongue massaging yours. One hand is planted near your head where he holds himself up with his forearm, the other begins to pass over your stomach, trailing up your ribs before palming at your breast.

You enjoy foreplay, and so does Rick; touching and teasing you until you’re pleading with him to make you cum. But tonight, you’re tired and sore and you need relief. He can tell when you whine a little as his hand slips under your top and thumbs at the peak of your nipple under your bra.

You break from the kiss and mutter ‘Rick. Please.’

His gaze softens but remains dark. He moves to place a kiss on your jaw and then on your neck, pecking and licking as your chest heaves.

You whine again and he shushes you.

‘Shh, baby, it’s okay. Gonna give you what you want. Why don’t you tell me what you need, huh?’ he adds, his face coming up to meet your eyes again.

‘You want my mouth? My fingers?’

You blush deeply under the intensity of his gaze but you can’t help but nod and breathe, ‘Yes, your fingers’.

Rick smirks a little and hums, ‘Yeah?’

And then his fingers are gone from your chest and trailing instead on the front of your panties. He massages a little between your legs, expertly finding your clit under the dampening fabric and stroking it as your head falls back against the cushion.

"There we go," Rick murmurs, his voice soft, low. "That’s better."

You nod, eyes closed and pulse racing.

‘You getting wet for me already, baby?’ He adds and you blush again, turning your head to the side.

He breathes a laugh.

‘You don’t gotta be embarrassed, honey. Know that must feel nice. You want more?’

You nod and hum a little desperately. Ricks hand pulls away as he murmurs ‘What was that?’

You know what he wants. He wants you to say it. You act fast to appease him.

‘Yes, yes Rick I want more’.

You don’t see him smile but you imagine he does as you feel his fingers at the seam of your panties, dipping below the fabric until he finds your sex, wet since he began massaging your calves.

‘Jesus, you’re soaked’ he groans to himself as his fingers spread your wetness before coming up to rub gently at your clit. You gasp at the feeling, this time with no barrier, and your thighs clamp around his hand instinctively.

Rick tuts, and removes his hand and your eyes fly open in protest. But then you feel him pulling your panties off and moving down your body so he can hold your thighs open. He pauses and blows cool air onto your pussy, smirking again when you jolt and he chuckles quietly saying,

‘Okay, sweetheart, no more teasing. Gonna make you feel real good.’

His thumb slides up through your slick, stopping again at your clit as his left hand rests on your mound, pulling the skin back gently to lift the hood. He begins to rub and stroke the wet nub directly and you shudder with pleasure, your body tensing and face flushing as Rick watches you darkly.

Keeping the hood of your clit exposed with a few fingers, his other hand moves down and you feel a finger circling your entrance. Rick smiles as he feels you pulsing around nothing, and at how you clench when he pokes just the tip of his finger inside. Continuing his ministrations on your clit, his finger presses all the way in and he begins to pump it slowly. You push your head back into the pillow and groan.

‘More, please’ you pant and Rick adds a second finger, moving them in and out a little quicker. He begins crooking them upwards, pressing against your warm walls searching for the spot to make you squirm.

He grins when you moan loudly, hands grasping for purchase on the leather couch before they settle on grabbing the pillow beside you.

‘There it is’ Rick murmurs darkly. ‘That’s your spot isn’t it baby?’ He hums as he continues to press his fingers against it again and again, pleasure shooting through you as your toes begin to curl.

‘Yeah, that’s it’ he continues. ‘Right there.’

He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, eyes watching your reactions intently as your legs press against him, his shoulders keeping them open.

‘Rick’ you moan, hips moving along with his touch. ‘Gonna cum’

You feel him smile against your thigh.

‘Yeah? Already? Must feel really good’ He teases and you blush. His smile widens as he notices there flush on your face, and he adds ‘It’s okay, honey. Know that must feel so nice. Can’t help it, can you? You gonna cum for me?’

You moan again as you clench around his fingers, nodding desperately as you pant.

‘Yes, yes’ you nod and it’s Rick’s low voice that sends you over the edge.

‘Yeah, sweetheart, that’s it. So good for me, hm? There it is. Good girl’.

He continues to pump his fingers inside of you slowly, his thumb rubbing your clit over the hood now as you grow sensitive, and you jolt and tense in the aftershocks of your orgasm and Rick’s filthy words.

You sigh as he pulls out of you, kissing your thigh again softly and then kissing up your stomach and chest before you meets your face again.

‘Feel better?’ He asks, watching you with amusement as you pant, and you nod, smiling, still a little dazed.

Rick kisses you again then, deeply, and you forget about the sore muscles in your legs as you wrap your thighs around him and press against him, breathing in his smell and getting lost in the feeling of his body on top of yours...

——————————————————————————

[zomquette]

Dunno ‘er - (part 2)

Daryl Dixon x Wife!reader

Summary:  You didn’t sign up for a brainwashed death cult. But here you are—collared, bruised, and pretending not to know your own husband.

The escape plan? Still cooking.

But life has other ideas.  Like watching everything you love go up in smoke. And then, when all hope’s gone, a miracle with a familiar face walks into your gun sight.

Problem is… you’re both one second from falling apart. Oh and you have a daughter waiting for you back home.

Genre: Post-apocalyptic angst, emotional/eventual smut, established relationship, captivity survival, hurt/comfort, reunion.

⚠️ Content Warnings: Graphic violence and murder / Captivity and psychological torture / Dissociation, trauma responses, emotional numbness / False death / burned body imagery / Religious cult themes / Grief, survivor’s guilt, PTSD themes / Explicit sexual content (PIV, double creampie, desperate/reunion sex/ Dacryphilia? Praise kink?) / Sexual content while grieving / Strong language / profanity.

Author's note: Seriously, if you can't handle angst, don't read this — it's pretty intense. I'm still a bit unsure about fitting so much into one part. I fear that that may have stripped it of all the tension, cliffhangers, and blah blah, but let me know what you all think. This is roughly 10% fluff, 50% angst, and 40% smut. And honestly, I'm quite proud of the smut I wrote, hehehe. I promised smut in the last part, and I am a woman of my word (I'm ovulating, so that's why it's filthy). BUT THIS IS SO LONG, WTF — every post I make gets longer than the last. Also, the rage I’m harbouring right now is unhealthy. I stayed up all night writing this, and it didn't save, so I had to use an old draft. Real ones would have seen the og post being posted at an unduly hour and deleted right after cause it was the wrong version. Anyway, this will never be as good as the original one I had, but whatever. I think I’ve just been trying to perfect this so much that I’ve grown tired of the story. I tried my best to make itly thorough, but I cba doing 5 or 6 part series, so deal with it. Anyway, erm, enjoy. 🔫 Good luck reading this, honestly, but if you do manage to get through it, please let me know what you think! If you want a part 3 or maybe I should just stick to one-shots, lol. rushed, be real

The sky was beginning to soften at the edges, that pale pink glow creeping over the tops of the houses like an afterthought. Alexandria was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like peace. It felt like absence.

Carol had barely slept. She’d tried—curled up on the couch with a half-read book in one hand and Dani’s head pressed against her chest—but every creak in the house made her sit upright. Every gust of wind that whispered against the windows made her turn her head. They were supposed to be back by nightfall.

They weren’t.

She told herself a hundred reasons why. A blocked path. A long shot. An overnight holdout. Nothing she hadn’t done herself. But as the night stretched longer, those excuses stopped fitting right.

The sun was just beginning to rise when the barking started.

Frantic, erratic barking. 

Carol was already on her feet by the time she registered the sound. She crossed to the front window first, peeking through the curtains, her hand resting instinctively near the blade at her hip. Behind her, Dani still slept on the couch, curled on her side with one arm flung over her stuffed giraffe.

Carol hesitated, casting a glance back at the girl. Quietly, she moved to her side, brushing a few strands of hair from Dani’s face. The child didn’t stir.

Then the barking came again—sharper now, urgent.

Carol straightened, her pulse catching. She moved to the door.

Then she saw him—Dog—barreling through the gate, his paws kicking up dust, his fur slick with sweat and burrs. He didn’t stop for anything. Not the gate, not the guard. He bee-lined for the house like he had something to say and no way to say it.

Carol’s blood went cold.

“Shit.”

The door creaked open behind her.

“Is it them?” Dani’s voice, soft and raspy, still half-asleep. She stood in the hallway, holding her little giraffe toy by the neck, her hair mussed and face creased from the pillow.

Carol turned, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s Dog, sweetheart. He came home.”

Dani blinked up at her, confusion flickering in her features.

“But—where’s Mama?”

Dog let out a sharp bark then, circling back toward the gate as if expecting someone else to follow. When no one did, he whined—just once—and laid down at Dani’s feet, panting hard.

The moment stretched too long.

Dani’s little voice cracked.

“Where’s Daddy?”

Carol crouched slowly, gathering the girl into her arms. Dani didn’t cry. Not yet. But her lip wobbled, and her little fists clenched in Carol’s shirt like she already knew. Carol closed her eyes against the rising sun and whispered into Dani’s hair.

“We’re gonna find them, sweetie. I promise.”

------

The clang of the iron doors echoed louder than it should have. Morning haze burned off above, revealing a sunken courtyard lined in metal and concrete—an arena. It was crude but intentional, like a forgotten parking lot retrofitted into a coliseum. Creed soldiers stood posted on ledges above, rifles in hand, their blank stares as chilling as the frost in the air.

You and Daryl were led in side by side, wrists still raw from rope burns, flanked by two guards whose silence felt more threatening than any shout. Marshal waited at the far end, leaning against a pillar like he owned the damn sky. “Welcome to the next phase of your integration,” he said with a smirk. “Time to see what you’re really made of.”

Daryl’s eyes scanned over the crpowd and landed back on Marshal; “the hell does that mean?”

Marshal didn’t flinch. He only smiled—a small, patient expression that suggested he’d been waiting for Daryl to ask.

“What it means,” he said, tone steady and deliberate as his eyes flicked from Daryl to you, “is that we’re gonna see whether the two of you are built for survival, or just lucked your way this far.”

Daryl’s posture shifted—shoulders drawn tight, chin lifted ever so slightly. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

“You both say you’re not part of any community,” Marshal continued, stepping in closer, voice still calm but now laced with something colder, meaner. “You say you’ve got no ties, no attachments, no liabilities. Well, we’re about to test that. See how deep that independence really goes.”

He made a vague gesture to the empty space in the center of the pit, and only then did you notice the chalk ring, faint but deliberate, drawn onto the dusty floor. A makeshift arena.

“Rules are simple,” Marshal said, glancing back at the onlookers gathering behind the barricades. “You step into the ring. You fight. No weapons. No kills. Just enough to show us you can survive without sentiment.”

His eyes landed squarely on you. “Win, and you prove you’re valuable to The Creed.”

Then to Daryl, his smirk returning. “Lose… and you prove you’re not.”

Daryl took a step forward, his voice dropping low with that same dry, dangerous rasp that never needed to be raised to hit like a bullet. “You want us to fight each other?”

Marshal didn’t answer at first. He let the silence stretch, enjoying the crackling tension like a man toasting marshmallows over an open fire. Then, with an infuriating shrug: “You said you’re strangers. Shouldn’t matter.”

You exhaled slowly, eyes sweeping the chalk ring, then up to Daryl.

He looked like he was staring down a bull, not his goddamn wife.

Daryl’s boots scraped against the dirt as he stepped into the ring with the stiffness of a man preparing for an execution—his own, not yours. His body moved like it didn’t want to, like every muscle was strung tight and on the verge of snapping. You tilted your head, watching him with a slow grin, even as your stomach coiled into knots.

You lowered your voice to a whisper only he could hear. “C’mon, Dixon. You’ve been waitin’ to knock me on my ass for years. Now, sack up and hit your wife already!”

His glare cut sideways. “Ain’t funny woman.”

“No,” you muttered back, cracking your knuckles, “but if you don’t swing at me in the next thirty seconds, this whole charade is gonna fall through.”

Around you, the crowd pressed in like vultures, a mess of hushed chants and boots grinding on dirt. Marshal stood still at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, unimpressed. His eyes were sharp, hungry for weakness, waiting for blood.

“Hit me,” you hissed. “Make it look good.”

Daryl looked like he wanted to argue—of course, he did—but then his jaw twitched and his shoulders rolled back, and suddenly he was moving. You ducked the first lunge, then let him catch you on the second, his grip firm but careful as he shoved you backward just hard enough to send you sprawling with a theatrical grunt.

You landed on your back, winded only by the sheer performance of it, then popped up fast and grinned like the world’s cockiest fox. “That’s the spirit, baby.”

He shook his head once, biting back a smirk.

You circled him again, letting your feet slide through the dust as you closed the distance. Then—without warning—you leapt forward and tackled him.

The crowd gasped. So did Daryl.

He landed hard, and you were on top before he could blink, straddling him with your knees locked against his sides. One hand went for his throat—not to crush, just enough to push his head back into the dirt, your body draped low enough that your lips brushed his ear as you murmured, hot and slow, “Ooh, gettin’ déjà vu, baby.”

His breath hitched. You felt it more than you heard it.

You leaned in closer, still whispering, still completely out of pocket. “Y’know, if this is what it takes to spice things up, we should fight in front of a cult more often.”

All joking aside, the last thing you two needed was for things to ‘spice up’ in the bedroom. Daryl’s eyes flashed, and in one fluid motion, he flipped the two of you over. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t even dominant. It was like his body did it on instinct, like the muscle memory of being with you overrode every ounce of caution.

He straddled you now, both of you panting, faces close, his giant hand going to your throat to give the illusion he was choking you now. Now you were the one getting Deja vu - for one suspended second, the world dropped away.

His palm hovered at your throat, barely brushing it, thumb ghosting the pulse there—not enough to leave a mark, not even close, but enough to look convincing to the frothing crowd around you.

Then he murmured low, voice rough and electric: “Keep talkin’, woman, and we’re gonna give the whole Creed a show.”

You snorted under your breath, “thought that was the plan.” You reached up and grabbed his wrist, eyes wild with mock fury, and hissed, “Well, this is familiar.”

His whole body tensed.

“You tryna get me killed?” he rasped low through clenched teeth, voice almost drowned out by the chant rising from the circle around you—“Fight, fight, fight!”—as boots stomped rhythmically against the dirt.

You batted your lashes, whispered, “You love it.”

Then you kneed him in the side—not hard, not enough to do damage, just enough to get him to roll. You broke apart in a scramble of limbs, dirt smearing across your cheek as you rolled to your feet, breathing hard, brushing your hair from your face in a single, showy sweep.

Daryl was up just as fast, crouched low, boots spread, that predator stance of his back in full force. His eyes flicked to you, then around the ring, then back again. 

He wasn’t enjoying this. But to his credit, he was playing along.

You gave him a cocky wink and charged again, this time twisting mid-run so he couldn’t catch you outright. You ducked beneath his arms, spun behind him, and hoisted yourself up using his shoulders. Your legs swung around to lock around his neck. The momentum of your movements and your added weight brought him crumbling down to the ground, your iron grip not faltering. 

The crowd hollered like it was a strip show. Your thighs were still locked around his neck, not crushing at all. Daryl would happily fall asleep like this if it weren’t for the angry mob surrounding the two of you. You grinned down at him, all sugar and sin. “That reminds me, actually,” you purred, angling your hips for dramatic flair. “—you still owe me for that bet yesterday, Dixon. And I’m thinkin’ this counts as double interest. I’m thinking maybe me on top and then-”

You didn’t get to finish the sentence.

Daryl’s hands shot up and dug mercilessly into your ribs—that precise spot he knew that gets you every time..

“Daryl!” you screeched, your legs faltering as your grip broke under the betrayal. That asshole was tickling you. You twisted, half laughing, half furious, trying to wriggle free, but he rolled with you, fluid as a predator, and the next thing you knew, Daryl was straddling you again, his face flushed, his breath warm and smug on your cheek.

“You fight dirty,” you gasped, still squirming.

He leaned down, pinning your wrists to the earth. “Learned from the best.”

The crowd roared its approval behind him—none the wiser to the fact that your brutal, breathless brawl had just taken a sharp detour into foreplay.

You were still breathless beneath him when his eyes flicked toward the growing crowd—some of them cheering, some confused, and one or two looking suspiciously too entertained. Marshal’s expression was unreadable, but his arms were crossed, and that never meant anything good.

Daryl must’ve felt the change in the air too, because the next thing you knew, he was gripping your waist and lifting you clean off the ground.

Your yelp turned into a squeal of half-genuine panic as he hauled you upright, holding you like a goddamn ragdoll in some bastardised wrestling move you were almost sure he learned from watching you and Judith play WWE.

Your legs kicked slightly in protest, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, and your voice came out a little more shrill than intended;“Don’t drop me, Dixon. Not in front of my fans!”

Then you flipped backwards off him, hitting the ground in a clean roll that had half the crowd gasping and the other half cheering like they’d just watched a WWE pay-per-view. You let the momentum carry you into a crouch, then sprang up with a fake jab that Daryl dodged with practised ease, his eyes tracking you the way a storm watches a matchstick flame.

“Sell it,” you hissed when your face passed his. “Hit me like you mean it, or I will break your nose. For real.”

He growled low. “Ain’t hittin’ you.”

“Then throw me again, you stubborn bastard.”

He did. He swooped you up and dropped you dramatically—but with enough control that you hit the ground in a well-rehearsed tumble, landing on your side with a grunt that made it look real. He crouched beside you instantly, all faux menace and steady hands.

You stayed down for a beat—long enough to convince the watchers you were down for good—then moved.

Not fast. Explosive.

Your legs hooked behind his knees, yanked hard, and Daryl hit the dirt with a grunt of surprise, his fall cushioned only slightly by instinct.

The crowd reacted immediately—cheers, hollers, a few startled laughs—and you were already scrambling over him, straddling his chest before he could fully register what just happened. You raised your elbow in the air, giving Daryl the signal—a silent cue only the two of you would catch—and started ‘punching’ him with exaggerated flair. He played along, grunting like you were knocking the sense out of him, head snapping to the side each time your fist made theatrical contact.

Each blow was sold like a soap opera brawl, complete with breathy snarls and eye rolls, until the crowd started eating it up. Somewhere near the front, someone shouted, “Finish him!” and you gave a little wink like you might.

“C’mon, baby,” you muttered under your breath between ‘hits,’ keeping your expression fierce for the audience but your voice low just for him. “Gimme some sound effects or they're gonna think you're a bottom.”

He groaned dramatically in reply—part pain, part exasperation. “Remind me never to piss you off for real.”

You raised a brow. “You say that every time.”

Then you threw another punch, complete with an over-the-top snarl, and this time he flopped sideways, one arm sprawled out like you’d just KO’d him in a Vegas ring.

You leaned back, arms raised in mock victory like a bloodthirsty crowd champion. The Creed audience roared.

Then, just to seal the deal, you grabbed his shirt, hauled him up halfway—then headbutted him.

Not hard. Just enough to send him reeling backward in shock, the motion letting you roll smoothly off him like you’d planned it all along.

The Creed crowd loved it. They erupted, hooting and clapping, some banging fists against whatever passed for a makeshift wall. A few even started chanting something unintelligible, just thrilled by the show of violence.

Marshal didn’t look thrilled.

You circled Daryl as he sat up slowly, rubbing his temple and blinking like someone had just unplugged him from a simulation.

“That one was for the hickey you gave me right before council meeting last week, asshole.” you said sweetly, brushing fake dust off your pants.

“Cmon Dixon get up,” you barked, pacing like a feral thing now. “I swear to God, if I have to carry this whole scene myself, I want a cut of the ticket sales.”

He struck first—predictable. A sharp, looping jab aimed to rattle, not bruise. You ducked with a twist of your neck, caught his wrist mid-swing, and used his own weight to spin him in place, your boot skidding in the dust as you leveraged his momentum and shoved him shoulder-first into the ground.

But he rolled with it, literally, came up on one knee already moving, and this time it was you dodging a backhand that would’ve blacked your eye. He didn’t hesitate—not because he meant it, but because the crowd didn’t know he didn’t.

You kicked high. He caught it mid-air. Smirked. What an asshole.

You bent with the held leg and launched your other foot at his chest. He stumbled—more from surprise than force—and you dropped into a crouch, one hand finding the dirt. He didn't waste any time and lunged again.

You met him halfway—no wasted motion, no theatrics. Just two bodies colliding with the precision of old instincts. You traded blows: elbow to ribs, forearm to throat, the twist of his fingers catching your braid before you slammed your palm into his stomach and flipped him clean over your shoulder.

He hit the ground hard. You followed, straddling him yet again, making sure to keep him pinned to the ground.

And then—your faces aligned. Close. Breath mingling. His mouth twitched.

“Think Marshal’s buyin’ it?”

“Think I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as his hands gripped your thighs too tight to be innocent.

You sat up on him, pinning his shoulders with your knees, then pretended to throw a punch—only to pause mid-air and flash a sickly sweet smile down at him.

“Smile for the crowd, baby.”

The crowd was howling now. Half of them were ready to crown you queen of this dirt-pit, the other half probably needed a cold shower. It didn’t matter. You were selling it.

And then came the whisper: “Ready to end it?”

Daryl gave you the faintest nod.

You feinted a punch to his side—he read it, blocked—and that’s exactly what you wanted. You twisted your arm in his grip, used the torque to propel your body up, and flipped yourself over his shoulder in a tight, ruthless arc. His grip slipped. His balance shattered. He staggered back, just for a breath—and that’s all you needed.

You ran straight for him.

A short sprint. Three steps. You jumped.

Your boot planted on his thigh, then his shoulder, and in a blur of motion you vaulted off him—body spinning in the air, twisting behind him like a goddamn storm—and brought him down with a brutal scissor-kick to the back of the neck.

He hit the ground hard. Wind knocked out. Face-down in the dust.

And before the crowd could blink, you were on him—foot planted between his shoulder blades, hand gripping his wrist, pulling his arm behind his back in a vicious, joint-lock hold. You leaned low, whispering just for him.

"You good? Ready for the big finale yet?" 

His breathe studdered from beneath you; "thought that was the finale-"                                                           

The crowd was eating it up now, hollering, whooping, even laughing in scattered bursts. But Marshal didn’t look amused. His jaw was tight, his arms still folded.

That moment of connection flickered between you and Daryl—something hot and dangerous beneath the surface—and just as quickly, you broke it. You rolled, forcing him off, staggering to your feet with a limp you barely sold.

“Round two?” you rasped, catching your breath.

Daryl grunted, getting to his feet with a glare that was more fond than furious. “You’re an asshole.”

“You married me,” you said sweetly. “Suck it up.”

From the edge of the crowd, Marshal’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Enough.”

Marshal’s voice split the air like a bullet, slicing clean through the chaos with the kind of finality that didn’t invite argument. The shift was instant. The onlookers, once rowdy and riled with bloodlust, fell into a jarring silence—uneasy, expectant. Like they’d just sensed a storm rolling in.

You froze mid-step, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths, hands still half-raised in your theatrical stance. Across from you, Daryl was already watching Marshal like a hound scenting something foul, his posture rigid, fists clenched tight at his sides.

Marshal stepped into the ring slowly, arms folded, his boots dragging dust over the edge of the chalk line like he was crossing into holy ground. He didn’t look amused. Didn’t look impressed. He looked tired of the performance.

“That was cute,” he said, his voice low and stripped of inflection. “Entertaining, even. But this ain’t a circus.”

He nodded toward the edge of the crowd, toward one of the waiting soldiers.

“We need soldiers.”

Then, eyes fixed on Daryl, he added: “You’ve been benched.”

Daryl blinked once, slow. “The fuck does that mean?”

Marshal’s mouth twitched—not a smile, not quite.  “Means you're out. She needs a real fight - with someone who can actually keep up.”

You didn’t see the snap. You felt it.

Daryl stepped forward fast, body tight as wire, his voice a rasp of fury that cut clean through the space between you. “Fuck that.”

The crowd shifted like a tide turning—weapons twitched, fingers hovered near triggers, boots repositioned subtly for tension.

Marshal didn’t even blink. “Stand down,” he said, calm as poison. “Unless you wanna be executed for insubordination.”

Daryl didn’t move at first. His shoulders rose and fell with shallow, furious breath. His eyes never left Marshal’s.

That’s when you stepped in—just your eyes, one sharp look. Enough.

It didn’t say please. It said: Don’t you fucking dare. You’ll get us both killed.

His jaw clenched. You could practically hear the bones grind. But he stepped back—barely. One foot, then the other, like he had to pry himself away from the fight inch by inch.

You didn’t thank him. There wasn’t time.

You turned back toward the center as the new opponent stepped into the ring. One of Marshal’s men—a tall, wiry bastard with a sunken mouth and cracked knuckles. No theatrics. No grin. Just the cold, blank expression of someone who liked to hurt and had been given permission to do so.

He circled you like a vulture, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly, studying the angle of your stance the way a butcher sizes up a carcass before the cut. You didn’t smile. You didn’t wink. No playful mask this time. You just rolled your neck until it cracked like splitting wood, dropped your weight low into your hips, and squared your shoulders as if made of stone.

Marshal gave the nod.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t feint. He lunged like he meant to kill.

His fist tore through the air with the speed of a blade. You dodged—barely—the wind of it rushing past your temple, but the elbow followed fast, and that one landed with surgical precision, driving up beneath your ribs so hard your vision flashed white at the edges. You didn’t fall. You couldn’t. You swallowed the pain like gravel in your throat, gritted your teeth, and met him halfway with a sweep of your leg that caught his ankle and knocked him off-balance. But he was fast—too fast—and his recovery was brutal. A sharp kick drove into your thigh, the kind that bypassed muscle and hit deep in the bone.

Daryl flinched on the sidelines, his fists clenched so tightly the veins bulged white along his arms. You didn’t dare look at him. Couldn’t afford to. One glance would undo the dam inside you, and right now, rage was the only thing keeping you standing.

You drove your fist into the man’s side, followed with a right hook. He stumbled but didn’t drop. He came at you again, heavier this time, his full weight behind each strike. You blocked with your forearms, tried to deflect what you couldn’t match, but the next hit came low and fast—his shoulder ramming into your chest like a battering ram—and it sent you sprawling.

You hit the dirt hard—hard enough that the breath tore out of you and something inside your shoulder screamed. His full weight had slammed you down, and your left arm was twisted awkwardly beneath your body, caught between bone and earth.

The pain hit instantly, flooding your entire side like molten lava.

A sharp, wet pop echoed beneath your skin—ugly, unnatural. Your shoulder socket tore free on impact, the joint wrenching loose with the kind of blinding agony that didn’t wait for movement. It was dislocated - there was no doubt about it. You felt it. You heard it. 

Your scream didn’t make it past your teeth. You bit down so hard you felt the skin split in your mouth, tasted copper, refused to let anything escape.

Across the pit, Daryl moved—just half a step, just a flicker—but it was a full-body jolt, like watching a dam crack under pressure. His mouth opened, words shoved through clenched teeth. “Call it,” he barked. “That’s enough.”

Marshal didn’t even glance at him. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on you like he was watching a fire that hadn’t quite burned out yet.

You forced yourself to your feet with one arm, the other limp and heavy at your side, and you saw it—Daryl saw it—the shift in your body, the unnatural sag of your shoulder, the way your dominant side refused to lift. His lips parted again like he was about to shout something worse, something final, but your eyes caught his.

Don’t.

Your opponent didn’t wait for the pain to settle. He grabbed your wrist—your good one thank god—and yanked. You pivoted with the force, used his own momentum to slam your foot into his stomach, hard enough to make him buckle. Then you spun low, your good elbow jamming into his back with a crunch that reverberated through your bones. He snarled, twisted—grabbed a handful of your hair and yanked your head back with a vicious jerk.

That was his mistake.

You drove your skull backward, slammed it into his face, and the sound it made—the crunch of cartilage, the sudden rush of wet breath—wasn’t just satisfying, it was necessary. His nose exploded under the impact, blood streaking down over his lip.

You didn’t pause. Couldn’t. You dropped into a half-crouch and launched yourself up off your planted hand, flipped mid-air like muscle memory had kicked in before your brain could stop it, ankles locking around his neck in a move stolen straight from a dirtier, hungrier kind. He had no time to react. Your weight pulled him off his feet, and both of you hit the ground hard, limbs tangled, his body slamming into the dirt beneath yours.

But this time you didn’t straddle him for show.

This was for survival.

Your knees pinned his shoulders. You reared back, drove your foot into his outer thigh once, twice—three times. You felt the tissue twitch under the impact, felt his leg jerk in response. He twisted, tried to buck you off, but you rode it out, kept your weight low, your good hand curled into a fist ready to drive into his temple if you were given the chance.

You couldn’t kill him.

But God, you wanted to.

You rocked your weight forward and pivoted, stepping back just long enough to wind up and bring your heel down hard on his knee with a crack that sounded like dry wood snapping in a bonfire. The scream that followed wasn’t human. He writhed beneath you, hand clawing at the dirt, but it was too late. That leg was gone.  Karma's a bitch I guess.

The crowd recoiled. Gasps. Silence. One or two even clapped.

You stood tall, chest heaving, blood pounding in your ears, your arm hanging limp and useless at your side while your good hand curled into a trembling fist. You stared down at the man—sobbing, wheezing, gripping what used to be his knee—and felt no pity. No triumph. Only the endless, gnawing ache of restraint.

Because you could have ended him. Easily. You’d wanted to. But you didn't - that was your mercy.

Silence. No cheers. No chants. No roaring applause. Just stillness—unnatural and smothering, like the crowd itself had inhaled and forgotten how to let go. Dust settled in the space between heartbeats. Your chest heaved, your arm hung dead at your side, and across the pit, Daryl stood frozen, shoulders coiled tight as wire, one hand half-lifted like he might’ve moved to catch you if he could.

Marshal didn’t speak right away. He let the silence ferment, let it sting. His boots crunched slowly across the chalk ring, measured, unhurried, each step deliberate enough to curdle the air. Then, with a faint, deliberate click of tongue against teeth, he offered a slow round of applause. Not dramatic. Not mocking. Just three sharp, echoing claps, spaced apart like rifle shots.

“Well,” he said at last, voice easy and quiet, like he was remarking on the weather. “Wasn’t how I saw that going.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The fire in your shoulder had gone from burning to throbbing, every thud in your chest sending a pulse of white-hot pain down your side. You felt like you were going to pass out if you moved wrong. If you breathed wrong.

Daryl’s hand clenched into a fist, then relaxed again—barely. His stance had shifted. He wasn’t just watching you now; he was watching Marshal, watching every soldier on the ledge, watching the curve of a rifle barrel as though one might twitch the wrong way at any moment.

Marshal tilted his head, just slightly, toward the man groaning in the dirt behind you. “Shame about the leg,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then he drew his pistol.

The gunshot cracked through the air so suddenly, so violently close, that you didn’t hear it as much as feel it—like the sound tore through your ribs and rattled loose something in your spine. For a half-second, you were certain it was meant for you. Or maybe Daryl. Maybe both of you. Your breath caught somewhere high in your throat, chest seizing as every nerve braced for impact.

You flinched hard, your body twisting on instinct, and your left arm—the one already half-dead from the dislocation—jerked with the motion. Agony exploded through your side like shrapnel, so sharp and bright it turned your vision white. You bit back a scream, but Daryl’s sharp inhale carried across the ring like a warning bell, ragged and raw enough to cut glass.

Your knees buckled slightly, though you caught yourself before you hit the ground. For a moment, everything was too still. Too quiet. Your ears rang. Your heart thundered. And then your gaze fell to the dirt just feet in front of you—where the man you’d just fought now lay sprawled, motionless, a dark hole torn clean through the side of his head. Blood spread fast beneath him, seeping into the dry dust in rivulets that caught the firelight and made them shine like rubies.

Marshal holstered the pistol without fanfare. “Wounded is weakness,” he said simply. “Weakness corrupts.”

Your legs nearly buckled again, not from the throb in your shoulder or the lingering ache in your spine, but from something colder—something that wrapped around your ribs like a vice and refused to let go, because the truth of what had just happened was settling in, and it wasn’t shock or horror that filled your chest, but something far more damning.

You had killed him.

Inadvertently so, but it didn't change the brutal fact that it had been him or you, and you weren’t ready to be the one left bleeding in the dirt.

He was a Creed loyalist. You were a mother. A wife.

And in that split-second where the gun cracked through the air like thunder, your mind hadn’t registered fear for him, or sorrow for what you’d done—it had simply braced itself for the recoil that never came, for the pain that never followed, for the death that had passed you by.

You stared at the body crumpled in the sand, at the unnatural stillness of it, the blood that painted the earth like it had always belonged there, and what haunted you most wasn’t the sound of the shot or the look in his eyes—it was the sick, echoing awareness that you didn’t feel hollow.

You didn’t feel anything—no horror, no relief—just the slow, creeping realization that if it came down to it again, if it wer him or you, you wouldn’t hesitate. You wouldn’t flinch. You’d let it happen. Maybe even make it happen. ; because you had a daughter who still needed her mother alive, and a husband who fought tooth and nail for his wife. And that truth settled over your skin like ash—quiet, heavy, and irreversible. 

The pit was still silent. You weren’t sure if anyone dared breathe.

Marshal's gaze returned to you.

It wasn’t a leer. Wasn’t kind. Just slow. Calculating. His eyes swept your frame like he was scanning for rot—one shoulder slumped too low, one hand curled and unmoving, blood at the corner of your mouth from where you’d bitten it to keep from screaming.

“Any injuries?” he asked, tone casual.

Your heart seized. The pain made it hard to think, hard to breathe, but you knew the answer had to be immediate.

“No,” you said too fast, eyes dropping to the ground, shame and fear twisting your voice into something thinner than it should’ve been. “No. I’m fine.”

Marshal watched you too long. Not suspicious—just curious. Like he was cataloguing you. Taking stock of what you’d held back. Then his head tipped slightly, just enough to signal his next move.

“You two. Report to the Commander,” he said, his voice slicing clean across the pit, cold and administrative now. “He’ll want to see you.”

Daryl’s body tensed beside you, still wired like a sprung trap, but he nodded once. Sharp. Controlled. You could feel the fire building in his bones. Not because of the command, but because of the fact that your arm was hanging loose at your side and your poker face was uncanny.

As the guards stepped forward to begin herding the crowd back, you let your eyes drift toward the smoke trail of Marshal’s pistol and then to the far end of the ring—where a group of lower-ranked soldiers stood clustered in loose formation, eyes flicking between the corpse, Marshal, and the two of you. One of them looked away when your eyes met. Another stepped aside, just slightly, like making room for you to pass. No one was watching too closely anymore.

You sipped to the edge of the gathering just as Daryl turned to follow one of the guards up toward the next gate, never once glancing your way, even though you knew—you knew—his eyes were screaming beneath the stillness.

You ducked around the side of a crumbling support wall, slipping through a narrow break in the concrete where the scaffolding hadn’t been finished. Your boots skidded briefly on loose gravel. You bit your lip hard, tears stabbing behind your eyes as the motion jarred your shoulder, but you didn’t stop.

No one called after you. No one shouted. If someone noticed, they said nothing.

You had 5 minutes, maybe less.

Enough time to get somewhere dark, somewhere hidden, somewhere you could scream into your arm without bringing the whole goddamn Creed down on your head.

You moved deeper into the scaffolding, away from the noise, slipping between beams and bent steel until the arena sounds faded into something thinner—just the wind brushing through the open concrete and your own shaky breaths trailing behind.

It wasn’t far, but it felt like another planet. Quiet. Empty. A half-built service hall, roofless, shadows crawling long across the dust. You found a corner where the walls curved in on themselves, and you sank there, back pressed against the cold steel, boots scuffing the dirt as you slid down to the floor.

You hadn’t realized how hard you were shaking until you stopped moving.

Your arm was screaming now, not just pain but heat—throbbing, swollen, wrong. You could feel the joint hanging half-loose, the weight of your own arm pulling against the socket like a torture device. The adrenaline had worn off, and now your body was just a cage of nerves and fire.

You took a deep breath. Braced your heel. Gripped your wrist with your good hand.

And pulled.

The scream punched out of you before you could swallow it down. Short. Raw. Half-choked. It echoed against the hollow scaffolding like a flare, and your vision went white for a second, head spinning with nausea and heat.

Panic bloomed sharp in your chest.

You’d just made a sound. Too loud. Too much. Too exposed.

You scrambled back, heartbeat pounding, breath caught in your throat as footsteps crunched fast across gravel. Heavy boots. No time to hide. No time to fake it.

You pressed yourself tighter to the wall, back teeth clenched, heart climbing higher up your throat—until the figure rounded the bend.

And it was Daryl.

You sagged.

Just a little. Just enough for the fear to break and relief to roll in like a tide. Your whole body slumped toward him, breath catching on something ragged.

“Shh. Just me,” he said finally, voice low and soft, rough with unshed fury and held-back comfort. 

You gave a small, broken laugh that tasted like tears.

He reached for you—so gently, like his hands didn’t quite believe they were allowed to touch you. When you didn’t flinch, he pressed his fingers to the edge of your shoulder, light as a feather. His jaw clenched.

“Shit, baby,” he murmured. 

You nodded, swallowing hard.

“Were you tryin' ta fix' that on your own?” he muttered, voice fraying at the edges as his eyes swept over your face, then your posture, taking in the tension, the sweat, the way your lip was nearly bitten through. “Jesus, you coulda made it worse—why the hell didn’t you wait for me?”

You couldn’t look at him. Not right away. Not when your body was still fighting not to scream.

“I didn’t want them to see,” you managed, the words small, ragged, sharp-edged with pain and something like shame. “You saw what happened to that guy back there. All cause of his leg-" The pain was so overbearing it was heard to get out a full sentence, not without pausing to take a shallow breath. "Fuck, I definitely made it worse."

Daryl let out a slow, quiet exhale, and then his eyes met yours again—steady, grounding, blue like dusk. His hand brushed against your waist, tentative.

“Gotta take a closer look, alright?” he motioned at your shirt, silently asking if he could take the thing off of you.

You didn’t hesitate. You nodded.

You trusted him more than you trusted the ground under your feet.- why he still was nervous about asing to take your shirt off was beyond you.

He moved closer, his hands going to the flannel shirt they’d thrown at you that morning. It was two sizes too big, probably belonged to someone long dead, and stiff with dirt and dried sweat. He undid the buttons with slow, careful fingers, peeling it away from your skin to get a better look at the damage beneath.

His breath hitched. The joint was swollen to hell. The skin already bruised, tinged ugly with purple and red.

“Fucker got ya good, baby,” he whispered, so low you barely caught it.

You just leaned your forehead against his chest, letting the smell of him wrap around you—blood, dirt, smoke, and Daryl.

His arms were already enveloping your frame in preperation. One hand braced against your ribs, the other settling over your bruised skin..

“Alright,” he muttered, voice like gravel but softer than you’d ever heard it. “I need ya relaxed, okay? Just breathe. Ain’t gonna lie, this’s gonna suck. But after, it’ll be a lot better.”

"That's what she said," You chuckled. 

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then his brow ticked, his jaw twitched, and he gave you a look so flat, so utterly unimpressed, it might’ve knocked the pain right out of your body if looks could cauterize.

“Really?” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he regretted every life decision that led him to this moment. “You got one shoulder hangin’ by a thread, and that’s what you open your damn mouth for?”

But there was a flicker behind the irritation, something small and warm. The barest quirk at the edge of his mouth that betrayed him completely.

He shook his head, more fond than annoyed now, and positioned himself at your side again.

“Fine. You wanna joke through this, go on. Whatever floats yur boat.”

Your smirk faltered just a little.

He leaned closer.

“Deep breath, baby.”

You nodded again, squeezing your eyes shut, trusting him in a way that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way his hands held you like you were breakable, even when you’d just broken someone else’s leg.

“Alright, on three. One. Two—”

A white-hot bolt of pain tore through your shoulder before he could even say three. You cried out, breath caught halfway between a scream and a sob, but the pain stopped almost as soon as it came, replaced by a deep, nauseating throb—and a sudden, shocking relief.

It was back in.

You collapsed against him, arm limp but whole again, sweat beading on your brow. Daryl pulled you into his lap like it was second nature, one arm wrapping around your back, the other cradling your head like he needed the contact just as much as you did. He didn’t say much, just cooed you, small mumbles like ‘you’re alright,’ repeating it over and over until it would hopefully become true. He held you. Rocked you. Pressed his face into your hair and let the silence stretch between you like a blanket.

His fingers moved in slow, steady circles across your spine. He didn’t pull away, didn’t break character, didn’t speak any of the thousand things you could feel hammering behind his ribs.

He just stayed. Because sometimes that was the only thing left to give.

And you took it, without question, curling into him like a heartbeat—quiet, wrecked, and tethered to the only safe thing you had left in this godforsaken place.

You just let him hold you, your body curled into his like muscle memory, every tremor in your limbs answered by the steady rock of his hand over your thigh, his thumb brushing soft patterns through the dirt-smudged fabric. His other hand moved in slow circles through your hair, catching every knot and strand with the same reverence he might give a prayer.

But eventually, you felt your voice claw its way up.

It came out broken. Nasal. Thick with exhaustion. Your face was buried in his chest, cheek sticky with sweat and tears, and still you said it, soft and raw like confession.

“…It’s gonna get a whole lot worse than this, isn’t it?”

Daryl didn’t answer at first.

He just kept stroking your thigh, hand tightening slightly like he could hold the pain in place, contain it in the spaces between your skin and his palm. His fingers threaded through your hair again, a little slower now, dragging the weight of the moment down with them.

Then, voice low, gravelled at the edges, more breath than sound: “Yep.”

Your hand drifted, almost without thought, to your ring finger—a reflex you’d picked up when things got dark, when you needed the comfort of copper pressed against your skin like a vow you could still touch. But your fingers met only bare flesh, and the absence struck with the sharp, sick shock of dislocation—like your shoulder popping loose all over again, but this time deeper. 

Daryl noticed it too.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching your hand in his calloused grip. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and steady. “It’s just a ring, alright? Don’t matter.”

You looked up at him, your throat tight, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes. “No, it’s not,” you said, your voice raw and a little cracked. “It wasn't just a ring and you know it.”

He took your hand gently, rough fingers curling around yours like a promise he didn’t know how else to keep. Then, without a word, he lifted it to his lips and kissed the place where your ring used to be.

“No, it don’t matter,” he murmured, voice thick, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m yours. Always been. Always will. Don’t need no jewellery tellin’ ya that.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lashes trembling with the weight of everything you couldn’t say. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him—you did. You just missed the ring. Missed what it stood for. The copper band he’d forged by hand. The night he gave it to you, asking you to be his even when the world had gone to hell. And now… it was like it never happened.

“Fine. I’ll getcha another one. I'll make ya... a hundred more rings,” he said quietly, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Each one better than the last.”

That managed to crack a smile—small, but real. The kind that pulls from someplace deeper than your pain.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words barely more than breath.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, like he was memorizing the shape of your face, the curve of your lips, the sound of your voice when it said those words and meant them.

Then he leaned in, slow and steady, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was less about passion and more about grounding—about staying human.

“Love ya too,” he whispered against your lips. 

And even as the ache in your shoulder pulsed like a living thing, even as dread curled low in your stomach for whatever came next, you knew it was true. Maybe you didn't need your ring after all.

_____________

They led you through the winding gut of the compound in silence—stone and metal corridors that stank of wet iron and dust, like a slaughterhouse that’d been hosed down too many times and never properly dried. The guards flanking you didn’t say a word. 

Daryl kept close. You could feel him even when you couldn’t look at him—every footstep in rhythm, every muscle in him strung like wire, ready to snap. His hands were balled into fists, jaw twitching, eyes everywhere. Watching every shadow like he expected it to reach out and swallow you whole.

You didn’t speak either. You didn’t need to. The ring finger of your left hand brushed his once, just briefly, the faintest nudge between curled knuckles. He didn’t look at you, but you saw his thumb twitch.

Ahead, a pair of steel doors groaned open. Marshal stood by the threshold, that cracked smirk stitched into his face like bad taxidermy. “Commander’s waiting,” he said. “Let’s not keep him.”

That didn’t sit right. Nothing here ever did, but this felt off. There was no reason for the Commander in all his infinite glory to see you. Not unless you’d either proven yourself… or failed.

You stepped through together.

The room beyond was a brutalist chapel—high ceilings, exposed steel beams, one stained-glass window that’d clearly been stolen from a church long collapsed. Makeshift pews lined the walls, but no one sat. No one spoke.

The Commander stood at the far end, hands clasped behind his back like a preacher. His hair was white—not grey, white—and buzzed down to the skin. His face looked carved from stone, weathered and scarred, but his posture was graceful. Eerily so. Marshal took his place beside him, his mouth bent in the kind of sneer usually reserved for livestock that refused to die quickly.

The Commander smiled. “Welcome.”

Daryl shifted forward a fraction, his body angling just enough to place himself slightly in front of you, protective instinct flaring sharp and silent beneath the surface.

You let your eyes sweep the space again before flicking your gaze back to the Commander, your expression unreadable.

“What is this?” you asked, voice light but laced with bite. “We here for Sunday school or something?”

The Commander’s laugh came easy—too easy. Warm, affable, almost disarming in its sincerity. But it died before it reached his eyes, the sound fading fast into something hollow. Something practiced.

The Commander’s smile barely moved his mouth, a thin line carved with deliberate intent as his gaze swept the room, pausing on each of you with the unnerving stillness of a man who already knew how the next chapter would end.

“This is where the cleansing begins,” he said, the words soft enough to mimic welcome but spoken with the precision of a knife unsheathing. “Don’t worry—we won’t make you sing.”

The quiet that followed was absolute, the kind that coated the inside of your ears like wax, the kind that arrived before pain.

And then it began.

You didn’t see them coming—not at first, not fully—just a flicker in your peripheral vision, the suggestion of motion too fast, too fluid. Two guards emerged from the shadows like teeth from a closed jaw, hands already reaching, already locking in. You barely had time to turn before they were on you, palms pressing hard to the pressure points beneath your arms, nerves struck with deliberate accuracy. Your body spasmed with instinct, not decision, your breath caught mid-inhale as you opened your mouth to shout—

—but another hand was already there, clamping tight over your face, muffling the cry into a useless vibration against their palm.

Daryl’s reaction was immediate.

You felt it before you saw it—the air change, shift, twist. He was across the room in a blink, already moving with that lethal sort of purpose that made everyone else seem slow by comparison, his body weight tipping forward like he was ready to go through bone if that’s what it took.

Your name left his throat like it was being torn out.

He reached for you at the same moment Marshal stepped in.

The club caught Daryl mid-lunge, smashing across his ribs with a thud that sucked the sound out of the space, his body twisting under the impact but not falling. Not yet. He staggered, caught himself, went for them again.

You weren’t passive—not for a second. You twisted, thrashed, drove the back of your head into someone’s nose with a crunch that made your eyes water. One of them cursed, but the grip didn’t break. You tried to wrench free, tried to swing your boot, but they were ready—this wasn’t the first time they’d done this, and your resistance had already been factored in.

Your eyes locked with Daryl’s just as he flung one of the guards off him with a roar that was barely human.

You reached for each other.

Your fingertips brushed.

And then it happened.

A sound split the moment open—sharp, cracking, awful. Pain exploded through your skull, white and absolute.

Your legs went out beneath you.

The world spun. Your stomach flipped once, hard, as the floor rushed up with sickening speed, and for the briefest second, you couldn’t tell which way was up or whether you were even still breathing. The scent of blood and oil and scorched candle wax filled your nose, thick and iron-heavy, as your face hit the concrete.

Daryl saw it all.

And in that instant, something in him snapped.

No words now, only raw fury— Daryl charged forward again, not caring if he bled, not caring if he lived, just needing to reach you. Another blow came, this one to his thigh, staggering him, followed by another to his neck. He kept moving. They swarmed him—two, three, four bodies at once—and still he fought, clawing forward with the kind of desperation that made men legends or corpses.

Then came the strike to the head.

It landed with a sickening thud.

He collapsed without sound.

His last thought was your name, slurred and broken in his mouth.

The final thing either of you saw before the world fell away was the Commander—arms behind his back, posture serene, eyes locked on the two of you as though he’d just clipped the wings off a pair of butterflies and was waiting to see how long they twitched.

____

Pain came first.

It bloomed behind his eyes like a bruise turned inside out, then crawled down his spine, slow and electric, until every nerve felt like a wire left out in a storm.

His skull throbbed. His mouth tasted like rust.

And something heavy was pressing against his chest—like the air itself had thickened, curling around his ribs and refusing to let go.

When Daryl opened his eyes, the world tilted sideways.

The light was low, flickering. Torchlight, maybe. Shadows danced high on cement walls, smearing like oil against cracked plaster. He was on the floor, slumped on his side, hands bound behind him with something rough—coarse rope, already biting into his wrists.

He tried to move. The pain in his ribs answered first. Then his head.

He winced. Gritted his teeth. Memory staggered back into place like a drunk man through a broken door.

You. Your scream. The guards. The Commander. Your body crumpling.

He jerked upright—or tried to. The bindings held. His muscles screamed.

His gaze snapped up, darting around the dim chamber. There was movement ahead. Figures. An open space beyond the iron bars of the room he’d been dumped in—more like a cage, really, though it looked like a repurposed basement. Through the bars, he could see a crowd gathered in front of something… a pit?

No. A fire.

His gut twisted.

Then he saw you.

Time didn’t stop. That would’ve been a mercy.

Instead, it kept moving, slow and brutal, stretching seconds into something foreign as you were dragged forward, knees scraping the dirt, hair tangled around your face, lips parted but silent. You were barely recognisable, head hung low, your body completely limp. You didn’t cry out. Not once. And that should’ve comforted him—should’ve given him something to hold onto. But it didn’t.

Because your silence was the worst part.

Even now, at the end of the world, you were trying to stay strong for him.

He called your name. Didn’t realize he’d done it until someone elbowed him in the gut to shut him up. He tried to fight—jerked against the restraints digging into his wrists—but they kept him pinned like a dog at a slaughterhouse, forced to watch as the Commander stepped forward and spoke the sentence like it was routine.

“No,” he rasped.

No one heard him. He tried to stand again. The rope bit deeper. He staggered, fell hard on one knee, then pushed up anyway, shoulder against the bars, eyes wide and locked.

The Commander stood near the fire, calm and unmoved, hands folded behind his back. One of the figures spoke to him—too quiet to make out—but the reply was crystal clear.

“She was wounded. Weak. It would’ve spread.”

Then the Commander raised his knife.

You didn’t make a sound when they pulled your head back.

Didn’t flinch when the blade touched your throat.

Daryl’s blood ran cold.

“Don’t—” he growled, but his voice cracked, weak with panic and breathless fury. “NO—!”

But it was already done.

In one brutal motion, he sliced your throat, the life spilling from you instantly.

Your body spasmed once, a sharp, instinctive jolt like the soul trying to claw its way back in—but it was too late. Your eyes never left his. Not even as the blood poured from your throat in thick, wet streams, staining your chest, your collar, your life, until it was all he could see. Your knees gave beneath you, trembling, caving, but somehow you didn’t fall right away. You stood there swaying like something still trying to understand what had happened. And then your lips moved—barely—shaping a word without breath. His name. Just his name. The last thing left in you.

And then it was over.

They didn’t let you fall gently.

They seized your body like it was already trash, like it had never been anything sacred, and dragged it across the dirt with no reverence, no pause, no care. And when they cast you into the fire, it wasn’t a ceremony—it was disposal. Like you weren’t someone’s wife. Like you weren’t a mother with a child waiting for you. Like you hadn’t been the one to teach him what love meant.

Daryl didn’t scream.

He roared.

He slammed his shoulder against the bars, again and again, animal and feral, vision blurred from more than pain. It didn’t matter that they beat him again. Didn’t matter that they kicked him down, or that they laughed, or that someone muttered “shoulda killed ‘im too.”

He didn’t stop until he had nothing left.

The flames licked higher, and the stink of burning flesh filled the air.

He watched your body—the one he knew better than his own, the one he’d memorized in pieces: the freckle below your ribs, the old scar on your thigh from before the world ended, the stretch marks across your stomach from carrying the life you made together. The body that curled against him on cold nights and leaned into him when words failed, the body that had carried his daughter into this broken world, arms that held her, lips that kissed the top of her head with the kind of quiet reverence he’d only ever seen in prayer—that body. Yours.

He watched it burn.

The fire didn’t hesitate. It crawled across your clothes like hunger, devouring everything in its path—your legs, your stomach, your chest—until it reached your outstretched hand. The same hand that had stroked his hair. The hand that had wiped his blood from his brow. The hand that wore his ring like it was welded to your skin until it was ripped from you by them.

The pit. The fire. Your body.

The last time he’d seen you, you were reaching for him.

And now…

You were gone. 

It didn’t register at first.

His brain couldn’t catch up.

He didn’t feel the burn of the ropes. Didn’t hear the crackle of flames. Didn’t even realise he was screaming until his throat gave out and he collapsed, chest heaving, stomach twisting, retching dry onto the dirt because there was nothing left in him but the scream.

They killed you.

They fucking killed you.

And he wasn’t there to stop it.

He wasn’t holding you.

He wasn’t telling you it’d be okay.

He was just watching.

The world narrowed to smoke and ash, and the echo of your name carved out of him like bone. He felt like someone had plunged into his chest and ripped out his heart. And worst of all, they made sure he was still breathing to bear the pain of it.

You were everything. His anchor. His voice of reason. His reason, period. You were the only future he let himself want.

Now you were gone.

And the world had the audacity to keep turning.

They took your ring. Then your life. Then your body. All in one day. And he let it happen. Let them strip you of everything that made you his. And now there was nothing left. No trace. No proof except for that steady, monstrous ache behind his ribs from your death. The kind that didn’t explode. The kind that stayed. The kind that settled into his bones and promised to never let go.

It hurt in a way he didn’t have words for.

It was heartbreak. Pure and unrelenting. Not sharp, but total. Like the color had been stripped from the world, and all that was left was this—this awful, frozen moment where love died in front of him, and he just had to watch.

The only thing left of you now is Dani.

She still had your eyes.

She’d ask where you went. What happened.

And he’d have to look at her and lie.

And he couldn’t bear the thought—Dani looking at him with those wide, searching eyes, and realising he wasn’t the one she needed. Because he wasn’t you. There was no way for him to go on.

Unless he made them pay.

Unless he made every last one of them remember what they did when they dared to put a knife to your throat.

He would bide his time. Wear the mask. Keep his head down like they wanted. Pretend he was broken.

But he wasn’t.

Not really.

He’d just been reborn into something worse.

Because they killed the woman he loved right in front of him.

And now he had nothing left to lose.

“You are free,” the Commander said, like it meant something. The crowd cheered. Daryl barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. He could’ve thrown up. Could’ve killed them all. All he saw was red.

_______

You came to like something had been torn out of you in the dark. It wasn’t the pain that woke you, though there was no shortage of it—the sharp flare in your shoulder socket, the hot ache in your neck where your muscles had seized, the hammering pulse behind your eyes that throbbed in rhythm with the low, electric hum of artificial light. You were kneeling on something cold, unforgiving and slick, and the first thing you felt beyond pain was the way your knees had begun to go numb from pressure. Your wrists were tied behind your back, raw with dried blood, the bindings too tight to be anything but deliberate. So basically the norm for you.

But none of that mattered.

Not when you raised your head and saw him.

Daryl was in front of you—on his knees, hands bound, mouth bloodied, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of whatever hell had come before this. He looked broken in a way you’d never seen before, like his bones didn’t quite know how to hold him up anymore. He wasn’t looking at you. His chin hung low, and though his chest still rose with breath, you could see how shallow it was, like every inhale had to fight its way through something invisible.

And Marshal stood beside him.

The sight of that man lit a fire in your ribs so suddenly that you nearly vomited from the bile it brought with it. You lurched forward, or tried to, but your body wouldn’t move fast enough, wouldn’t obey the simple instruction to reach him, touch him, do something.

“Welcome back,” Marshal murmured without turning, his voice unhurried, like he’d been waiting for you. There was a smile on his face, but it wasn’t warm, wasn’t even smug—it was too calm for that, too pleased with himself, like he was watching a snake shed its skin. “Perfect timing.”

Your breath hitched hard in your chest, every draw of air too sharp, too fast, like it was cutting something on the way in. You tried to speak, to call his name, but your mouth was too dry, your tongue swollen with dread, and the only thing that came out was a rasp of sound that tasted like copper and dust and fear.

Then the Commander stepped forward, the rustle of his coat the only thing you heard over the ringing in your ears. His face bore that same expression he always wore—the one that made your stomach curdle—composed and measured, like a man about to deliver a eulogy for someone he never cared about. He didn’t look at Daryl. He looked at you.

“You told us you didn’t know him,” he said, his voice unshaken, smooth like worn marble. “But when we faked your death, he screamed for you. Weeped like a baby.”

The air left your lungs in a single cold rush, and the world stopped spinning for one breathless second. Your gaze snapped to Daryl. Really looked. And that’s when something inside you buckled. His lip was torn, his temple bruised, and his collar was wet with blood you weren’t sure was even his anymore. But his shoulders trembled. He hadn’t broken.

Not yet.

You shook your head. Not in denial—just to get words out, anything, anything at all. “Don’t—please—”

But it didn’t matter. Marshal crouched beside him, slow and steady, like it was routine, and grabbed a fistful of Daryl’s hair, forcing his head upright so you could see his swollen face. You saw his eyes. Glazed, but still there. Still fighting. Still breathing.

“He didn’t take the lesson,” Marshal said, as though you weren’t already collapsing beneath the weight of what you knew was coming, “so now you will.”

The Commander tilted his head slightly from where he was standing in the background, his expression unchanged, like he was waiting for a dog to finally heel. “That lie cost you,” he murmured. “But today… we’ll free you from it.”

The gun appeared like a magic trick—no grand reveal, no announcement. Just there in the Commander’s hand, passed from Marshal like a holy relic. There was no ceremony in the way he raised it. No speech. No cruelty, even. Only the quiet efficiency of a man carrying out a decision he considered final.

The barrel touched Daryl’s temple.

And the shot rang out.

You didn’t scream right away. The noise you made was trapped behind your ribs, crushed into your lungs by the weight of the moment. But when it came, it erupted from you like something ripped open from the inside—a cry so guttural, so raw, it felt like it might pull the last of your voice straight from your throat and leave you nothing but ash.

You threw yourself forward with everything you had, ignoring the pain that screamed through your shoulder, the pop of your joints, the stab of something tearing—but it was too late. Daryl’s body had already gone limp, folding sideways into the dirt with an awful, boneless grace. There was no twitch, no sound. Just silence.

You couldn’t stop the sob that broke next. It tore out of you like something dying. Your voice was raw now, splintered with panic and disbelief, the way it had sounded only once before—when you gave birth and thought you might not survive it.

“Please,” you sobbed, struggling like a wild thing. “Baby, look at me—you can’t leave me —”

You couldnt breathe. You kept telling yourself to wake the fuck up. Wake up from this nightmare, next to daryl in your bed. You'd curl tightly into him, take in his musk, he'd stroke your hair while you traced his imperfections on his skin like they were the very opposite of that.

Marshal had walked towards you and held your chin, tilting your head to look up at him through our red glassy eyes. But when he looked at you now, something had shifted. There was no amusement left. No satisfaction. Only a quiet, unsettling stillness.

“You’re free now,” he said with absolution. “That connection made you weak. It made you lie. But now there’s nothing left to tie you down.”

Tears blurred your vision, burned hot and blinding, streaking over your cheeks in stinging silence. You weren’t sobbing anymore. Your mouth was open, but no sound came out. It was as though your voice had died with him. Your body trembled, but you didn’t collapse. Not yet. Not until Marshal leaned forward and, with something close to care, cut the restraints at your wrists himself.

You didn’t catch yourself when you fell. Your arms flopped forward, numb and useless, your knees hitting the stone with a hollow sound that echoed off the walls. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at anything. Not even the fire, still burning just feet away, casting long orange light across the floor where Daryl had fallen.

You stared at the space he had left behind.

And whatever was left of you cracked.

Not with rage. Not with grief. Not even with despair.

With silence.

The silence that followed was worse. It wasn’t the calm kind. It was thick and suffocating, like someone had poured concrete over your chest and expected you to keep breathing through it. Your ears rang from the gunshot, your vision swam at the edges, but none of that mattered—not really. Nothing did, except the image burned into the backs of your eyes: Daryl collapsing in front of you, body limp, blood warm and spilling across the concrete, and then nothing. No movement. No sound. No breath.

You didn’t cry again, not after the first ragged sob slipped out of you and died somewhere between the ropes binding your wrists and the dirt floor beneath your knees. The sound had come unbidden, raw and strangled, but even as it broke free, it felt distant, like it didn’t belong to you anymore—like it belonged to someone else entirely, someone softer, someone who hadn’t just watched her entire world bleed out on the floor.

You breathed, but only because you had to. Inhale. Exhale. Slow. Mechanical. The kind of breath that didn’t mean life so much as continuation. You weren’t a woman anymore, not exactly. You weren’t a widow, not yet. You weren’t even a soldier. You were just breath and bones and grit. Just the pieces that remained. 

It was disorienting in a way that felt almost obscene—how had you ever existed without him before? Whatever version of yourself had managed to live in a world where Daryl wasn’t within arm’s reach, breathing the same air, was a stranger now. A ghost. And the thought of finding your way back to that kind of existence, of surviving in that silence again, felt not only impossible but wrong.

The numbness was total. Not soft, not merciful—but loud. Deafening in its hollowness. It rang through your skull like a pressure wave, muffling every other sense beneath it. Pain should’ve been there, should’ve been screaming—your shoulder was still ruined, your knees pressed hard into unyielding concrete, your head throbbing from whatever blow had half-felled you—but none of it seemed to land. None of it registered.

There was only the absence. Only the jagged outline of where he used to be. And in that emptiness, something settled.

Not rage. Not grief. Not yet. Those things required more of you than you had left. What settled was purpose.

Because no matter what they thought they’d taken from you, no matter how certain they were that you’d break just like the others had, your daughter was still alive. You couldn't let her become an orphan. Dani was waiting for you, and she didn’t know her father was dead. She didn’t know that you were too.

And you were the only one left who could keep that from becoming permanent.

You didn’t notice Marshal until he crouched beside you again, his shadow crawling across the stone in tandem with your hollow stare. His voice was low, almost reverent, as though he feared disrupting the stillness that had wrapped itself around you.

“I knew it the second I saw you,” Marshal said, his voice low, almost reverent, as though addressing something sacred rather than broken. “Back in those woods. You had it—that thing most don’t. Pain doesn’t ruin you. It reshapes you.”

His words drifted through the silence like smoke, curling around the edges of your awareness, but you didn’t respond. You weren’t even sure you were still breathing. You were there, yes, in body—but your mind was standing at the edge of some quiet abyss, watching itself from far away.

“I told the Commander we needed someone like that,” he went on, unhurried, as though this was all unfolding according to some script only he had read. “A firestarter. Not just someone who survives the burn, but someone who walks through it and comes out clean on the other side.”

Slowly, you raised your gaze, just enough to meet his. The movement wasn’t defiant. It wasn’t emotional. It was mechanical, like some buried instinct had twitched to life out of necessity. Whatever he saw in your expression—vacancy, obedience, surrender—was enough to satisfy him. 

Your silence sealed the illusion.

Marshal stood, brushing invisible dust from his knee as though this moment wasn’t stitched with the last of your humanity. He turned to someone just out of sight, his voice as steady as ever. “Clean her up. Feed her. She’s earned it.”

You didn’t watch him walk away.

When the hands came, you didn’t flinch. You barely noticed them. You didn’t speak. You didn’t even blink. You let them take your weight, lift you from the blood-slick floor, guide your body like it wasn’t your own. Whatever they’d done—whatever they’d taken—had hollowed you out so thoroughly, you barely noticed the warmth of their grip or the sound of the fire crackling behind you. It all felt far away, like a story you were being told about someone else.

But somewhere, buried deep beneath the numbness, something shifted. Not rage. Not revenge. That was all smoke now. What remained was quieter. Heavier. It settled into the space your grief had hollowed out and anchored itself like a root cracking through stone.

It wasn’t for them.

It wasn’t even for him.

It was for her.

For Dani.

Because she was all that was left of him. Because she didn’t know what had been taken from her yet. Because you had promised her you’d come back, and promises made to children had weight. Had teeth.

And if that meant tearing yourself in two—if it meant burying every scream and smile and soft thing inside you—then so be it.

Because one day, somehow, you’d find your way back to her.

And on that day, no one—not Marshal, not the Commander, not even the fire—would be able to stop you.

——

Turns out that taking your husband’s death in stride made for a hell of a promotion.

Grief would’ve gotten you kitchen duty, maybe a cot in the barracks if you’d played your cards right. Hysterics? A bullet. But silence? Composure? The ability to let a man bleed out at your feet and not flinch when the fire took him?

Apparently, that made you leadership material.

Marshal didn’t even wait a full day. You were summoned at dawn, the knock on your door light and precise, like someone trying not to wake what was already dead. The soldier who stood there said nothing. Just turned. Walked. And like a good little recruit, you followed.

They took you to the central chamber—the same one where you’d watched the Commander strip lives down to bone with a few carefully chosen words. Now you stood beneath the same skylight, washed in grey morning light, not entirely sure where your limbs ended and the concrete began.

Marshal entered first. He looked cleaner than usual. Face freshly shaven, black shirt tucked in, like this was something sacred.

The Commander didn’t bother with ceremony. He didn’t ask if you wanted the role. He didn’t explain what it meant. He just turned to face you, eyes sweeping over your stillness like it proved something.

“You’ve adapted well,” the Commander said at last. His voice wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It simply was. Final. “Marshal spoke highly of you. Your performance in the ring. Your composure since. Your clarity of purpose.”

“Others… fall apart. Wail. Break. You buried the weakness. And what remained—” he turned, finally, and looked you dead in the eye, “—was worth keeping.”

He crossed the floor, each step unhurried, until he stood before you. Taller. Older. But not frail. He looked at you the way a man might examine a blade he’d forged himself.

“I name you General.”

The words dropped like a blade against an altar. There was no ceremony. No oath. Just that sentence.

Marshal stepped forward, then, and placed something in your palm. A thin band of blackened metal with a single etched mark—a crescent, sharp as a scythe. The symbol of rank. Cold and heavy in your hand.

“Wear it on your hip,” Marshal said softly, voice close now, near your ear. “Let them know what you are.”

You didn’t flinch. You just nodded once and fastened it to your belt.

The Commander inclined his head—dismissal, not praise—and turned away again. The matter, it seemed, was closed.

Marshal lingered, though. He waited until the Commander had vanished into shadow, then walked with you out into the hall, slow and unhurried, like two old friends on a morning stroll.

“I told him,” Marshal drawled, voice echoing lazily off the corridor walls as the door closed behind you both, sealing the chamber like a tomb. “Told him you wouldn’t crack. The others thought you’d go down screaming—or not get back up at all.”

He walked beside you like nothing about this moment was strange. As if promotion through grief was the most natural thing in the world. As if the silence trailing behind your footsteps wasn’t made of bone and ash and something close to mourning.

“But not me,” he went on, with that infuriating little shrug in his voice, like everything had already been proven. “I figured you had the spine. Something in the way you moved, y’know? Like someone who’s already had the worst day of their life and just kept walking.”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. Every ounce of your energy was spent on forward motion, on placing one foot in front of the other with a precision that felt practiced and numb.

“Still not talking?” he asked, almost amused. “Yeah, I get it. Takes a minute. First time I lost someone close, I didn’t talk for three days." Just sat on a roof staring at the rain, prayin' I'd get the balls to jump."

Damn. If only he had some balls.

He tilted his head toward you, as if waiting for you to react. You didn’t.

Marshal sighed through his nose and kept pace. “So…  he was your husband right?  babydaddy? Both?”

The question hit harder than it had any right to. Not for the words themselves, but for how casually he said them—like he was asking what brand of boots you wore.

“Well,” he continued, unfazed, “you’re better off. That kind of thing—attachment, whatever—it just slows you down. I mean, shit, I used to have a wife. Think I even loved her once. But when she got bit, you know what I did?”

You didn’t answer.

He smiled anyway. “Sat with her ‘til it got dark, then I put a knife through her temple. Buried her in the garden, poured some moonshine, and went to sleep like I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. Woke up clean.”

Marshal gave a light laugh, like he’d just told a half-decent bar story. “Point is, we’re not made for soft shit. You cut it off before it festers. And you—” he looked at you now, a little more directly, a little more keenly “—you’ve already done the hard part. You let go. Now you get to be something better.”

He stopped walking. You stopped, too, more out of rhythm than obedience.

“I’ve got plans, General,” he said, tone dropping low, like he was inviting you into some secret. “Big ones. Creed’s gonna outgrow this place. We’ve got outposts forming, whispers from the coast. The kind of movement people write about. But movements need faces. Voices. People who don’t flinch when things get messy.”

You turned to him, at last, your expression unreadable. A mask so perfect it didn’t even feel like skin anymore.

“Just tell me where to start,” you said, your voice coarse, a faint echo of your one from before.

He grinned, like that was all he’d wanted to hear.

“Right answer.”

Marshal reached out—not possessively, not forcefully, but like someone testing the edge of a blade—and tapped your shoulder once. The bad one. You felt nothing. His smile deepened when you didn’t so much as blink.

Then he stepped back and nodded toward the corridor ahead. “C’mon. Let’s make the rest of ‘em jealous.”

____

The days blurred like smoke on water—not fast, not slow, just distorted. You hadn’t even noticed the sun rising anymore, only the weight of your boots and the sound of doors opening ahead of you before you stepped through. General. That was your name now. Not your real one. Not your given name, the one you've gone by your entire life. Not the one Daryl whispered into your shoulder in the middle of the night... Just General. A title that hung on your spine like a weapon, heavy and sharp.

In the two days since your so-called liberation, you hadn’t stopped moving. Marshal kept you close, walking the perimeter of the inner compound, inspecting patrols and supply lines, overseeing training sessions where recruits sparred with dull blades and sharp eyes. He showed you off. Paraded you like some living emblem of what it meant to survive Creed fire and come out whole.

“Eyes front,” he’d murmur as you passed the bowing acolytes. “They need to see strength, not softness.”

So you gave them strength. Barked orders. Held your chin high. Smiled only when it served you. You ate beside Marshal at every meal, and when he leaned in too close or spoke too casually—jokes about husbands, about daughters, about how pain was just love shedding its skin—you laughed like it didn’t slice straight through your gut. He didn’t mean to mock you, you didn’t think. But his words still clanged, loud and graceless.

“You never said - was he the dad? That Dixon guy?” Marshal had asked once, as you walked the south corridor. He didn’t look at you when he said it. 

You had nodded. Just once. A sharp little thing, like a salute. The kind of response that meant everything and nothing.

You kept your hands steady. Your back straight. You thought of Dani... Daryl.

The same cell. Same stone. Same metal bars.

Only now, the cell across from him was empty.

It had been two nights, and Daryl still stared at that space, haunting him. The cold where you used to sit, curled and whispering hopes through the bars. The dried blood smudge near the drain. The memory of your scream.

He couldn’t sleep.

He hadn’t spoken in days.

Not because he couldn’t, but because there was no point. Most of his words had burned up in that fire anyway. What was left were grunts. Breaths. Muscle. The feel of rope biting into his palms as he dragged beams across gravel yards, sweating through his shirt until the sun dipped, and they locked him back in the cell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

At the guards. At the keys. At the gaps in their routines. At the flicker in their torchlight. At the way one of them always dropped his rifle to piss behind the south gate after final lockdown.

They thought he was broken. Good.

He was going to make them bleed for it.

____

The sun was too bright. Not warm, not kind. Just bright—the kind of blinding that turned sweat to sting and dirt to paste. Daryl’s hands, torn raw at the knuckles, worked the shovel with dull rhythm, carving through the gravel as if by compulsion. They’d set him to trenching along the perimeter fence, claiming it was for drainage, but it was busywork. Pointless. Just a leash long enough to keep him moving.

He had kept his mouth shut. There was nothing to say, to ask for. No one to answer.

The guards posted near him were two of the worst kind—bored, bitter, cruel in the casual way men were when they thought no one could touch them. They weren’t just watching him. They were waiting. It was obvious in the way they leaned against the posts, spitting seeds and elbowing each other, like the job was just a break between drinks.

“You hear what Marshal did during her intake?” one of them said, loud enough to carry, not bothering to keep the grin from his voice. “Ripped that shirt right open. Said he wanted to see if the scar was real. Said it looked like it was straight outta a horror movie.”

The other laughed—a wet, hacking thing that sounded like it came from the belly. “Man, the way she flinched? Shit, I would’ve kept goin’. Coulda had a whole show if Marshal wasn’t so damn stingy.”

Daryl didn’t move. His fingers curled tighter around the shovel handle, knuckles going bone-white under the grime.

“Real tragic, ain’t it?” the first continued. “ Mama had so much feist. Waste of a good piece of ass, if you ask me.”

The second guard whistled low. “Think she begged first? Screamed? I’d put money on it. Looked like a screamer.”

The shovel slipped from Daryl’s hands and hit the dirt with a dull thud, a quiet sound that somehow felt louder than it should have. He didn’t move at first. Just stood there—spine straight, chest rising slow and deep like something trying not to snap in half. His fingers curled once at his sides, twitching like the tension needed somewhere to go.

The two guards were still laughing. Still running their mouths.

Daryl turned.

No words. No sound. No warning.

He moved fast—faster than either of them had time to register. The first guard barely blinked before the edge of the shovel split across his jaw, the impact cracking like a gunshot. Bone shattered. Teeth flew. He dropped to one knee with a garbled scream before Daryl wrenched the shovel back and swung again—this time blunt-end first—right into his temple.

The second guard stumbled backward, drawing his weapon with a curse, but Daryl was already on him, driving forward with the force of a battering ram. He tackled him to the ground, knees slamming hard into the man’s ribs, one hand wrenching the gun from his grip while the other grabbed a fistful of his collar and slammed the back of his skull against the gravel once, twice—three times—until the resistance gave way and blood began pooling fast.

The first guard tried to crawl, face a ruined mess of pulp and bone, but Daryl turned on him with nothing left to hold back. He grabbed him by the belt and yanked him back like he weighed nothing.

He brought the shovel down like it was an axe—once to the spine, then again. And again. There was no grace in it. No clean kill. Just a raw, animal kind of violence—ugly and necessary.

His breath tore ragged through his chest as he stood over the wreckage. Both bodies stilled. One gurgled once and went quiet. The other twitched, then didn’t.

The other workers had gone silent. For a moment, the whole yard held its breath, as if the world itself recognised that something old and sacred had been unleashed.

Daryl stood over the bodies, panting, fists dripping, chest heaving with something that had no name.

And then he ran.

Through the gate. Into the trees.

No hesitation. No plan. Only instinct.

He didn’t know where he was going. But he knew he'd be back. 

To make them all pay.

____

You were tightening the strap across your thigh when Marshal barged in without ceremony, his breath fogging in the colder air of the chamber. His eyes were alight with adrenaline, that twisted edge of anticipation he wore whenever something went wrong in just the right way.

“Two of ours are down,” he said, voice clipped but eager. “One’s missing. Blood on the gravel, bodies were found at the north wall. Tracks heading into the trees.”

You didn’t freeze. You didn’t blink. You simply straightened, fastened the last strap, and reached for the sheath at your hip.

“How long?” you asked.

“Not long. Less than an hour. It was fast. Efficient. Looked more like an animal than a man, but—” he tilted his head, eyes dragging down your arm like he expected praise, “—I know work when I see it. This was deliberate.”

You nodded once and stepped past him, boots already moving toward the outer corridor before he finished speaking. He kept pace beside you, hands folded behind his back like the whole thing was an experiment you were walking into. A test. A stage.

“You want to lead the hunt?” he asked, casual. Almost amused.

“I’m already doing it.”

You crossed into the yard where the air smelled like blood and burnt oil, your eyes sweeping over the cluster of armed men standing in loose formation near the gate. They were waiting. Watching. Some with curiosity, some with tension.

All of them obeyed when you raised your voice—low, calm, authoritative.

“North perimeter’s compromised. We have two confirmed dead, one unaccounted for, and tracks headed into the pines. I want six units. Three per group. Sector assignments will be rotated every hour. You see something, you don’t shout—you signal. You don’t engage unless I say. You follow orders. Or you join the ones who bled out.”

No one questioned you. Not even Marshal. He smiled slightly as you issued your orders like you’d been doing it your whole life, as if command had grown from your skin like armour. There was no tremor in your voice. No crack in your tone.

There was a slight hum in your skull. The one that came when the world tilted a little too sharply, like it always did when someone said the word escape. There was even a tinge of jealousy in your chest. Then it was replaced by pity. Because you knew they would be dragged back.

You didn’t let yourself wonder who it had been. Didn’t dwell on the bloody bodies or the missing name. Workers tried and failed all the time. You’d seen it before. You’d clean it up again. Still, something about Marshal’s expression gave you pause.

“What?” you asked, glancing at him.

He shrugged, but it was a smug gesture. Light. Easy. “Nothing. You wear the title well, General.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked back to the gate.

The hunt was already underway.

-----

The forest felt endless.

He didn’t know how long he’d been running. The canopy above him blurred into streaks of dark green and dying light, the air thick with humidity and his own ragged breath. His legs burned. His ribs ached. His boots pounded the earth like a drumbeat begging to slow, but he wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t.

Branches scraped his arms, thorns dragged like claws against his jeans, but none of it registered. Not compared to what he’d left behind. He didn’t know if he was more ashamed of the rage or the fact it had taken him that long to let it boil over. He was finally out - but it was without you.

Two of them hadn’t walked away from it. That was all he knew.

The forest began to thin. He slowed just enough to keep his breathing even. He hadn’t run this far to collapse. He swiped at his face and didn’t stop moving.

It was the shape of something manmade that pulled him forward—a faint glint of rust through the trees, the broken silhouette of a long-abandoned gas station nestled in overgrowth. Half-collapsed, half-swallowed by ivy, the old building slumped against the edge of the road like a dying animal. Its sign had long since shattered. Only rusted poles remained where the name might have been. Weeds grew through the cracks in the concrete, and a single pump leaned at an angle like it had been punched sideways and never stood again. But it was something. Shelter. Cover. Supplies.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, one hand pressed against a tree, catching his breath, eyes scanning for movement. Nothing. Only the soft rustle of branches and the occasional distant groan of the dead.

That's when he saw two walkers lurching near the back of the station, slow and disoriented. He crouched, crept forward, and took them out quick. Clean. Blade to the base of the skull. He dragged their corpses into the woods, leaving them in a way that looked like a scuffle had happened. A trail. One they’d follow. Let them run in the wrong direction.

Then he doubled back and slipped through the busted rear entrance, heart thudding hard beneath the damp fabric of his shirt.

Inside, it was still.

Dust hung thick in the shafts of light breaking through broken panes. Shelves had long since collapsed, candy wrappers and rat nests littering the floor. The air stank of mildew and old oil, but it was empty as far as people and walkers went.. He moved slow, clearing corners one at a time, bootfalls nearly silent on the stained linoleum.

He didn’t breathe easy, not really. Not until the last corner was clear. Then he sagged against the side of an empty cooler, pressing a hand to his ribs, sweat trickling down his spine. He counted each breath like it might be his last. That's when he heard something from outside.

_______

The trail didn’t fool you.

It was good—subtle in ways the average Creed lackey would never catch—but not good enough to hide what it really was. They were covering their tracks. Every broken branch had purpose. Every overturned rock, every blood-speckled leaf followed a pattern too clean, too deliberately staggered, too familiar.

Because it was yours.

A move you’d crafted seasons ago, back when survival meant something more than symbolism and pageantry. You’d taught it once—to people who mattered. People who didn’t wear uniforms or follow slogans or look at you like you were anything but someone trying to stay alive. And now it stared back at you from the earth like a signature carved into soil.

Marshal was barking orders ahead of you, his voice crisp with expectation, but not urgency. Two men down was an inconvenience, not a threat. He stood near the treeline, gesturing with one hand for his squad to follow the trail of walker corpses heading eastward, already convinced the work was nearly done.

You didn’t speak right away. Didn’t move either.

Just stood near the edge of the brush, eyes tracking the drag marks and the half-shuffled footprints, letting the recognition sink deep into your ribs like a bruise you’d forgotten how to name.

When Marshal noticed your hesitation, he stepped closer. His tone was more relaxed now—comfortable, even—as if he’d grown used to speaking to you not as his subordinate, but as his closest confidant. Or maybe just his newest trophy.

“You see something I don’t, General?” he asked, voice low, laced with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve been staring at dirt for the last two minutes like it's talkin' to you.”

You didn’t answer at first. You kept your gaze fixed on the ground, the muscle in your jaw ticking once as you shifted your weight forward, crouching to trace the heel-drag pattern with your fingers.

“It’s not walker blood,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. “Too bright. Too spaced.”

Marshal tilted his head, humored but mildly intrigued. “That what’s got you squinting like an old crow? We’ve already got a lead. They’re following it now.”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands off on your thighs before glancing toward the direction the others had taken.

“It’s misdirection,” you said, flatly, without drama. “Manufactured.”

Marshal frowned, but it was faint, like a crease appearing in otherwise smooth stone. “And you know this because…?”

Your eyes slid to him. “Because it’s mine.”

That gave him pause. His smirk faltered, then rebuilt itself slowly, shaped now into something more curious than mocking.

“Well, shit,” he chuckled, hands sliding into his pockets. “Didn’t know you taught tricks. Looks like someone’s been studying the old playbook.”

He glanced down the trail again, then back at you. “You think our escapee doubled back?”

“I think he’s already gone,” you said, voice smooth. “And I think if you want a chance at catching him, you let me follow the real trail while your dogs chase ghosts.”

There was a moment of silence between you then—thin, but weighted. Marshal studied your face like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected, or maybe something he’d been hoping would surface all along.

He smiled again, more relaxed this time, and gestured half-heartedly to the forest. “Alright, General. If you think there’s a better trail, take it. Just don’t get yourself lost. Hate to have to replace you after all the effort I put in.”

You nodded once. Sharp. Precise. The way he liked it.

And then you turned and vanished into the woods, one boot after the other, eyes tracking the subtle path only you would’ve noticed. It wasn’t marked with panic or haste, but strategy. Intentional obfuscation. A diversion made to buy time—and that was what made your heart start to pound. 

People who used this move were dangerous. After all it was your move.

_______

The forest opened up without warning.

One second, you were tucked beneath the heavy arms of pines, the air thick with sap and old rain, and the next, the trees gave way to a patch of cleared ground—uneven, mottled with patches of gravel and moss, as if the world itself had tried to reclaim this place and only half-succeeded. In the centre stood a gas station. 

You stood still for a moment, just outside the reach of the clearing, listening.

Nothing.

No birds. No footsteps. Not even wind. Just the low, hot breath of the forest pressing against your back and the distant rot of something that had died weeks ago and hadn’t yet stopped stinking.

Your hand tightened around the hilt of your knife.

The trail led here. The subtle one—the real one. The one you’d followed from a snapped vine near the creek bed, the one someone had tried too hard to make look accidental. Every turn had confirmed it. This was no rogue worker. Whoever came here knew how to cover ground. How to double back. How to make blood smear like accident and not direction.

There was something about the air that changed before you even stepped inside—a stillness too deliberate, like a breath held too long, like the world itself was waiting for something to break. You crept along the outer edge of the station, careful to keep your footfalls light, your weapon drawn but low, ready but not aggressive. The siding flaked beneath your fingertips, warm and brittle, the building groaning faintly as the wind caught under the eaves. It should have felt abandoned. It didn’t.

Your gut twisted—not with fear exactly, but with a pressure you didn’t know how to name, like your body was trying to warn you before your mind could catch up. Something was here. Someone. It wasn’t a logical feeling. There were no clear signs. Nothing disturbed. Nothing broken. But still, the closer you got, the stronger the feeling became, like gravity itself was trying to pull you inward.

By the time you stepped through the rear entrance—door creaking on its hinges but offering no resistance—you already knew you weren’t alone.

You didn’t shout. You didn’t call out commands. You just stood there for a moment, breathing through your nose, trying to place the shape of the unease that had started to bloom beneath your ribs.

The air was soured by time—thick with rust and mildew and motor oil, sharp with the scent of old blood and dust, the kind that clung to your clothes and your tongue long after you’d left. Sunlight cut through cracks in the roof, casting long, ghostly columns across the wreckage of the station’s interior. Aisles leaned at odd angles. Packaging had melted into the shelves. The silence wasn’t clean. It was full of ghosts.

You stepped forward, slow and careful, scanning between the shelves. One aisle at a time.

“This isn’t gonna end well for you,” you said, your voice cutting the silence like a blade—not shouted, not loud, but firm and cold and clear. A statement, not a threat. Not a warning - just a fact.

There was no response. Not right away. Just the sound of breath caught mid-motion. Like someone had frozen behind one of the shelves.

“Come out where I can see you,” you said, stepping deeper into the rows. Your voice didn’t shake. But it wasn’t steady, either. There was something brittle at the edges now. A warning crack before the collapse.

The sound of your voice slammed into him like a hammer to the sternum—low, steady, not shouted, but heavy with something he couldn’t name, like truth dragged raw across gravel. It was unmistakable, even wrapped in grit, even worn at the edges by survival. It was you. It was your voice, but it wasn’t soft the way he remembered, wasn’t teasing or warm or sarcastic. It was clipped and direct, sharpened down to the bone like everything else in this world, and that was what undid him.

His back pressed harder to the metal shelf behind him, and his fingers tightened around the knife in his grip, not from intent to use it but because it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. His pulse was everywhere—in his throat, behind his eyes, pounding in the tips of his fingers—and the breath he tried to take caught halfway and dissolved into nothing. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure he remembered how.

Something inside him began to crack, slow and silent like ice shifting under weight.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It wasn’t one of the dreams that taunted him in the half-sleep of a cold floor and a concrete cell. It wasn’t the whisper that followed him through every labor shift, the one that sounded like her laugh, like her sigh, like the first time she said his name in the dark. This wasn’t the echo of memory warped by grief. This was now. This was real.

And yet, he didn’t answer. Not right away. Because something primal in him still feared the truth. Still believed that turning that corner would cost him everything if he was wrong.

But then he heard her boots crunch forward—one, then another. Steady. Careful. Getting closer. The sound of her moving cut through him sharper than any blade.

His eyes flicked toward the end of the aisle, just a sliver of light between broken shelves, and for a heartbeat, he caught it—just a glimpse.

A shoulder. A lock of hair. The edge of your jaw. The line of your arm steady on your weapon.

And it hit him all over again, harder this time, like the wind knocked out of his lungs and the floor pulled out from under him all at once. His knees went weak, his grip faltered, and the breath he finally took sounded more like a sob than a sigh, though he kept it behind his teeth.

You were standing. You were walking. You were alive.

Your were real.

But you didn’t look like the woman he used to fall asleep beside, or the one who used to hum under her breath while cleaning blood off her knife. You didn’t move like someone who’d ever been held gently. Your body was all tension, your eyes cold and alert, like softness had been trained out of you one wound at a time. The version of you standing there now looked like someone who’d been surviving instead of living—like the world had stripped you down to the parts that could fight and buried the rest somewhere too deep to reach.

And yet it was still you.

“I’m not in the mood to chase,” you said, each word carved from the grit of your throat. “And I’m sure as hell not in the mood to kill someone who’s just hiding. So don’t make me.”

He didn’t know how long he stood there, half-concealed by the shadows of the aisle end, barely breathing, barely thinking—just staring, heart thundering with the impossible weight of recognition because it was you. And yet not you. And that paradox alone left his mouth dry, his pulse skittering, and his knees dangerously untrustworthy beneath him.

There was something in the way you held yourself that made the air feel thinner. You didn’t look fragile. You didn’t even look afraid. You looked sharpened—reforged in fire—and he didn’t know whether to be proud or devastated that the world had made you into this. For one breathless moment, he let himself believe that he could keep watching you like this forever, that you wouldn’t vanish again if he blinked too long. That the grief choking him since the pit had been a lie.

But then the toe of his boot knocked against a broken glass bottle, and the sharp scrape of it skittered across the linoleum like a gunshot in the dark. You reacted before the sound even finished, instincts firing faster than thought, and before he could lift a hand or even fully turn, your weapon had snapped to attention, pointed straight at him from across the aisle with lethal, unflinching precision.

He lifted both hands immediately. His knife dropped to the floor with a dull thud, his fingers opening like surrender was the only language he had left, and still, he didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. The only thing that moved was his chest, rising and falling in jagged rhythm as his eyes stayed fixed on yours, drinking you in like a man starved.

And you… you couldn’t move either.

The moment your eyes landed on him—on his face, his shoulders, the familiar set of his mouth—you stopped breathing entirely. You didn’t lower the weapon, not at first, not even when the shape of him settled into clarity. Your body held position like a dam holding back floodwater, and for a single, suspended second, all you could do was stare, too stunned to speak, too stunned to blink, too stunned to accept the thing your heart already knew.

It was him.

Alive.

Real.

And standing at the opposite end of the aisle like a ghost resurrected just for you.

You weren’t sure if the sound that came out of you was a gasp or a sob or some mangled hybrid of both, but it broke whatever spell had been holding you in place, because your fingers loosened ever so slightly on the grip, your arms trembling in their sockets, the gun still aimed but your certainty dissolving. His name rose in your chest, but it got caught behind your teeth, too thick with disbelief, too sacred to release without proof. Because if you said it, and it wasn’t really him, you wouldn’t survive it.

But he didn’t vanish.

He didn’t speak either.

He just stood there, hands still raised, eyes still locked on you like if he looked away you might disappear all over again. And that was when you finally let the weapon drop—not all the way, not at first, but just enough to acknowledge what your heart was already screaming.

You didn’t know whether to run to him or collapse where you stood.

But you knew one thing, deep and feral in your gut—this wasn’t over. It had only just begun.

Your lips parted before the sound came, breath catching halfway up your throat as if your body had to fight to let the name escape. You hadn’t said it in days. Or maybe weeks. You’d whispered it to yourself in the dark, in the cold, in the quiet between orders and silence, just to remember the shape of it—but this time, it felt like a prayer you weren’t ready to finish.

“Daryl?”

It came out cracked. A question. A confession. A hope.

And then he exhaled.

That’s all he did—just let out a breath so full of disbelief and wonder it shook loose the silence between you like the final piece of a collapsing dam. His hands, still raised in surrender, trembled once as a smile twitched—small and ruined—at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His body said everything. The slack in his shoulders, the sting in his eyes, the way his lips moved around the unspoken words like he wasn’t sure his voice would hold.

“Yeah. It’s me.” 

Not empty—but full in a way that felt overwhelming. A silence packed with heat and scent and movement and memory, like the whole room had bowed to make space for the impossible thing happening between you.

Your gun hit the floor with a thud that didn’t echo.

Your feet moved before your brain did.

One second you were standing there, arms trembling, heart breaking open like a wound that had never truly closed. The next, you were running—sprinting across the ruined tile, your boots slipping slightly on the broken glass and torn paper, not caring if you fell, not caring if you bled, just needing to reach him, to feel him, to prove he wasn’t made of smoke and memory.

Daryl closed the space between you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it, his steps heavy and uneven, like his knees couldn’t decide if they should give out or carry him faster. His eyes never left yours, not even when you collided—so hard and fast that it knocked the breath from both of you, your chests crashing together with the force of everything you hadn’t dared feel until now.

You sobbed into his shoulder the second his arms locked around you.

There was no delay. No awkward pause. No question of whether he would catch you. Daryl wrapped you up like he’d been born to do it, his hands clawing at your back, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his arms caging you in like the world might try and steal you from him again and he wasn’t about to let that happen. You could feel the noise that came out of him, low and ragged, less a sound than a breath that caught in his throat and turned to something half-feral, half-frightened, all love.

You didn’t hold back.

Your body shook so hard you nearly dropped to your knees. Your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. The sobs came fast, ugly, unrelenting, like everything you’d buried just to keep breathing had finally broken the surface and refused to stop. You could smell him—blood, sweat, dirt, smoke—and it hit you like a memory so strong it felt like drowning. You pressed your face into his collarbone, breathing in deep, desperate gasps, like scent alone could prove it was him.

He lifted his head to look at you—really look at you—and the moment your eyes met, the air between you seemed to collapse. His gaze was glassy, flickering with a hundred emotions all fighting for room, the disbelief carved so deep into his expression it was as if he were afraid to blink in case you vanished. He needed to be sure, to confirm with his own eyes that this wasn’t a trick of the light or some final mercy dream sent to soften the blow of grief.

And when the truth settled—when his mind caught up with what his heart already knew—his head dropped against your shoulder, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer weight of feeling that overtook him.

You welcomed him without hesitation, your arms wrapping around him like they’d been searching for his shape this whole time. Your fingers clawed at the back of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, to remind your body that he was real, that this wasn’t a hallucination born from fatigue or hope or desperation. You sobbed, sharp and sudden, your face tilted toward him as the dam inside you finally burst.

You hadn’t let yourself feel it—not really—not until now. You’d kept the grief locked up tight, buried beneath obligation and instinct and survival, but now it was clawing its way out with a ferocity that terrified you. The pain of losing him surged through your chest like a second heartbeat, loud and uncontrollable, and now that it was out in the open, you had no idea what to do with it.

You collapsed into him, trembling, your hands fisting into the fabric at his back like you were afraid he might vanish if you didn’t hold on tight enough. Your breath hitched as you buried your face against his collar, the scent of him—earth and smoke and blood—ripping another cry from your chest. He was here. He was real. He was warm.

“I can’t believe it,” you choked out, your voice wet and raw. “You’re alive… you’re…”

His fingers curled tighter in the fabric of your jacket, knuckles white with the strain, like if he didn’t anchor himself to you, he might fall straight through the floor. His chest convulsed with a breath that never fully landed, just trembled apart in his throat, and then—like something cracked open deep inside him—he began to nod. Small at first, barely perceptible, then over and over again, his face buried in your neck, breath ragged, tears searing hot as they soaked into your skin. His whole body shook with it, not a sob exactly, but something quieter, more devastating—like surrender.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, again and again, each repetition softer than the last, unsure if you were trying to calm him or convince yourself. “You’re okay… I’m here… you’re here…”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But the way he gripped you—arms tightening like he could press you into his bones, hand cradling the back of your head with a desperation that bordered on reverence—told you everything you needed to know. He had thought he’d lost you. And now that you were back, he wasn’t going to let you slip away again. Not even for a second.

His voice cracked where it met your throat, low and hoarse like it had been dragged over gravel. “But I saw you,” he rasped, the words catching on a sob that hadn’t quite landed yet. “They—I saw you, they—”

“I know,” you breathed, the sound of it already fraying as it left your lips. “They pulled the same thing with me.”

And that was when it hit him—the sob he’d been holding back since the moment your voice first cut through the dark. It didn’t explode from him; it collapsed inward, a sharp, uneven inhale that never made it all the way out, like he was still trying to wrestle it into silence even now. But you felt it—the way it rippled through his body, not just in his shoulders but down to his bones, like something had broken open beneath the surface and he didn’t have the strength to stop it anymore. He sagged into you, not dramatically, just a fraction—but it was enough. Enough to know that whatever kept him upright until now had finally given out.

You cupped his face before he could retreat again—both hands, firm and unshaking, holding him there like you could keep him from splintering. The scratch of his stubble burned against your palms, and still, you didn’t let go. His eyes met yours—those pale, wolf-bright eyes—and they were barely holding together. No trace of the man who had walked beside you days ago. These eyes were starved. Hollowed. Torn raw at the edges from seeing too much, from believing too little. They didn’t look like eyes meant to hold joy anymore. They looked like they were built for grief.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, and his voice cracked on the word thought, like even saying it might kill him. “I saw it. I saw them—”

“I know,” you said again, but this time the words collapsed in your throat, your voice blown wide open with feeling. “I know, baby. I know.”

And something inside you broke, right then—something you didn’t have a name for. It cracked down your spine and shattered in your chest, left you trembling with a grief that didn’t have a place to go. There were no good words left. No logic. No plans. No promises.

So you did the only thing your body knew how to do.

You kissed him.

It didn’t feel like a kiss—it felt like impact. Like gravity reversed and slammed the two of you together with such force it shattered every lie you’d told yourselves just to stay alive. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was breathless and clumsy and soaked in panic, the kind of kiss that felt like drowning with your mouths wide open, like maybe if you didn’t inhale the other person fast enough, they might disappear again. His teeth knocked against yours in the chaos of it, his lips trembling with the sobs he couldn’t release, and your tears spilled freely, tracking down into the corners of your mouth, warm and salt-stung and unrelenting.

You felt the sound before you heard it—the low, helpless noise that scraped out of him from somewhere deep in his chest, something that sat halfway between a groan and a wounded animal’s cry. His hands were in your hair before you could register the movement, dragging you closer like proximity alone might make up for lost time, like if he could just fuse his skin to yours, nothing would ever tear you apart again. One hand fisted in the back of your jacket, the other trembling against the curve of your spine, sliding lower, frantic and reverent all at once, as if he didn’t know where to touch you first because he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you at all.

He moved without thinking—pure instinct, pure need. Your body was suddenly pressed back against a rusted metal shelf, the cold biting through your jacket even as his mouth devoured yours, even as his breath poured into you like something sacred. His hands skimmed down your sides with a fever that felt more like prayer than lust, like he was checking to make sure you were really there, all of you, unburned and breathing. And then they found your hips, strong and decisive, and he lifted you—just like that. No hesitation, no warning, just that same animal desperation in the way his arms wrapped under your thighs and the way your legs clung to his waist like muscle memory.

You never stopped kissing. Not even for air. Not even when your back hit the floor and the stench of the gas station rushed into your lungs. You could’ve been lying in dirt or on broken glass or in the middle of a damn inferno and it still wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing that mattered was this—this unbearable closeness, this impossible proof that he was here and you were here and somehow, impossibly, you’d found each other again.

Every point of contact felt vital. His chest crushed against yours, his heartbeat thundering like a war drum under your palms. His thigh slotted between yours, grinding hard enough to draw a whimper from your lips, and still, it wasn’t close enough. Your hands roamed like you were blind, like your fingers were trying to memorize what your eyes still couldn’t believe—his shoulders, the scar at his collarbone, the line of his jaw and the curve of his skull beneath your palms.

Daryl didn’t talk, not really. Not when it counted. But right now, he was saying everything you needed to hear. Not with words—but with the way his tongue tangled with yours, the way his breath hitched when you rocked your hips up against his, the way he buried his face against your throat like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. You didn’t say anything either—not because you didn’t have words, but because language would’ve ruined it. Nothing could hold this. Not grief. Not rage. Not love. Only movement. Only heat. Only the frantic, aching choreography of two people who had forgotten how to survive without each other.

And that—that was your fluency.

This was how you spoke.

Your legs were locked around his waist like a vise, trembling with strain but refusing to let go, and your hands couldn’t stop pulling him closer, dragging at his back, his shoulders, clawing like you could anchor yourself in the curve of his spine and stay there forever. There was no space between your bodies, nothing but heat and panic and the sick, beautiful ache of reunion as he held you upright, one arm clamped tight around your lower back, the other braced against the broken floor to keep you both steady in a world that no longer was.

You couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t think. Every nerve in your body was alive with it—this collision, this reunion, this need that felt bigger than you, bigger than both of you, like grief made manifest in the shape of desire.

And he was unraveling right there with you.

Daryl wasn’t thinking in words anymore. He was running on instinct, acting on a hunger so deep it didn’t feel like lust—it felt like survival. His hands found your shirt and tore it open in one violent jerk, the sound of fabric splitting loud enough to make your breath stutter, and the second your skin was exposed, he was on you. Mouth hot, insistent, desperate as he kissed a line down your chest like it was a map he thought he’d never see again. His lips landed over your heart, over your ribs, over the spots he always touched, and now pressed into like they were proof that you were real, that he hadn’t imagined you back into existence.

You arched into him, hips tilting up, breath ragged as his mouth found your sternum, then lower. Of course—of course—he didn’t pass your breasts without worship, not even now, not even in the middle of a damn apocalypse resurrection. His hand palmed you roughly through your bra while his mouth trailed lower, fast and hungry and nothing like the teasing he used to do, because this wasn’t about foreplay or build-up. It was about claim. About remembering. About burying himself in you so deep he’d never have to crawl out again.

He was afraid.

You could feel it. In the way his breath hitched every time your fingers moved through his hair. In the way he touched you like you were on borrowed time. In the way his eyes flashed upward every few seconds, glassy and wide and unbelieving. He was terrified this was a hallucination. That if he didn’t fuck you hard enough, if he didn’t make you scream and cry and come undone in his arms, then you might vanish again.

But you couldn’t hold back the cry that tore out of your chest, your voice cracked and pleading as the emptiness clawed at your insides. “Daryl—”

His head snapped up, eyes locking on yours, face flushed and tearstreaked and so goddamn soft you thought you might break open from the sight of it. And when he looked at you, he didn’t see uncertainty or hesitation or fear—he saw you shaking beneath him, desperate and wrecked and alive, and it lit something inside him that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with belonging.

You were already lifting your torso, fumbling for his belt with clumsy, shaking fingers. It took too long. It always took too long. And when your hands slipped, when a frustrated whimper escaped your lips, he didn’t mock you like he usually would. He didn’t smirk or tease or make some offhand comment about how you couldn’t wait two fucking seconds.

He knelt there in front of you like something half-feral, trembling and breathless, and moved with that same single-minded urgency, his fingers flying to your jeans, dragging the zipper down like the delay itself was killing him.

You didn’t take your pants off. You shoved them down just far enough. You didn’t want preparation or patience. You wanted him. Now. You wanted him inside you so deep the ache wouldn’t go away for days. You wanted to feel sore. You wanted to feel branded.

His voice was hoarse and warm against your lips as you writhed beneath him, just a breath of comfort threaded through the chaos. “It’s alright, baby. I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

It didn’t match what he was doing. His tone was tender, low, steady—but his hands were shaking as he hooked your underwear with your jeans and shoved them down in one rough motion. There was nothing slow about it. There was no grace in the way his fingers curled into your hips as he slid between your thighs, no hesitation in the way he groaned when your legs tightened again around his waist and pulled him flush against your body.

You shifted beneath him, the cracked linoleum biting into your bare ass, the brittle sting of broken glass tangled in your hair like a crown of thorns you didn’t dare acknowledge. Above you, a ragged hole in the station’s collapsed ceiling cast a shaft of silver light through the dust-choked air, illuminating your body like something divine—skin glowing pale beneath the grime, your chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm, eyes wild and wet and locked onto his like he was the last living thing on earth. And to Daryl, you were.

His breath caught in his throat. It was almost too much—seeing you like this, raw and spread out under him, haloed in dust and blood and light. You were wrecked. And holy. And his. Every part of him screamed to reach you, bury himself inside you so completely that nothing—not time, not fire, not the Creed—could ever sever what bound you together.

You tugged him closer, hips shifting, knees rising to cradle his body with your own like instinct had overridden every fear, every question, every word. The press of him against you sent a tremor through your spine, your muscles clenching in desperate anticipation, not just for pleasure but for proof. Proof that this wasn’t a hallucination. That he was here, real and solid and warm, the weight of him anchoring you back into your body after days spent floating on agony and denial.

“I need you,” you whispered, barely louder than the whisper of dust falling around you. “I need to feel you. I need to know you’re real.”

And he gave you that—without a word, without hesitation. Just a groan, low and guttural, as his hand slid beneath your thigh and hitched it high over his hip, aligning himself. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath scalding against your skin, the tremble in his arms betraying the fact that he was just as wrecked as you were—torn open by grief and stunned by hope.

And then, he pushed inside.

It was unbearable in its slowness, every inch a reclamation, every second a sacrament. Your body welcomed him like it had been waiting, like it had been hollowed out and shaped only to fit him. The stretch was divine, brutal in its pleasure, a burn that made your back arch and your breath catch and your fingers rake down the length of his spine because you couldn’t hold this, couldn’t stand it, couldn’t survive it unless he gave you all of it—his weight, his heat, his voice gasping brokenly against your throat.

He bottomed out with a low, breathless groan, and the moment he did, something in you shattered. You felt the tears break loose again—this time not from fear or grief or even relief, but from sheer overwhelming joy. From the way your body clenched around him in welcome. From the dizzying rush of feeling everything at once.

The sound that left your throat barely resembled anything human—it was a gasp, yes, but not one you recognised as your own. It scraped from your chest like something long buried, like a sob half-remembered from another lifetime, one where he hadn’t been ripped from your arms. You hadn’t known how hollow you’d become until the moment he filled you again, until the weight and warmth of him settled into the ache that had lived inside you since the day he was ‘shot’. Each slow roll of his hips sent another wave crashing through you—deep, thorough, grounding—and it was more than just sensation. It was reclamation. It was breath after drowning. It was colour bleeding back into a world that had long since faded grey. His mouth found yours again, and this time it wasn’t a kiss so much as a seal—a dam against the sound of your cries, which trembled high and frantic in your throat, cries not of pain or desperation but of raw, unfiltered relief. You were finally whole again, and that truth settled into your bones with every movement. After days of unbearable numbness, of walking through the world like a ghost in your own body, every nerve had been sharpened to a blade’s edge. You felt everything now—his hands, his breath, the press of his chest against yours—and It hit you all at once—a rush so heady it was almost narcotic, like pleasure waking every nerve at once after days of silence, flooding your system with heat, hunger, and the dizzying high of finally being alive in his hands again.

There was no rhythm. No restraint. Just the frenzied collision of flesh and feeling—each thrust growing rough with purpose, deep with urgency, like he was trying to brand himself inside you, like every stroke was a prayer and a promise and a plea. The heat of him filled you again and again, thick and relentless, until it felt like your body couldn’t possibly hold anything more—but you begged for it anyway, legs wrapped tight around his waist, hips lifting to meet every punishing drive of his. He didn’t ease up, didn’t slow, not when every sharp drag of his cock left you gasping like the air itself couldn’t reach your lungs unless he gave it to you.

It wasn’t about chasing pleasure. It was about surviving the ache. About staying here, in this body, in this moment, where you could still feel him—hot and hard and alive, grinding into you like he could carve your name into his bones. His breath came harsh against your mouth, mingling with yours, teeth grazing lips like he wanted to consume every sound you made. Every moan. Every desperate sob.

Your hands were everywhere—threaded in his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt, raking down the slope of his back, the curve of his spine, clawing at him like you could tear your way into his chest and never leave. You grabbed at his ass, urging him deeper, harder, faster, trying to keep him pressed so far inside there’d never be a world where he wasn’t. Your name broke on his tongue in pieces, ragged and reverent, lost between the kisses he planted against your throat, your jaw, your open, gasping mouth.

You didn’t just want him close. You wanted him fused to you. Imprinted. Etched into the wet heat of you forever.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” you gasped into his ear, the words high and ragged, cracking under the weight of everything pouring out of you at once. Your voice didn’t even sound like your own anymore—too breathless, too raw, too consumed by the white-hot bliss unraveling you from the inside out.

That did something to him.

His pace shifted, stuttered, then surged—all control lost. His hips slammed into yours with reckless abandon, faster, harder, as if the sound of your voice had lit a fuse in him he couldn’t extinguish. His whole body was shaking with the force of it, sweat slicking his skin as your bodies collided over and over in a rhythm that felt more like a goddamn resurrection than anything else.

“Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he choked out, the words torn straight from his chest, cracked and desperate. His forehead pressed hard against yours, breath fanning hot over your face, his eyes clenched shut like the intensity of it all was just too much to bear. He drove deep, hitting that spot that made your whole body jolt and seize, again and again, until the pressure inside you coiled so tightly you thought you might break apart from the sheer pleasure of it.

Your back arched with every thrust, your body dragged upward by the force of his hips before slamming back down into the ruined floor beneath you. You didn’t care. You didn’t feel anything but him—thick, hot, buried to the hilt inside you, like he was trying to fuck you into memory, into reality, into existence.

He was gasping against your skin now, his breath pouring out in short, ragged bursts that seared across your collarbone like open flame, each one edged with something rawer than pain and more desperate than pleasure. His jaw was clenched so tightly it trembled against the curve of your throat, the sinew in his neck taut like a man trying to hold back a scream, like the sheer force of what he felt was something he had to trap behind his teeth just to keep from breaking apart entirely. His grip on your hips had turned punishing, almost brutal, his fingers digging so deep into your flesh it felt like he was trying to leave something permanent behind—not just a bruise, but a mark that said mine, still mine, always. He didn’t mean to hurt you. But he couldn’t stop. Not when the way you moved beneath him was undoing every stitch of restraint he’d tried so fucking hard to hold onto.

He looked down for just a second—just long enough to watch the place where your bodies met, slick and desperate and shuddering with every movement—and the sight alone nearly ruined him. That was you. That was him, buried inside you so deep he swore he could see himself poking from inside you and forming a bulge in your lower abdomen. Your legs locked tight around his waist, your body rising to meet his like you couldn’t bear even a moment of distance, and it shattered something in him, something hollow and hungry and feral. You looked unreal like that—eyes wet and wide, lips parted, the flush of you spreading down your chest as your back arched again beneath him. The shaft of light spilling through the hole in the ceiling cast a pale, holy glow across your skin, catching in the strands of glass tangled in your hair and turning your entire body into something celestial, like you were a vision brought back from the dead just for him to worship.

Then his hands slid up, one latching tight into yours, pinning it down hard beside your head. The other followed, his fingers threading between yours like a lifeline, like if he didn’t hold on he might float away completely. And all the while he kept fucking into you—harder, deeper—his eyes locked to your face with a terrifying sort of focus, like he was watching for signs of life, of love, of you, and couldn’t afford to miss a second of it.

You could feel him everywhere—stretching you open, filling you to the point of madness, the weight of him driving every inch of his cock so deep inside you it felt like he might split you in two. You swore you could feel it in your chest, in your spine, curling in your throat like a scream that couldn’t find a way out. Every thrust hit like a vow, like a promise sealed with skin and sweat and everything he couldn’t say out loud. Like he was stitching you back together with every goddamn movement.

And you let him. You wanted him to. Because every bruising, fevered stroke didn’t just remind you that you were alive—it reminded you that you were his.

Your whole body trembling, not just from the pressure building at your core, but from the sheer impossibility of it all—him, here, real, alive, buried so deep inside you that your bones ached with the weight of it. Every thrust pulled a new sound from your throat, not just of pleasure, but of disbelief, of shattered grief curling into relief. The rhythm of his hips drove you toward the edge, but it wasn’t just ecstasy pooling hot and full in your belly—it was everything you’d buried to survive. Every scream you’d swallowed, every night you’d imagined him dead, every second you’d rehearsed how to live without him—it all surged forward at once, crashing up through your chest like a tidal wave.

He groaned into your skin, voice cracked open with the same unbearable ache you carried, every breath he took like he was drowning in you, like he couldn’t get close enough even now, couldn’t accept there was still space between your bodies no matter how deep he pushed.

And then something inside you snapped—not pain, not even climax, but a rupture of emotion that split you down the center. The first sob hit so softly it barely registered, just a breath stuttering against his neck, but the second followed quick and sharp, your face twisting into his shoulder as the flood broke loose. You were shaking beneath him, wracked with the force of it, tears sliding hot between your temples and his skin, gasping for air like you couldn’t tell where the sorrow ended and the joy began.

Daryl didn’t notice at first that you were crying. How could he, when every inch of his body was pressed against yours like a seal, like something sacred, like if he just kept moving—kept breathing you in and pushing himself deeper into your body—the nightmare might stay buried where it belonged. His face was buried in your neck, the heat of his breath scalding your throat in short, ragged bursts as his mouth moved blindly across your skin, dropping kisses that were more devotion than desire, lips parted in a prayer he didn’t know how to speak.

His hands were everywhere, cradling your head, skimming your ribs, dragging down your back with shaking fingers that gripped like he was afraid you’d dissolve if he didn’t hold you right. You felt like a lifeline beneath him, warm and alive and wrapped so tightly around his senses that the rest of the world ceased to exist. It wasn’t until your body began to tremble in a way that didn’t match the cadence of his thrusts—not pleasure, not urgency, but something softer and more broken—that he finally felt it. 

Not the tight grip of your thighs or the drag of your nails down his back—no, it was the break in your moan, the way the sound caught mid-breath like a sob in disguise. It was the way your whole body trembled, not from the pleasure winding tighter inside you, but from something else—something more profound. Lonelier.

He pulled back just enough to see you, to really see you, and what he found nearly gutted him. Tears streaking your cheeks. Not loud. Not wild. Just steady, silent drops that shimmered in the weak shaft of light cutting through the ceiling, turning your face into something ethereal and wrecked and so fucking beautiful it made his chest ache. There was glass in your hair—tiny glints of it catching the light like stars—and he couldn’t tell if the shimmer on your lips was sweat or salt or both, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were crying, and he hadn’t even noticed. His heart punched against his ribs, and his body stilled completely, the rhythm faltering to nothing as his hands gentled in an instant, afraid he’d gone too far, afraid he’d gone too far and hurt you.

“Hey,” he rasped, the word cracked and broken at the edges, like it had clawed its way up from a place too deep to name. “Baby—”

His voice landed against your skin like an apology he hadn’t had time to shape, but already meant with everything he had. And the moment he stopped moving—just the second his hips stilled, just the breath between one heartbeat and the next—something in you snapped. The emptiness, that terrible hollowness where his rhythm had been, flooded your chest like a tidal wave, choking off your breath, making your arms seize tighter around him like maybe if you held on hard enough the cold couldn’t reach you.

Daryl didn’t need to see the tears to know. He felt it in your body—the sudden change in tension, the way your grip shifted from want to need, the tremble that started somewhere low in your spine and worked its way up into your chest, into the way your breath caught like it had hit barbed wire on the way out. He didn’t need to look at your face. He just knew. Because this was you. His wife. The only thing in this world he could read without a single word.

Still, he lifted his head, not out of confusion but out of guilt, because he should’ve felt it sooner. He should’ve known. And the second he saw you—hair splayed out beneath you in tangled strands, cheeks streaked with silent tears that neither of you had registered until just now, your mouth parted like you were trying to breathe through the weight of a hundred lifetimes—his chest fractured wide open. Not because he didn’t understand, but because he did. Because he knew this wasn’t fear. This was grief. This was the part of you that had stayed quiet all this time, the part you hadn’t let yourself feel, not until he was finally here, not until you could fall apart safely in the arms that were supposed to have held you through all of it.

He reached for you like he couldn’t do anything else—fingers threading through your hair, brushing it gently back from your damp cheeks, his touch reverent, delicate in the way only a man who’s loved you for years can manage. His eyes scanned your face, drinking you in, not searching for an answer but for reassurance—for some way to convince himself that he hadn’t failed you entirely, that you were still letting him in. And what he saw gutted him. Not because you were hurting, but because you hadn’t told him. Because you’d carried it alone, thinking he couldn’t bear it, when all he ever wanted was to be the one who did.

“Didn’t mean to—” he started, voice wrecked and hushed against your mouth, but you cut him off with a desperate, aching noise that said don’t you dare.

You pulled him tighter before he could say anything more, your arms locking around his shoulders like a tether that would snap if you didn’t keep it taut. “Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words fragile but clear. “Please, Daryl. I need this. I need you-” you were still crying, not hysterically so but crying nonetheless. And he knew exactly why. Of course he did.  You didn’t have to ask him not to leave you. He knew you would’ve stopped him if it had been too much, and you knew without question he would’ve stopped himself if he’d thought it really hurt you. 

The weight of what it meant to lose him. The cold, gnawing stretch of time you’d spent pretending that hollow space inside you was survivable. The unbearable relief of having him here again, real and solid and buried so deep inside you that the line between grief and grace blurred entirely. You weren’t crying because it hurt. You were crying because it mattered—because every part of you had cracked open under the pressure of loving someone so completely that living without them had nearly killed you, and this… this was how you came back to life.

He leaned in closer instead, forehead resting against yours, hand gently brushing the hair from your face as his thumb followed the path of a tear like it was holy.

His eyes were soft and wild all at once—wide and glistening, like he was looking at the most precious thing he’d ever nearly lost. And his voice, when it came, was low and rough and reverent, shaking with awe, not pity.

“Shhh,” he cooed, barely more than a breath. “I know, baby. I know.”

And maybe you didn’t say anything back. Maybe you couldn’t. But you didn’t need to. Because the sob that ripped through you as you dragged him impossibly closer—the way you held him, gasping and trembling and utterly unguarded—was the loudest kind of yes. And that was it.

That was the moment the last piece of him shattered. The sob cracked you open, but what followed wasn’t collapse—it was hunger. Not just for his body, but for the life threaded through it. For the rhythm of his pulse beneath your palm, for the ragged breath he exhaled against your mouth, for the sweat slicking your skin where it met his, sealing you together like glue and desperation.

The tenderness in his eyes cracked into something else—something darker, deeper. His jaw clenched not with restraint now, but with the effort of not fucking you through the floor. And when you lifted your hips, grinding into him with all the need that had been choking you silent for days, he finally gave in.

He kissed you so hard it hurt, mouth crashing into yours with a force that spoke louder than any words ever could, like he thought if he kissed you hard enough, it might stitch the splinters back together, might fuse soul to soul and silence the ache. One hand cupped your face, thumb brushing away a tear he couldn’t stop, while another fell right behind your thigh, gripping hard, dragging you up and into him again, no hesitation, no pause, just the fierce, undeniable need to be inside you, to move in time with your heartbeat, to bury himself in every place you ached.

And when he thrust again—harder this time, rough and deep and aching—it wasn’t just sex. It was obliteration. It was grief and rage and love and resurrection, all tangled into the rhythm of two people who’d already lost each other once and would rather burn than let it happen again. Every thrust was a scream. Every kiss a promise. And everything else—the fire, the cult, the pain, the memory of your bodies being dragged away—burned away into nothing. Just heat. Just skin. Just the two of you, wrecking each other back to life.

He growled against your skin—not a sound of anger, but of helpless, full-bodied surrender—and pushed deeper, harder, rougher, until your body bowed beneath him and your cry echoed around the barren gas station. His hands weren’t gentle. They were frantic, anchoring your thighs apart like he couldn’t bear the idea of you ever slipping from him again. His palms slid beneath your ass, lifting you to meet him thrust for thrust, pace turning punishing, almost cruel—but never careless. Never thoughtless.

The pace grew sharper. Harsher. Like the tenderness had done its job and now there was only need, coursing through both of you like blood that had been frozen too long and finally remembered how to burn. His hands slid beneath your thighs, dragging them higher, pressing you open until your hips tilted just right, until every thrust hit the place that made your breath catch and your hands claw at his back without mercy.

You could feel it in your chest—the thunder of your heart matching the rhythm of his body driving into yours, so hard now it bordered on brutal, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t violence. It was release. It was the kind of desperation that lived in marrow, the kind that only surfaced when someone had thought they’d lost you forever and just got you back in the flesh, panting and crying beneath them like salvation.

His gaze dropped again to where your bodies met, where you took all of him again and again, where slick and need coated his length and your thighs and the floor beneath. He watched himself disappear into you, over and over, and something in his throat cracked open around a sound that wasn’t quite a groan, wasn’t quite a whimper, but something ruinous in between. His jaw clenched, but not to restrain himself—no, this time it was to hold back the tears that stung the corners of his eyes, the way his lip quivered when he looked at your face and saw nothing but home.

You tightened around him, a gasp catching in your throat, and your back arched again, like your whole body was trying to drag him deeper. He followed instinct, chest pressed flush to yours, forearms braced on either side of your head as he rolled his hips deeper, rougher, unforgiving now. He was panting into your mouth, groaning softly every time you clenched around him like your body was trying to keep him, claim him, never let him go again.

“Jesus,” he breathed, but it wasn’t a curse. It was reverence. It was awe. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and was being brought back to life by the way your hands gripped his shoulders and your heels dug into the small of his back and your cries sounded like they’d been buried for days and had finally clawed their way out.

It was obliteration in the truest sense—the complete undoing of everything that had come before. The silence. The fire. The nights spent thinking he was gone. The image of your own blood on concrete. The image of his body, still and crumpled, playing behind your eyelids like a curse.

Gone.

All of it burned away under the weight of him inside you—under the pressure of his breath ghosting over your mouth, of his fingers tangled in your hair, of his body colliding with yours in the kind of rhythm that came not from want but need. His hips snapped with purpose, not just to make you feel but to remind you that you were alive, that this was real and you were still here, and so was he, and you weren’t going to lose each other again. Not like that. Not ever.

You clung to him like he was gravity, like he was the only thing anchoring you to this plane of existence. And maybe he was. Maybe this wasn’t the world anymore—maybe it was something else, something made entirely of heat and skin and breath and sweat, something holy in its destruction.

Every thrust carved his name into your bones.

Every kiss spilled another vow you didn’t have the words to speak.

And everything else—the Creed, the fire, the bruises on your wrists, the ashes you’d swallowed trying to survive a world that wanted you gone—all of it melted into the background until there was only this. Only now. Only him, burying himself so deep inside you it felt like resurrection, like the act of being loved by him in this body, in this ruined, wounded flesh, was the only miracle you had ever believed in.

He wasn’t fucking you.

He was wrecking you back to life.

It didn’t take long—how could it, when every thrust, every breath, every word from his lips had been cracking open the shell you’d built around yourself like a second skin. The pleasure wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even welcome at first. It surged through you with such sharp contrast to the numbness you’d carried for days that your whole body rejected it on instinct, muscles locking, shoulders bunching, jaw clenched in defiance against something that felt far too good to be real.

You grunted, half in warning, half in protest, the sound raw and confused as if your body didn’t quite know whether it was trying to escape or surrender. You squirmed beneath him, hips shifting as if to pull away, a hand pressing against his shoulder in panic, not because you didn’t want him, but because it was too much—too fast, too bright, too alive. The heat building in your belly was unbearable, a wildfire on nerves that hadn’t felt anything in too long, and the thought of letting it take you terrified you more than the emptiness ever had.

But Daryl didn’t flinch. He didn’t still or jolt or scramble to change what he was doing, didn’t retreat like he thought he’d broken you. He just stayed with you—deep and steady, deliberate and devastatingly tender, each thrust measured not for his own release but for yours, for your healing, for your ability to breathe through it without shattering into dust. His hips rocked into you like clockwork, the same kind of rhythm he’d set from the beginning, grounded and sure, like his body already knew exactly what yours needed before your mind could even catch up.

Your hand fisted in his shoulder, your mouth fell open against his cheek, and when the pressure inside you tipped too far—when it swelled too fast to contain—you broke. Not into bliss. Not into pleasure. Into panic.

“I can’t,” you sobbed, voice so high and wrecked it barely resembled yours, your legs trembling around his waist, your spine arching clean off the ground as your hands scrambled over his back like you didn’t know whether to cling to him or push him away. “I c-can’t, I can’t—Daryl, I—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. It cracked and burned in your throat, dissolved into another wave of sobbing so deep it shook your whole frame.

But he didn’t pull out. He didn’t stop.

His arm slid beneath your lower back, cradling you close, and his other hand came to your belly, wide and calloused and warm as it pressed gently down—right where the swell of him was buried inside you, right where your body clenched around him like it couldn’t bear to lose the fullness, the heat, the truth of him.

“Right here,” he whispered, not with urgency, not with lust, but with the kind of reverent softness that made your eyes squeeze shut. “You feel that, baby? That’s me. I’m right here.”

The pressure of his palm, the heat of him, the sound of his voice—it grounded you more than anything else possibly could. You whimpered, breath catching as your muscles locked again, your body trying to brace against the tidal wave building too fast to hold back.

“I don’t know how—” you choked, the words jagged, trembling. “I don’t know if I can—”

“Yes, you do, you can,” he breathed, and his lips found your cheek, your jaw, your temple, moving in time with the careful snap of his hips, deep and unrelenting, never breaking rhythm. “Let me help you, baby. Don’t fight it. Just stay with me.”

You could feel how close he was. Every muscle in his body was trembling with restraint. His jaw was clenched so tight it ticked beneath your fingertips, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts against your skin. But still, he didn’t rush. He didn’t give in. He held you steady while you unraveled.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and his voice cracked right down the middle, wrecked and reverent. He brushed the sweaty hair from your face with a hand that trembled more than he wanted it to. “Just let me do all the work, alright? Doin’ so good for me, all ya gotta do is let go for me baby, I’m right here.”

Your eyes fluttered open, blurred and wet and shining like glass, and the moment they locked with his, it happened.

The sob that broke out of you was pure surrender—an unfiltered, primal sound that ripped from your throat like it had been caged for days, maybe weeks. And when it finally came—when your body gave in and your climax hit—it was seismic, a rupture that began low in your gut and tore its way through every nerve ending you’d spent too long numbing. It bent you back like a bow, spine arching clean off the filthy gas station floor, mouth falling open around a cry so guttural it didn’t sound human, didn’t sound like you at all, except for the way Daryl’s name punched through it like an invocation.

Your legs locked tight around his waist, shaking uncontrollably, the tension in your thighs quivering against his ribs as if your body couldn’t tell whether it was coming apart or trying to hold onto him for dear life. Your nails dragged across his shoulders in frantic, clawing lines, your fingers curling into the ridges of muscle like you were anchoring yourself to the only solid thing left in the world. And he took it—every tremor, every sob, every ragged cry—with a steadiness that bordered on sacred. Not passive. Not detached. He was there. With you. For you. Every inch of him moving with the singular purpose of carrying you through the storm you’d been bracing against for far too long.

His hips rolled with quiet force, deep and slow and relentless, each thrust dragging a fresh cry from your throat, timed perfectly with the way his hands tightened on your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the curve of your pelvis as if marking the moment into your flesh. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts against your jaw, heat and want tangled with the desperate restraint in his chest, but his voice—God, his voice stayed low, rough, reverent.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple, his nose pressed to your hairline, inhaling you like a man who had been starving. “You’re alright, baby. Just let it happen. There you go.”

 One hand slid up your back to cradle your spine, the other dropping low to splay across your abdomen, grounding you where your body was threatening to levitate, thumb dragging slow, soothing circles just above where he was buried inside you. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, measured out like he knew exactly how much you could take, like he could feel every shockwave crashing through your body and was trying to absorb some of the impact himself.

He watched you like he always did in these moments—not just looking, but drinking you in, memorising the way your head tipped back, the way your mouth opened on a cry that broke halfway through, the way your eyes fluttered and flooded like something holy had split you wide open. It wasn’t just the way your body gripped his or the flush that lit up your chest and throat—it was everything. The rawness. The surrender. The way your soul seemed to burn through your skin when you fell apart for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispered, breathless now, like the sight of you had knocked it from his lungs. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this. Always are.”

And still he didn’t let go, just pressed kisses to your jaw, your neck. Still, he didn’t chase his own pleasure, as much as he was dying to do so, didn’t speed up, didn’t falter. He held you steady through it, hips dragging the last waves of it from your body as your limbs trembled and your breath hitched, as if he was the only tether you had to the world and he’d sooner break than let you float away.

Your body writhed, overstimulated and undone, tears mixing with sweat as you whimpered into his neck, barely able to hold your own weight. But he held it for you—held all of it. One hand slid between your shoulder blades, keeping your chest to his like he was shielding you from gravity itself, while the other pressed low against your belly, grounding you, pinning you in place with a gentle pressure right above where he filled you with his dick.

He whispered through it, lips brushing your jaw, your ear, the hinge of your throat. His hands stayed on you—one grounding your hip, the other still gently pressing into your abdomen like an anchor.

“‘That's it,” he whispered, lips against your ear, breath warm and wrecked and trembling. “Just feel it, baby. You’re doin’ so good. I got you.”

Even as his own body trembled, even as his jaw clenched and his back arched and his breath hitched in his chest like a man barely holding back, he stayed with you. For you. Because he knew what this was. Knew this wasn’t just about getting off—it was about being held. Being found. Being alive.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but feel—every inch of your body lit up and trembling, a live wire sparking beneath his hands, his hips, his mouth. It was too much. Too much sensation, too much emotion, too much of him after so long without. You were raw from it, undone, and still he moved with that same aching reverence, each thrust anchoring you deeper into the moment like he knew you were slipping from the edges of it. You were tragically oblivious to another orgasm approaching you like a semi.

The orgasm that hit you didn’t just unravel you—it erased you. Your vision flared white, then dimmed, sounds muffled and distant, as if someone had dunked your head beneath warm water and held you there. The gas station vanished. The cold tile floor. The sting of your fingernails clawing down his back. All of it blurred into light and heat and the pounding of your own pulse as your body arched violently, legs locking around his waist before falling slack beneath you.

You didn’t faint, not exactly. But you went somewhere—somewhere too bright and too quiet to be real. Your arms dropped from around his neck. Your head lolled back. Your body sagged like every nerve had been cut loose at once.

And Daryl felt it instantly.

His movements faltered, breath catching in his throat as he blinked down at you, eyes wide with sudden, gut-punching concern.  “Hey,” he gasped, rough and shaking as his hand cupped your cheek, thumb sweeping across your clammy skin. “Hey, baby—hey, c’mon, stay with me, just look at me. What's goin' on?”

His voice cracked around the edges like a fault line splitting wide, that old rasp wrecked with worry. He shifted instinctively, one strong arm sliding beneath your back to cradle you close, supporting your weight like your bones had melted clean away—and they had. You were limp, pliant in his hands, your chest fluttering beneath his like a bird caught in the palm of a trembling hand.

Your lips parted on a soft, breathless sigh, lashes fluttering like you were trying to open your eyes, to come back to him.

His hand didn’t stop moving. Fingers threaded through your damp hair, brushing it back from your forehead with almost reverent care. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and raw with emotion. “You with me? Yeah? You’re alright, baby, I gotcha. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

His voice was wrecked. Wrecked and full of awe. Because even with his heart hammering in panic, even with his arms trembling around your body, he still couldn’t stop staring—couldn’t stop drinking you in, the way your skin glowed in the fractured light pouring through the broken ceiling above. Glass glittered in your hair like stars scattered in ink, your lashes damp with tears, mouth slack and lips swollen from his.

But he still hadn’t stopped. His hips still moved, slow and deep, instinct overriding thought. Relief washed over him; You were here. With him. You’d let go. And you were beautiful in it.

Your mouth moved—soft, slack, whispering nonsense or maybe his name—and your eyes finally opened, still dazed, still lost in the haze of aftershock. He watched the awareness bloom slowly across your face like sunlight creeping over the edge of a cliff. You were breathless. Glowing. Tears streaked your cheeks, but they didn’t come from pain.

He kissed your forehead, lips warm and firm against your skin, grounding you to him. “There she is,” he whispered. “Told ya I’d get you back.”

And you didn’t say anything—not at first. You just smiled, dazed and tearstained and impossibly soft, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder like you were trying to fuse your bodies together completely.

And all he could do was hold you, breathe you in, and keep moving—slow and steady and full of everything he hadn’t been able to say.

You barely got the words out—breathy and slurred, more sensation than speech—but they shattered something inside him all the same. “Inside,” you gasped, voice catching in your throat, your eyes locking with his like you were offering him salvation. “Please, Daryl—inside, I want it, I need—”

And that was it. That was it.

His body jerked like you’d pulled a trigger, the last thread of restraint snapping clean in two. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask if you were sure, didn’t second-guess—because he knew. Knew you, knew this, knew how long it had been building, how right it felt. His hips snapped forward hard, burying himself to the hilt as a guttural sound tore out of him—half-growl, half-moan, all surrender.

His brain short-circuited around the edges, every nerve ending hijacked by the heat of your body around him, the way you clung, trembling and gasping, like you needed this just as much. He chased that feeling down with everything he had, like coming inside you wasn’t just release—it was proof. It was ownership. It was home.

His body seized like something sacred had split open inside him, every muscle going taut beneath your hands, his breath catching hard in his chest as he drove himself as deep as he could go and stayed there. One last thrust, a stuttering grind of his hips that pressed you flush together, and then he was spilling into you—hot, thick, and endless—like his body had been holding back too much for too long and now it was all pouring out, every drop proof he was still here, still yours. His mouth dropped to your shoulder as a guttural moan ripped free from his throat, wrecked and helpless, the kind of sound that only came from a man giving everything. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist, where they held you still, where they cradled the place your bodies met like he could feel the way he was filling you, the way you clenched and fluttered around him like you were trying to pull him in deeper, keep him there forever.

The room was spinning gently, like the world had tipped sideways and finally decided to stay that way. You weren’t sure if it was the high or the way your body felt so thoroughly used, so utterly wrecked in the best way imaginable—but something in your chest cracked open, and all that came out was laughter.

It started quiet—just a shaky exhale and a grin pulling at your cheeks, still flushed and wet with tears—but it grew fast, breathless and bright and disbelieving. You curled your hand over your face as the sound bubbled out of you, unstoppable, giddy, the kind of laugh that only ever comes after near-death and resurrection.

“Shit,” you wheezed, blinking through the haze, your chest rising and falling like you’d run a marathon. “I blacked out. I actually blacked out—what the hell—”

Daryl was still buried inside you, breathing just as hard, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead. But when he looked down and saw you—your eyes all crinkled, your mouth open in that ridiculous, beautiful laugh—something in his face softened so completely it almost broke you again.

He let out a low, breathless huff that was halfway to a chuckle. “Jesus,” he muttered, brushing your hair off your face with the back of his hand, eyes wide with mock offense and real relief. “You really had me goin’ there, woman. One second you’re clawin’ me to death, next second you go limp like a damn ragdoll. Thought I broke you.”

You snorted, still grinning like a lunatic. “You did. In the best way, though. Next time maybe ease up on the death-by-dicking. I saw heaven, hell and my Grandma.”

He let out a quiet huff, low and breathless, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, and dragged a hand across his face like he still couldn’t believe you were real—alive, warm, mouthy as ever. His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear with more care than you’d seen in days. “She say hi for me?” he muttered, voice rough with something too raw to name, but the corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, betraying the grin he was trying not to let slip.

You grinned, already stretching like a cat beneath him, arms sliding up to loop around his neck with the kind of lazy confidence that only came from being thoroughly worshipped. “She did, actually,” you hummed, brushing your lips against his jaw as your fingers tangled in the ends of his hair. “Said if you keep that up, she might just pull some strings to keep you around a little longer.” You felt him laugh against your throat, low and rough, and the way his body relaxed into yours made your stomach flip all over again. Then his mouth found yours, soft at first—just a kiss, just the promise of one—but it deepened quick, and suddenly you weren’t so sure this was over.

The kiss hadn’t really ended. It had just slowed, softened, thinned into something weightless—like the last glow of a fire smoldering low. His hands roamed lazily over your skin, his hips shifting in the smallest, slowest rhythm, like the world outside of you didn’t exist. But your mouth kept going, even as your body melted into his, nerves still buzzing with leftover aftershock.

“I should probably be panicking,” you mumbled against his jaw, your lips brushing the stubble as you spoke. “Marshal’s gonna notice I’m gone. Someone’s bound to start asking questions. If they find my boot prints outside—”

He made a quiet sound in his throat, a distracted exhale that ghosted across your collarbone as his fingers finally found the clasp of your bra. You felt him working it one-handed, slow and clumsy in that way he always was when he was too preoccupied to focus. But you just kept spiraling

“Marshal’s probably clocked it by now,” you murmured, voice half-slurred with exhaustion and overstimulation, one hand absently trailing over Daryl’s shoulder. “Bet he’s halfway to setting the damn woods on fire lookin’ for me. Gonna be a whole thing when I show up without an escort and smelling like—”

You paused, blinking hard as Daryl’s mouth closed around your nipple.

“—like redneck,” you finished on a gasp, brows furrowing, breath catching sharply in your throat.

Daryl didn’t say anything at your jab, not with his tongue circling lazy and warm, not with the way his hands were working behind your back, clumsy in that single-minded way that meant all his brain cells had migrated south. The clasp of your bra finally gave, and you felt him exhale against your chest, low and almost reverent, like unwrapping the last damn Christmas present in the world.

“Anyway,” you managed, though your voice wobbled. “We’ll probably need to slip back soon, or else he’s gonna send a whole—oh, fuck, Daryl—send a whole damn—”

He sucked harder, just enough to make your spine twitch and your train of thought derail entirely. A soft whimper slipped out before you could catch it, and he pulled back just far enough to catch your expression with a crooked smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You finished?” he asked, voice gravel and amusement as one hand slid down to your hip, fingers splayed.

“Almost,” you muttered, chest heaving, eyes hazy but determined. “I was just sayin’ if he finds out I’m gone, he’ll—”

He dipped again without warning, tongue dragging slow over your other nipple, and your words crumbled with a breathy choke. His hands were everywhere—palming, teasing, pressing you down like he could memorize you by touch alone. Because he had.

You sucked in a shaky breath, fingers tangling in his hair. “Okay. Alright. Maybe that can wait a minute—”

“Damn right it can,” he murmured against your chest. And then, because you were still making tiny half-attempts to talk, even now, even with his mouth full of you, he pulled back just enough to give you that look—that exasperated, fond, completely ruined expression—and muttered, “Shut up, woman.”

You were still wrapped around him, your legs draped loose over his hips, your skin sticky and warm against the floor, and the air between you almost too full to breathe in. His mouth hovered at your chest, his breath hot where it fanned across damp skin, but it was the weight of him inside you that still anchored everything—that made your pulse slow down, your mind quiet, your soul crawl back into your body like it finally had a reason to stay.

Just the smallest shift of his hips, subtle and deep and slow enough to make your spine curve like a bowstring, your whole body sighing around the feeling. It wasn’t urgent this time. There was no clawing, no chaos, just the rhythm of trust, of comfort, of him easing the two of you back into motion like he didn’t want to scare the moment off.

You moved with him, your hips rising to meet each shallow thrust, the slick, slow drag of him filling you again and again like the echo of something sacred. His hands cradled your waist like you were something breakable, like he was terrified of pushing too far too fast, but he still kept going, steady and sure, his forehead dropping to your collarbone, his lips dragging blindly across your skin as he whispered something soft you couldn’t quite hear.

Your body responded before your mind did—back arching, thighs tightening around him, the stretch and pull of every movement settling low and molten in your belly. You pressed your cheek to his hair, your fingers carding gently through the strands at his nape, and for a moment, you just existed there—entwined, slow-moving, breathing each other in like the rest of the world had burned away.

He exhaled against your neck, rough and trembling. “Still with me?” he mumbled, voice hoarse, hands curling under your back as he rocked into you again, a fraction deeper this time.

You smiled, hazy and dazed and unbothered by anything but him. “Barely. But I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And neither was he.

Not when the way you moved beneath him made his breath catch, not when your warmth pulled at him like gravity, not when the sound of your voice—wrecked and playful and still full of life—was enough to make his knees weak. His hips rolled again, just a little faster, his eyes finally lifting to catch yours.

And God, that look—you felt it more than saw it. Like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

Neither of you had moved far—not really. Your legs were still loosely draped over his hips, heels resting against the backs of his thighs, your arms wrapped around him like you were trying to memorize the shape of him all over again. Daryl’s hands were splayed wide against your ribs, fingertips tracing absent circles just beneath your breasts, but the real connection—the one that neither of you dared speak for fear of breaking it—was deeper than that. He was still inside you, buried to the hilt, the fullness of him grounding you more completely than anything else in the world could.

And then, slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t register it at first—he started to move back and forth.

Not thrusting. Not fucking. Just a slow, rhythmic grind of his hips against yours, a smooth roll that had you sliding together like waves on a tide, every movement unhurried and devastating in its simplicity. The friction was low and steady, a deep ache blooming between your hips as your slick bodies rocked together, the drag of him thick and warm and maddening in the most patient, reverent way. It was less about building toward anything and more about staying here—right here—suspended in the aftermath, wrapped around each other like nothing else could touch you.

You mirrored him instinctively, your hips tilting up into every careful grind, your arms tightening around his back, mouth brushing along the curve of his shoulder. Your skin clung to his, sweat-slicked and flushed, every nerve ending burning in the low light. And God, it was slow—almost torturous in its tenderness, like your bodies had decided they weren’t ready to let go yet, not even an inch, not even now.

Daryl’s breath stuttered against your throat, warm and shaky and uneven. His forehead rested against yours, and he was watching you, eyes flickering from your parted lips to the way your brow pinched and then eased with every roll of his hips. You felt like a live wire beneath him, pulled so tight you might snap, but you didn’t want to stop—not when every slow grind of his body against yours felt like a prayer being answered.

He cupped the back of your neck with one calloused hand, his thumb stroking behind your ear as his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around your thigh to coax it higher, opening you up further, pressing you closer. He wasn’t chasing anything. He was holding you in it—this sacred, suspended moment where you didn’t need to speak to understand, didn’t need to move fast to feel everything all at once.

And still, he moved—steady, slow, unwavering—his hips grinding into yours with a reverence that bordered on worship. Your foreheads touched, your breath tangled, your bodies rocked in that quiet, unbreakable rhythm, and you both knew without needing to say it: even after everything, even after the blood and fire and silence, this—this right here—was still yours.

Your hands rose to his face, fingers skimming over the bruises that marred his cheekbones, tracing the cut below his eye with a featherlight stroke. His jaw twitched under your touch, a sharp breath caught in his throat—but he didn’t pull away. He leaned into it, like he needed to feel your fingers more than he needed to breathe.

You kissed him then—not frantic, but deep and shaking, your lips dragging over his as your body rocked beneath him. He was still hard inside you, filling every inch, the stretch still sweet and hot. Every thrust sent a slow ripple through your belly, your walls clenching weakly, tender and swollen from everything you’d just given.

When your hips shifted, chasing him, your breath hitched. You weren’t done. You didn’t want it to end. Not yet. Not when the ache between your legs felt like proof you were alive. Not when the slick sound of your bodies still meeting filled the space like a heartbeat.

His hand slid up your thigh, curling around the back of your knee as he adjusted the angle, driving just a little deeper, enough to make you whimper softly against his mouth.

And when you clenched around him, head tipped back with a broken noise caught in your throat, he kissed the salt from your cheeks and kept moving—slow and deep and endless, like the only thing holding him together anymore was the way your body still wanted his.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, the words shaped more by breath than voice. “I won’t.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came. You were too full of him. Too hollowed out by everything else.

His brow furrowed as his hand cupped your jaw, holding you still like he needed you to hear it right. “I kept thinkin’… if I had to go back to her without you—” His voice broke on the word her, just barely. “If I had to look Dani in the eye and tell her her mama was gone, that I couldn’t protect you…”

He trailed off, shaking his head like the thought itself was poison.

“I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t -'

You felt his words more than you heard them—each one a tremor against your skin, his chest tight beneath your palm, his voice cracked and breaking open in the dark. He wasn’t crying. Not exactly. But you could feel the weight of it, all the same. The terror he hadn’t voiced, the guilt he’d been choking on for days. It pressed into the curve of your spine like a second heartbeat, like if you didn’t speak now, he might drown in it.

So you found his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over the dirt and blood at his temples, his jaw, his stubble. You tilted his head until his eyes met yours, and even then, he tried to look away. But you wouldn’t let him.

“No,” you whispered, your voice thick but steady. “You won’t have to do that. You won’t have to say those words.”

He stared at you, jaw tight, breath uneven, like he was waiting to be told it was just a lie. Just another dream that would vanish in smoke.

But you didn’t flinch.

“Dani’s still gonna have her mama,” you said softly, but with more strength than you expected. “And her daddy. Both of us. She’s gonna see us walk through those gates, hand in hand, same as we left.”

Daryl closed his eyes. His throat worked around something unspoken, and when he opened them again, there was water gathered at the corners—blinking stubbornly against it, jaw clenched like it might hold the rest of him together.

You kissed him then. Not frantic, not hungry. Just the press of lips meant to anchor, to promise, to stay.

“And you’re not gonna lose me,” you said against his mouth. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded, a silent, fractured motion, and wrapped himself around you like he didn’t quite trust the world not to take you again. And maybe you didn’t either. But that didn’t matter. Because in that moment, in the hush of the abandoned station with only the creak of the wind outside and the cooling sweat between your skin, the only thing either of you believed in was this.

You didn’t know if that was true—but it sounded like hope. And you needed something to believe in.

You moved together like nothing else existed. Not the wind battering the broken walls. Not the cult that tore you apart. Not the blood, not the smoke, not the wreckage that clung to your skin and memory like rot. Only this. Only the desperate push and pull of two bodies relearning each other by touch alone, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

The rhythm you found wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate like before—it was slow, reverent, a quiet conversation of hips and breath and the slick, aching slide of him still buried deep inside you. Each slow grind sent a ripple through your spine, a soft hum low in your belly, and you clung to him—not from fear this time, not from the ghost of grief clawing behind your ribs, but simply because you could. Because he was here and he was yours, and the weight of his body felt like home pressing into all the right places.

Your hands threaded through his hair, keeping his forehead pressed to yours, and for a long, swaying moment, it felt like the whole world was just skin and breath and the slow, coiling heat curling between your hips. He whispered something then—something low and hoarse and sweet against your mouth, something like “that’s it, baby,” and “feel so good round me,” and “mine, always,”—and it unravelled something in you that hadn’t dared come forward the first time. You felt it start in your chest, in the centre of your ribs, a warmth that spread like sunlight beneath your skin, melting every last bit of tension from your body.

You didn’t flinch from it. You didn’t fight it this time.

Instead, you let yourself fall into it—let your body arch to meet him, your breath break against his jaw, your thighs tighten around his waist as the pleasure rose steady and deep. Your orgasm bloomed slow, like a flower opening in time with his hips, and when it crested, it felt like the kind of surrender that didn’t tear, didn’t burn. Just opened. Welcomed. Wrapped around you like a blanket you’d been missing your whole life.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your voice broke, not loud or wild, just soft and reverent, a choked whisper of his name carried on a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. And Daryl held you through it—his hand pressed firm against your lower belly again, his other curled beneath your head, his body grinding into yours with a rhythm that said he never wanted to stop feeling you like this, never wanted to be anywhere else. He kissed you through it, mouth warm and open and grounding, whispering your name between every breathless praise.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, voice frayed and trembling, eyes locked on your face as you came undone beneath him. “Shit, baby, I’m-”

And then he stilled, breath catching sharp in his throat, hips jerking once—twice—and he buried himself as deep as he could go, letting out a sound like he’d been holding it in for years.You locked your legs around him, hips lifting instinctively to draw him as deep as he could go, needing to feel every throb, every shudder, every last drop of him fill you up. His forehead dropped to yours again, his whole body shaking against you as he spilled into you, breathless and broken and so profoundly there it made your chest ache with how much you loved him.

You both stayed like that, trembling and tangled and far too full of each other to move, the world outside forgotten. Your fingers threaded into his hair, your nails dragging down the damp line of his spine, holding him there, inside you, where he belonged. You could feel it all—his pulse through his cock, the tremor in his thighs, the helpless twitch of his muscles as he emptied himself into you again, slower this time, but no less complete.

Wel... things can nly get worse from here.

____________________________________________________________

Taglist:miss0giarra, jovialcatduck, brianna-merlim

[d1xonss]

so ours babys a lil insecure bc of reader and his lil age gap he vents it to rick a little and since shes such a social butterfly literally talking and befriending everyone he gets upset and starts to think lowly of himself like theres younger men men who arent busy leading the community so they can spend all their time and affection on her blah blah he gets these crazy thoughts and she comforts him eases all his worries ):

Forever

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : Season 6

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : Angst/Fluff

✧ Word Count : 3.1k

AN ~ Aww sad:(( but we love Reader comforting Daryl, it's one of my favorite things to write. And an age gap too?? I love it. Hope you enjoy!

“You’re ridiculous.” Rick spoke with a scoff.

Daryl’s eyes narrowed slightly at the man, not necessarily because of what he had claimed, but because it almost seemed like he hadn’t listened to him at all.

He already felt a little ashamed going to his friend in the first place to talk about how he was feeling, something the man rarely ever did. But that alone showed how desperate he seemed to be for any kind of advice, willing to put himself out there to express what had been going through his mind recently in hopes of some sort of reassurance.

He didn’t really know what had been going on with him recently, but ever since the group had made it to Alexandria, his insecurities slowly began to eat him alive. He started to take note of his appearance a little more, now that they actually had mirrors in the houses provided for them, seeing for himself how much older and tired he really was. It shouldn’t have bugged him as much as it did, but yet, it seemed to be all he thought about. And that constant loop of thoughts only traveled to another, thinking about how much living on the road seemed to age him, while the woman he was madly in love with stayed so young and beautiful.

She was absolutely perfect, not a single flaw, while he on the other hand had countless ones that he couldn’t seem to just get over and ignore. But that wasn’t the only aspect about her that seemed to cloud over his mind. She was quite the extrovert, making friends everywhere she turned as she was constantly radiating such a good and friendly energy. It even drew him in towards her from the start, falling victim to her charming personality. Though it wasn’t her kindness that made him a little more self conscious than before; it was the fact that a few younger men had obviously taken a liking to her natural sweetness ever since they moved here.

Now he knew that she would never cheat on him, the thought never even crossed her mind, but that still didn’t stop his jealousy from bubbling over to a point of no return. Wanting to beat the shit out of any guy who looked at her for just a little too long. He wasn’t blind by any means, and some of them had a hard time hiding the sneaky glances they were taking at his woman whilst she was just in her own little world.

Though the longer he seemed to stew over it for the months and months they had lived there, it made him start to wonder if maybe she would be better off with someone else. Someone a bit younger, more energetic, more outgoing. Someone that matched her personality better than he did. It was no secret that they were polar opposites, but he always imagined that they completed each other in a way, not even thinking twice about it. However, now that he had all the time in the world to think, it slowly started to consume him, thinking more about how he didn’t deserve her at all. But hell, maybe no one deserved her. 

The man then seemed to snap out of his thoughts, scoffing toward Rick who was looking at him with a small smile, “Man, m’ bein serious.” he grumbled.

“So am I.” Rick shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he tilted his head a bit at him, “I really don’t think you have anything to worry about man. You two are always attached at the hip, she loves you…I think you might just be in your own head about it.”

He sighed heavily as he thought to himself for another moment, his thumbnail in his mouth as he contemplated why he was confiding in Rick in the first place. At this point he had it in his head that the man was just telling him what he wanted to hear. “I dunno…” he eventually muttered in response.

Rick only shook his head, “You shouldn’t be so focused on this. You’ve always known how nice she is, everyone loves her-”

“Man, that ain’t the problem. I already told ya that.” Daryl interrupted with irritation in his voice.

“I know…I know.” he assured, “I guess I just don’t see the connection of how you came up with the idea that she suddenly deserves someone “better.”

The archer shook his head with a light scoff, “Seein her talkin with those guys…something kinda just clicked that she should be with someone more fit for her…” he trailed off for a moment, before pathetically shrugging his shoulders again, “I dunno.”

Rick honestly couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Although, he could, he knew that Daryl sometimes got like this, thinking he didn’t deserve the things that he was given. But he never thought he would be standing here listening to him speak about how you would be better off with someone else. Anyone who even caught a glimpse of the two of you could easily see how in love you were with each other. He swore the sight could potentially make someone sick.

The man then cleared his throat, “Well…if you want to know what I think, I say you should talk to her.”

“Talk to her?”

Rick couldn’t help but laugh at how baffled he looked at the suggestion, “Yeah, talk to her. Besides, I think she’ll have a better chance at reassuring you about this than I will, she seems more fit for the role.” he joked.

But Daryl on the other hand scoffed, not exactly loving the idea, “This shit’s already embarrassing, why would I wanna bring it up to her? Didn’t even really wanna bring it up to you.”

“Thanks.” Rick said dryly before stepping closer to slap a hand on the man’s shoulder, “But just trust me on this, alright? You need to tell her how you’ve been feeling. Because if I know you at all, I know you want to keep this bottled up. But that’ll just make it worse and you know it.”

He was right. As much as Daryl hated to acknowledge it, he knew deep down he was right.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting to put it off every chance he got, pushing it into the back of his mind as he always seemed to do in hopes that it would just go away. Though he knew it wouldn’t, he couldn’t bring himself to want to think about it right now.

He went home later that night utterly defeated and clueless on how to even approach the topic in the first place. When the time dreadfully came around, how would he even bring it up? He was never good with words, especially when it came to something about how he was feeling. It was all just stupid and complicated in his mind, not knowing how to actually piece together the things he wanted her to know. But he knew he had to try.

The front door opened and shut with a small creak as he entered the house, kicking his dirty boots off to the side before he softly called out your name. But all was quiet, not a single sound of your voice calling back to him, to which he only assumed you were still out somewhere in the community. It wasn’t often you stayed out this late, but he silently knew that if someone needed the extra help, you would do it in a heartbeat.

The older man sighed deeply to himself before trudging up the stairs, wanting to get out of the filthy clothes he was trapped in before settling for the night, waiting for you to come home. He couldn’t ever really fall asleep without you there. He didn’t know if it was because he would always worry too much if you weren’t right beside him, or if he just physically needed your touch to relax, but it had to be somewhere in that ballpark. Perhaps both…definitely both.

He entered your shared bedroom with a tired huff, beginning to undo the buttons on his vest before folding it sloppily and setting it off to the side on the dresser. His hands then moved to peel off his dirty shirt that stuck to every part of his tanned skin, raising it over his head before throwing it in the hamper across the room to be washed. He ran his hands through his hair to get it out of his face as he crossed the space to get himself another pair of pants to sleep in, when suddenly his movements stopped short.

The tall, full length mirror that sat off in the corner quickly caught his attention as he saw just a brief glimpse of his reflection dancing behind the glass. He blinked a few times as he knew he shouldn’t look too close, knowing it was only going to add fuel to the already ongoing fire. But a part of him couldn’t help it, seeing as it was too late now that he had taken notice of a few new flaws he hadn’t spotted before. It was like some kind of sinkhole that he couldn’t escape from, looking over the things he hated the most about himself over and over again.

He slowly stepped closer toward the object even though he knew he shouldn’t, seeing himself a little more up close as the moonlight poured through the window just above him to illuminate his figure. His eyes scanned everything he could make out in the slight darkness, seeing the wrinkles that were now more prominent on his forehead. Seeing the dark circles under his eyes from the exhaustion and stress that had been weighing on him constantly. And seeing the scars that littered over his entire body.

“Daryl?”

The man nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of your soft voice from behind him, spinning around to see you standing in the doorway. Your eyes widened a little in surprise. Never had you recalled a single time where you had been able to catch him off guard, accidently sneak up on him enough to make his heart skip. He had always been aware of his surroundings, the man had the instincts of a goddamn cat. So to say you were surprised when he hovered about five feet in the air at your presence, would be an understatement.

You raised an eyebrow at him in slight concern, “You okay?” you asked softly as you approached him with hesitance.

Daryl’s stomach had plummeted to his ass, a heat rising in his cheeks from embarrassment as you caught him staring down at himself for a bit longer than usual. He swallowed thickly as he saw you walking further into the room, nodding a bit quickly, “Yeah…m’ fine.”

Though the way he spoke was far from convincing, his voice coming out a bit higher than usual, and the reassuring smile he tried to send your way being a little too forced for you not to realize. Your eyes narrowed toward him in slight suspicion as you came to stand right in front of him, taking in his appearance. There was something that was clearly circling his mind, you had noticed for far longer than he thought you did. But you always knew when there was something off about him.

You gently reached out to grab one of his hands in your own, “Come on…don’t lie to me.” 

He sighed softly, knowing that he should just bite the bullet and tell you, but he couldn’t bring himself to just yet. “Just…just had a rough day. That’s all.” 

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” you said with a slight shake of your head, watching as he furrowed his brows a little in question. “You’ve been acting off for weeks now, you really didn’t think I was going to notice?”

His eyes widened. Shit. 

A small smirk formed on your lips as you clearly saw that you had caught him in a little white lie. It was written all over his face. You squeezed his hand in reassurance, “I’m not upset…I just want you to talk to me.”

He knew he couldn’t avoid it forever, especially after Rick gave him that little wake up call earlier to just rip the bandage off. But he hoped he could put it off for at least a few more days, wanting a little more time to prepare the things he wanted to express to you honestly. Though he could tell just by the way you were looking up at him, that you wanted answers, and he couldn’t just ignore what was standing right before him.

He sighed softly as he looked at the ground for a moment, before slowly nodding his head, “Alright…” he started, not even knowing where to take this. “Look…maybe…maybe this ain’t workin.” he blurted without thinking.

Your eyes widened a little, “What?” 

Daryl’s eyes then grew as well realizing just how bad that sounded, quickly shaking his head, “No, no, I- I mean…that ain’t how I meant for it to sound at all.” he reassured, before taking another moment to collect his racing thoughts. “I’ve been…thinkin recently and…I ain’t gettin any younger. Hell, I feel like I aged five extra years just from bein out on the damn road for so long.”

You nodded along slowly, not really seeing where this was heading, “So?”

He sighed softly, “So…I’ve been thinkin bout how…maybe…ya deserve to be with someone a little more fit for ya. Someone younger than me…someone who can give ya what I can’t.” he spoke almost regrettably, like he dreaded even saying those words out loud in the first place.

The truth was, he never wanted to let you go, that was a knowing fact that didn’t need to be proved. But at the same time, he didn’t want to hold you back from a chance at a better life. One that you so clearly deserved.

But your expression seemed to soften drastically, now hearing his explanation out loud, it all seemed to click in your head. Why he had been acting off for the longest time, it was because he was just thinking too much about something that meant absolutely nothing. When you first noticed his odd behavior, you automatically assumed you had done something wrong without realizing. But now hearing it out loud, hearing how hurt he sounded, all you wanted to do was hold him and never let him go. Wanting to reassure him for the rest of your lives if you had to that he was truly the only man you would ever want.

A small huff passed through your lips, “Sweetie…that’s what this is about?”

Daryl shrugged a little in response, “Well…yeah. I’ve seen ya makin friends with a lot of the people round here…it just crossed my mind that…maybe-”

“Stop.” you said gently as you moved even closer to him, reaching up to give his arms a gentle squeeze, “Don’t say another word.”

His gaze softened as he stared down at you, regret filling him completely as he saw just how his words had affected you.

“I love you…so much.” you whispered as your gripped his arms a little tighter, “I’m not looking at anyone else…I don’t want anyone else. No one else on this whole damn planet would be a better fit for me than you. I don’t need some younger guy. I’m not even friends with them, they only come talk to me if they have a question about something. And most of them aren’t very bright.” you said bluntly, earning a small chuckle from him. “I just wish you had told me about this sooner.”

He bit his lip a bit shamefully, “I know…m’ sorry. I just thought…ya might be better off-”

“I won’t.” you insisted, “You’re all I will ever need…you hear me?”

A small smile grew on his face upon hearing that, knowing that you meant every word. Though there was still another thing hovering over his mind. “Even though m’ an old man?” he asked half heartedly, though a part of him was still serious.

You rolled your eyes a bit, “Just because you’re older than me doesn’t make you an old man.” you laughed softly, “But if that’s something you’re really worried about…I promise to stick around even when you’re eighty.” you winked.

His lip quirked up a bit in amusement as he reached out to place his hands on your hips, gently tugging you closer, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nodded, “You won’t get rid of me that easily.”

You then felt his thumbs start to rub soothingly along your hip bones, still a little unsure if this was truly what you wanted. To be with someone like him. “Ya promise?” he eventually asked.

You tilted your head a bit at him, “Come on…what do I have to do to convince you that I want this forever?”

The man was silent for a long moment as he thought to himself, absentmindedly still running his thumbs along your hips as he stared down at you. The truth was he didn’t really need anymore convincing than what you had already told him. Just by the small bit of reassurance you provided, he felt as though he was lighter, a weight being lifted from his shoulders knowing you were his. But still, he couldn’t imagine a more perfect time to make it even more official.

“Marry me.”

Your eyes widened a little in surprise, not expecting him to be so blunt let alone say those words to you at all. He never really struck you as someone who would want to get married at a time like this, but it’s not like you minded. As long as you were with him, that’s all that truly mattered to you.

Only now it felt as if the wind was knocked out of you, hearing him utter those words so clearly as if he meant it with his entire being. You couldn’t help but laugh a bit nervously, “Don’t joke about that, cause you know I will.”

He smiled down at you, shaking his head softly, “M’ serious.” he assured, raising one of his hands to run his thumb along your cheek, “Marry me.”

A lump began to form in your throat as you felt yourself get a little more emotional seeing how real this was becoming. Seeing how serious he was. He really wanted this.

“Okay.” you whispered with a small nod of your head.

His smile only grew, “Okay?”

You nodded a bit more frantically as a large smile broke out onto your face, “Yes…yes I’ll marry you.”

He chuckled, pure relief and happiness filling him completely as he picked you up in his arms, spinning you around lightly as you squealed in surprise. Though he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to seal the deal as he gently set you back down on your feet, kissing you deeply as he felt you hum into his mouth. A part of him almost couldn’t believe that you had agreed, wanting to truly be with him forever. But then again, with the way you looked at him, with the way you said yes with little to no hesitation at all, he knew. You were his forever.

~ Thanks for reading!

[fireside-fanfics]

Just a Scratch

The gunfire had died down, but the tension still sat thick in the air, coiled tight in Daryl’s gut. His grip tightened around his crossbow as his boots pounded against the dirt, weaving between rusted shipping containers. His lungs burned, his heart hammered—he couldn’t stop moving. Not until he found her.

They’d split up. Just for a minute. Just long enough for him to flank one of the Governor’s men and take the bastard out. Long enough for Peach to disappear. And now he couldn’t find her.

“Peach!” he called, voice rough, desperate.

Nothing.

A flicker of movement ahead had him spinning, crossbow raised—only for Rick to come into view, pistol gripped tight in his hand.

“Where the hell is she?” Daryl snapped before Rick could say anything.

“She went after one of ‘em,” Rick’s jaw was clenched, his eyes sharp and scanning. “Think he ran toward the containers. We gotta move.”

Daryl didn’t need to be told twice. He surged forward, his legs aching from how long they’d been running, fighting, surviving. He’d lost sight of her once before and he wouldn’t do it again. Rick led the way, moving fast but controlled. Daryl kept close, both of them ducking behind cover as they made their way deeper into the shipping yard. The cold air bit at his skin, but the adrenaline burning through him made it easy to ignore.

Then—

A faint noise.

A sharp, pained grunt. Daryl’s stomach turned to ice. They rounded a rusted red container, weapons raised—and there she was. Peach was slumped against the metal wall, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. Blood stained her jeans, pooling beneath her where she sat. Daryl’s eyes darted downward, and that’s when he saw it: a knife buried deep in her thigh.

“Hey, my two favorite men,” Peach grunted between sharp breaths. She managed to shoot a smile up at them from where she was wincing in pain in the dirt.

Daryl was already beside her, hands hovering before finally gripping her face, tilting it up so he could see her. “The hell happened?”

She swallowed, jaw tight. “Ran into one of ‘em. He got the jump on me. I got the last hit, but—” she flicked her fingers toward her leg—“guess I wasn’t quick enough.”

Daryl gritted his teeth, his fingers twitching where they rested against her cheek. He should’ve been there; he should’ve had her back.

Rick cursed under his breath and crouched beside her, eyes flicking between her wound and the way her fingers trembled as she tried to push herself up.

“S’fine, Rick,” Peach whispered, a sharp gasp of pain leaving her lips betrayed her.

“I’d believe you’re fine,” Rick muttered, shaking his head, “but you got a goddamn knife stickin’ outta your leg, Peach so—”

“I told you,” Peach let out a breathy laugh, but even that sounded weak. “It’s just a scratch.”

The two men shared a brief look, full of unspoken understanding. They knew Peach better than most; they knew she was hurting more than she was letting on. Her facade was already failing. Rick shifted beside them, his gun still drawn, scanning their surroundings.

“We gotta move,” Rick reminded them urgently. “We’re not out of this yet.”

Daryl nodded, barely sparing him a glance before looking back at Peach. He brushed her bangs off her forehead and asked, “Can you walk?”

She clenched her jaw and pushed herself up, her fingers digging into the ground for support. She got about halfway before her leg buckled, a sharp gasp slipping from her lips as she crumpled back down. Daryl didn’t hesitate to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Ain’t got time for pride, sweetheart.”

Before she could argue, he hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her effortlessly. Peach tensed, fingers curling into his vest. With wide eyes, she tried to protest.

“Daryl, you don’t have to—”

“Ain’t leavin’ without you,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “So shut up and hold on.”

Rick was already moving ahead, scanning their path, leading them toward the rusted blue container where Glenn and Maggie were supposed to be. Daryl could feel Peach trembling against him, whether from pain or blood loss, he wasn’t sure. Her forehead pressed into his shoulder, her breath uneven.

“Still just a scratch?” he murmured, trying to keep his voice light, keep her grounded. She let out a real chuckle; it was still weak, but it was a real laugh.

“Still not gonna let you carry me forever,” Peach smiled, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Wanna bet?” Daryl smirked despite himself, adjusting his grip.

They reached the container a minute later. Rick pressed himself against the metal wall, signaling for Daryl to set Peach down. He did so carefully, leaning her against the side before stepping up beside Rick. Rick jerked his chin at the door and Daryl nodded back, silently agreeing on their next steps. Then Rick wrenched the door open; the two men barreled through the door, weapons drawn.

The stench hit them first—sweat, blood, fear.

Glenn and Maggie were huddled inside, eyes wild, hands bound, bruises blooming along their skin. Glenn’s lip was split, dried blood caking the side of his face. Maggie’s arms were wrapped around herself, her shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller. Daryl didn’t waste a second; he stepped forward to cut Glenn’s restraints while Rick freed Maggie.

“Gotcha,” Daryl muttered, gripping Glenn’s arm, steadying him. “We’re gettin’ outta here.”

Glenn barely nodded, his body swaying from exhaustion. Maggie clung to Rick’s side, her fingers curled into his jacket. Then Maggie’s eyes landed on Peach who had managed to stagger into the entry of the container; Peach was slumped against the side of the opening, her thigh still bleeding and dripping on her shoes.

Maggie gasped, “Oh my God—”

Peach forced a weak smile. “S’fine. Just a scratch.”

“She’s full’a shit,” Daryl huffed, making his way to Peach quickly to steady her.

Maggie and Glenn introduced them to the others in the container, vouching for all of them. Rick nodded and introduced himself; Daryl grunted and studied them all closely, already calculating if any of them were a threat. Peach managed to wave at the group.

“We gotta go,” Rick cut in, eyes scanning the yard. “Now.”

They all agreed and started to file out, fighting stances ready. Rick kept a firm grip on Maggie, and Daryl crouched beside Peach again, his hand settling against her cheek.

“Can you make it?” His voice was softer now, rough with something unspoken. His hand settled against her cheek.

Peach met his gaze, something tired but stubborn in her eyes. “Will you’ll carry me again if I say no?”

Daryl smirked. “Guess you’ll have to try me.”

With Rick and Glenn leading the way, Daryl hooked an arm around Peach’s knees and scooped her up again. He was careful no to bump the knife. With that the group, took off. Gunfire crackled in the distance, but they didn’t stop running. They made it back to the prison just before dawn.

Hershel tended to Peach first as her injury was the most immediate concern. Daryl sat on the ground beside her cot, watching as Hershel worked, as the old man cleaned and stitched, his expression tight but steady. Peach didn’t make a sound, just clenched her jaw and stared at the ceiling, her fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath her.

When Hershel was done, he sighed and stood; he nodded firmly a Daryl. “She’ll be alright. Needs rest.”

“Thanks,” Daryl nodded. “I owe you, Hershel.”

Hershel patted his shoulder before stepping away, leaving the two of them alone. For a long moment, Daryl just sat there with hands curled into fists; finally, he moved to sit beside her—so close that his leg was firmly pressed again her good one. Then Peach shifted and tilted her head toward him, her eyes heavy-lidded but focused.

“Didn’t think I’d lose you today,” she murmured. “One second you were there and then all of a sudden you weren’t—”

“Ain’t ever losin’ me, Peach,” Daryl swallowed hard, his fingers twitching against her knee. He glanced at her to see if she was bothered, but all she did was grin.

“Good.” Peach smiled, small and tired. She stretched her arm and took his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. “Because I don’t want to do this apocalypse shit without you... I mean it.”

“You’re a damn handful,” Daryl exhaled, shaking his head and squeezing her hand, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Peach chuckled but didn’t reply, eyes fluttering shut. She leaned fully into Daryl’s side. He let go of her hand and wrapped his arm behind her, resting his hand on her hip to pull her into him more. Her head dropped on his shoulder and he watched as she drifted off to sleep, her breathing steadying.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight in his chest eased. Daryl stayed there long after Peach had fallen asleep, listening to the quiet, to the distant sounds of the prison coming to life.

Maybe tomorrow they'd be back out there fighting again. Maybe more people would get hurt. Maybe things wouldn’t ever get easier, but for now, she was alive. She was breathing and safe beside him—and that was enough.