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janiehellion · 2 days ago

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𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Daryl Dixon doesn't say much—but when you almost die, he finally tells you everything. Turns out, the man who you thought hated you the most was the one who loved you the hardest.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Submissive Daryl Dixon ⋮ Angst ⋮ Hurt/Comfort ⋮ Smut ⋮ Violence ⋮ Fluff ⋮ Dry Humping ⋮ Trauma ⋮ Cock Teasing ⋮ Handjob ⋮ Orgasm Control ⋮ Body Worship ⋮ Size Kink ⋮ Condom Use/Play ⋮ Praise Kink ⋮ Cock Riding ⋮ Dissociation ⋮ Aftercare ⋮ Daryl Dixon's Biceps

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 26.062 ⋮ 𝑺𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈: S02E04 ⋮ 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Fem!Reader

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⋮ 𝑹𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑮𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 ⋮ 𝑨𝒓𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝑶𝒇 𝑶𝒖𝒓 𝑶𝒘𝒏

The Georgia sun was already feeling way too hot by mid-morning, shining down on the farm like it had a personal problem against you as soon as you and the rest of the group had arrived on the Greene's property. After the funeral of a man named Otis, you stood near a truck with your arms crossed, listening to the voices around it. Maggie had put a map onto the hood for Rick and the rest of you to continue the search after Sophia.

"How long has this girl been lost?" Hershel asked, looking at Rick's pale face. You didn't blame him—Carl was still inside the house, recovering and quiet in bed, and everyone else was still somewhat in shock since Otis didn't come back, especially Shane. Or so it seemed.

"This'll be day three," Rick answered, and the sound of exhaustion in his voice was very noticeable.

Finally moving closer after some time, you stood right next to Hershel Greene. Not because you wanted to, but because it was the only space left around the hood of the truck.

"County survey map. Shows terrain and elevations," Maggie had said, making Rick nod, looking at everyone around him.

"This is perfect. We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area... start searching in teams."

But Hershel immediately cut him off. "Not you. Not today. You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out," he said, then looking over at Shane. "And your ankle... Push it now, and you'll be laid up a month, no good to anybody."

This nearly made you open your mouth, about to offer something—you hadn't given any blood, your ankle was fine, and you wanted to help, just like everyone else—but Daryl beat you to it, jerking his chin toward the map and pointing at a spot with one finger.

"Guess 's just me," he threw in. "'M gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."

Of course.

"I can still be useful," Shane added quickly, adjusting the police cap on his now-shaven head. "I'll drive up to the interstate. See if Sophia wandered back."

Rick looked down but then nodded. "All right, tomorrow then. We'll start doing this right."

"That means we can't have our people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we've been promising them." Shane leaned forward, looking past you and toward Rick.

But Hershel didn't back down from what he apparently had told both Rick and Shane already. "I'd prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We've managed so far without turning this into an armed camp."

"All due respect," Shane fired back in an instant, shaking his head, "you get a crowd of those things wandering in here—"

"Look, we're guests here," Rick started and silenced him, then looked at Hershel again. "This is your property, and we will respect that." Before he even continued, he pulled his Colt Python revolver from the holster and placed it on the hood of the truck.

Shane hesitated, then did the same with his pistol.

"First things first," Rick then said. "Set camp. Find Sophia."

Finally, you cleared your throat. "We'll find her," you said. "We're not giving up."

Shane shot you a quick look but nodded. "Right... But I hate to be the one to ask," he said further, "but somebody's got to. What happens if we find her and she's bitten? I think we should all be clear on how we handle that."

"You do what has to be done." Rick's answer came with no hesitation.

Maggie looked up, her gaze switching from him to Shane. "And her mother? What do you tell her?"

"The truth," Andrea suddenly answered flatly, but that was about it.

Shane took a step back from the truck. "I'll gather and secure all the weapons. Make sure no one's carrying till we're at a practice range off-site. I do request one rifleman on the lookout. Dale's got experience."

"Our people would feel safer, less inclined to carry a gun," Rick told Hershel again, who finally gave him a thoughtful nod in return.

"That stuff you brought… Got more antibiotics, bandages, anything like that?"

But as the conversation turned toward medical supplies, Daryl grunted and moved away from the group. Just like that. You didn't hesitate—your feet were already moving after him as he walked in the direction of his tent like he'd never been part of the conversation at all.

"Hey!" You called out, running a little. "Wait up."

He didn't turn, but he didn't speed up either. That was about as much of an invitation as you were ever going to get from Daryl Dixon.

You caught up to him just as he was about to kneel down, grabbing some more bolts for his crossbow and a knife. "The hell ya followin' me for?" He asked, not even looking up.

"I want to go with you," you answered. "I can help."

But Daryl snorted. Actually snorted. Like you'd just offered to fix his engine with a wrench and no knowledge at all when it comes to motorcycles.

"Go back to playin' nurse for the kid," he answered. "Ain't draggin' yer ass out there just so ya can trip over yer own damn self and die."

You blinked. "Okay, Daryl. How about you try to not act like a dick?"

"Ain't got no time for that."

You moved closer, squinting against the sun as you stared him down. "Listen, I'm not stupid. I can handle myself. If something happens, then you're there to help. And I would help you in return."

That finally made him look back at you with narrowed eyes… all blue and pissed. "Ya got a death wish, that it? Go wanderin' out there like a dumbass; gonna end up just like that lil' girl."

"That little girl is the whole reason we're out here in the first place!" You snapped at him, gesturing around. "You think you're the only one who cares? The only one who can search for Sophia?"

Daryl stood back up. But in the same way as when he was trying not to punch something. "Ain't 'bout what ya can do. 'S what ya shouldn't be doin'."

You were breathing hard, just as he turned away. "Don't follow me," he added, before turning and stomping off across the field and toward the tree line.

Without thinking, you walked after him again.

"Daryl, wait!" You called, grabbing for his shoulder as he reached the edge of the field.

He turned around like he'd been attacked, shrugging you off. His elbow hit you hard enough to surprise you and enough to hurt, making you stumble back a step.

"Don't ya touch me!"

You stared at him with wide eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Daryl looked you up and down like you were a problem he didn't have the time to fix. "Nothin' wrong with me. I ain't the one out here goin' after people who told 'em no."

"That's just because you're being such a stubborn asshole, Daryl!"

He laughed, mean and without amusement. "Oh, ain't that rich, comin' from a bitch wearin' her goddamn perfume and pink nail polish—hair all shiny, clothes all clean! Ya ain't shit."

That answer felt like a slap in the face for you. "You don't know anything about me, Daryl. Don't talk about me like that." Blinking hard with a slightly trembling lip, you realized too late that he noticed it.

"I only want to help!" You quickly continued to shout. "You think I'm useless? I'm trying! I care. Isn't that what matters? God, you're such a bastard! Do you really think I'm some helpless little—"

"Yeah, I do," he growled at you, his voice dropping lower and sounding meaner. "Ya don't belong out there. Hell, ya don't even belong out here! Yer like some damn doll that—"

"Why do you even care then?" You shouted back into his face. "If I'm so pathetic, why not let me get eaten?"

Daryl stopped talking in an instant until his voice sounded normal again… unbothered. "Don't care. Just don't wanna have to be the one cleanin' up what's left when the walkers're done with ya."

The silence that followed? All you could listen to was your pulse, which was pounding in your ears.

Daryl turned his back to you again—like he couldn't even stand to look at you—and finally walked off without another word, his crossbow hanging over one shoulder, going far from everyone, like he wanted it. Like he wanted to be.

You stayed where you were, jaw clenched, breathing fast. You weren't crying. Not really. But you wanted to. Just then someone stopped beside you, and you looked up to find Glenn.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I… just talked with Daryl," you answered, brushing your palms off on your clothes, trying to get the little shaking to stop.

Glenn let out a sigh and gave you a look. One of those typical looks—worried, a little amused, and very much not buying your bullshit.

"He always that much of an asshole to you?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Pretty much. Guess I bring out the worst in him."

"I've noticed it already, believe me," Glenn responded. "As if... you walk near him and the guy forgets how to be a human being."

"He literally shoved me," you grumbled, more to yourself than to him. "Like, right now. And hard. Then told me I was useless and that I don't belong out here."

"Jesus…" Glenn blinked, shaking his head.

"Right? I ask to help, and he treats me like I'm the goddamn problem."

"Yeah, that tracks," Glenn answered dryly with a smirk. "That's what he does. Gets annoyed and acts like a dick to scare everyone away. Very much emotionally mature."

You snorted as if to laugh about it. But in reality? It hurt a little bit.

"He doesn't scare me," you answered. "He simply pisses me off."

"I think that's the same thing for him. Look, just give him some space. That man's got more walls than Fort Knox. But if you ever want to talk about it, I've got some time."

"Well, thanks for that. I mean it," you smiled weakly as Glenn started walking beside you, back toward the farmhouse. You glanced over your shoulder toward the trees where Daryl had disappeared. No sign of him. Was he already gone and looking for Sophia? You didn't know. And right now, you couldn't care less about Daryl Dixon.

But once you focused on what was in front of you, you saw her just before you reached your tent—Carol, standing off to the side, arms wrapped around herself like if she let go, she would cry. Her eyes were on the tree line, searching a forest for explanations that never answered any questions. She was waiting.

Waiting for a daughter who might already be dead.

You froze and felt it all at once—shame, guilt, helplessness. You'd been arguing around instead of helping, just because Daryl thought you were useless. But what were you actually doing to help?

What were any of you doing, really?

By the time you reached your tent, your mind was already made up. You waited until everyone had calmed down, until everyone was busy with any task they were able to keep themselves occupied with, and until Rick disappeared inside the farmhouse to look after Carl.

No one was watching. Not now, at last.

Grabbing the knife that Shane had sharpened for you a few days ago, you slipped it into your belt. It wasn't much. But it'd have to do. Not leaving a note behind, you just disappeared into the woods before you could talk yourself out of it.

Keeping to the trail you found at first, the knife gripped tight in your hand, your eyes were looking toward every rustle of leaves and creak of branches.

It wasn't brave. It was stupid. You knew that. But you didn't care. You had to do something to help. Anything.

Time passed as you walked, maybe an hour, maybe more. You weren't sure. The muscles in your legs ached, and sweat slid down your back, sticky and wet beneath your shirt. But you kept going. Eventually, you saw it. A clearing. An old house made out of wood and forgotten, with windows that looked long broken. It was something. Maybe it was a place a scared little girl might hide in.

You approached carefully, your heart immediately starting to beat faster. Each step seemed louder than it should've been. The door creaked when you pushed it open, and you winced, raising your knife. Nothing moved.

Good.

Inside, the place smelled like mold and animal piss. You gagged but forced yourself to step in, eyes scanning everything. There was a broken-down couch, a couple of empty cans on the floor—sardines, maybe?—and a hallway leading deeper into the house.

You moved slowly, your breathing as quiet as it could be. The floor creaked beneath you, and every move sounded way too loud in the silence. A few steps further into the nearest room, you saw it—something that looked like a tiny, makeshift bed in a closet.

Could've been Sophia.

Could've been… But after searching through the whole place, you came to the realization that it was indeed empty.

Stepping outside again, you blinked against the sun, squinting at the ground. That's when you saw them—white flowers, growing wild near the tree line. Cherokee roses.

You remembered these roses. The history lessons in school about the Trail of Tears, how the Cherokee people were forced out of their native land, and how the mothers of the Cherokee were grieving and crying so much that they were unable to help their children survive the journey. You couldn't help but crouch down to take a closer look.

But that was your mistake.

Something snapped beneath your foot. Not loud. But you fell forward fast, your ankle twisting itself hard to the side as your foot caught a rock buried in the grass. Your knee slammed down on another, and pain tore through your leg, making you forget that your head hit the ground as well. Crying out, you tried to catch yourself, but your arm hit something jagged. Wood? Rusted metal? You didn't know and didn't have time to find out.

Either way, it cut deep. A long, deep cut inside your forearm, bleeding quickly and not stopping.

You swore, grabbing it, gasping as the pain started to be felt. Your ankle wasn't broken, but it throbbed as you tried to stand back up, only to fail. The second your weight shifted, your knees buckled and you hit the ground again.

"Shit," you hissed out as quietly as possible. "Shit, shit, shit!"

You looked around—trees, grass, endless nothing. No one was coming. No one even knew you were gone.

The blood wasn't gushing, but it didn't stop either, making your heart race faster than it should've, and the heat of the sun made everything spin.

This was bad.

It felt bad. Not walker-bite bad, not definitely dead bad, but you'd hit your head a little too hard when you fell, and the pain behind your eyes was pulsing now, pounding even. A concussion? Maybe.

But worst of all—you were alone. Out here. No backup. No plan.

You hadn't found Sophia.

You hadn't found anything.

All you had found were the Cherokee roses that blurred by now in front of your eyes like your brain couldn't quite hold the shape. You blinked, but the flower didn't sharpen. Everything was spinning. The trees swayed too hard. Your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, and your ankle had gone numb, like your body gave up trying to feel it anymore.

The grass was warm under your back. That should've comforted you, right?

And then the memories started coming back out of nowhere. They came slowly, like a fever dream.

The firelight. The sound of crickets. The quarry just outside Atlanta, back when everything still felt new, when walkers were the worst of your problems, and Daryl Dixon was just some loudmouth redneck with a brother twice as bad.

You'd never forget the first real day around them. It had been a good day. At least at first. You'd just bathed down there, using some lotion afterward you'd scavenged from a motel, along with a broken brush that barely held together as you came back with damp hair and a pink towel around your body.

The shampoo you'd used? It was strawberry-scented, the cheap kind, but it made your hair all soft and shiny. You'd taken an extra five minutes to wash it out in the water, humming to yourself, just trying to feel clean for five seconds. You even wanted to wear one of the sundresses you'd taken with you, thinking, stupidly, maybe you'd feel safe again and that this whole pandemic would be over soon.

What a joke.

Then you remembered walking up to the fire, smiling, towel around your shoulders. The way Jim gave you a nod. How Dale smiled like he was just happy someone still knew what lotion was.

You remembered Merle's laugh next. Harsh. Mean. "Well lookit that," he'd snorted, loud enough for the whole camp to hear. "Miss Georgia's right here in the end times. Whatcha doin', girl? Waitin' on Prince fuckin' Charming, or you plannin' to start a fuckin' show out here for me, sugartits? Do you think some walker's gonna fuck your pretty lil' ass? Shit, don't even need them damn dresses you always wearin', I can give ya a damn good time without 'em."

You'd tried to ignore him. Dried your hair by the fire, doing your best not to just run away when he got closer.

And Daryl? He hadn't stopped Merle. He'd just joined in like he hated what he was looking at. "Ya really bringin' that kinda shit out here? She really tryin' to get a walker to fuck her ‘fore it eats her."

You'd looked up. Said nothing.

And then Daryl had spat. Not near you. On you. A glob of spit that hit your leg.

"Dumb bitch. Still ain't got nothin' worth keepin' alive."

He hadn't even looked at you when he said it. Like you weren't even worth the eye contact. After that, you didn't eat with the others for days. But you tried to stay useful. Stayed quiet.

Even now, lying here in the grass, while some of the blood dried on your arm, your head pounding, the memory hurt.

Not just because it had been painful. Not because it was mean. Because part of you had believed them.

You knew that you weren't a fighter. You were just… you. Still using cosmetics and having a heartbeat too slow to keep up with a world that was dying around you so fast.

And Daryl? He'd known it. He'd seen it. He still saw it.

And that look in his eyes when he shoved you away—like just being near you made him weak? That wasn't anything new.

You didn't cry. Not back then. You just got up and left to go into your tent, telling yourself over and over that you wouldn't let it show.

And now you were bleeding out next to a flower instead of finding Sophia for Carol—Carol, who was grieving and strong in all the right ways—and you were still that girl with the strawberry shampoo, trying to prove you mattered before the end of the world would kill you anyway.

Maybe Merle and Daryl were right all along. Maybe you weren't worth saving.

Even now. No. Especially now. Half-conscious, with blood running down your arm and your stomach wanting you to throw up from the pain, the realization hit you hard.

You weren't one of them. You were just decoration. A joke. Useless. Always useless.

The last thing you saw before your eyelids felt too heavy was that stupid white flower, moving just slightly in the warm wind of the Georgia sun, like it was just here, waiting and watching you die in silence.

Back at the farm, Daryl yanked his crossbow into place, holding the strap over his shoulder a bit tighter when he prepared to go into the woods to continue his search for Sophia. He had been gone, yes, but he hadn't continued his search for the little girl and was only now about to leave.

Just before Rick's voice stopped him.

"Daryl. You okay on your own?" He asked.

"'M better on my own."

Rick nodded like he already knew the answer. "We got a base now. We can get this search properly organized."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "Ya got a point, or we just chattin'?"

"My point is it lets you off the hook. You don't owe us anything."

"My other plans fell through." And then Daryl turned without waiting for a reply.

Soon enough, the farm disappeared out of view behind him. Out there, it was quieter. No bullshit. No looks. No whispers. Just nature, animals, and the walkers.

Daryl followed a trail he had seen earlier, retracing old steps, ducking under branches, and stepping over logs. He kept his eyes low, scanning. Looking for tracks. A footprint. Any kind of hint he could find.

It was nearly an hour later when the house came into view.

That old abandoned building, half-eaten by time. He approached it slowly before he entered a place that felt like it still remembered the people who'd lived here once. Crossbow raised, he stepped in and moved from room to room. The first one? Empty. Except for an old can of sardines on the counter, peeled open. Recent.

Someone had been here.

He kept going. Into the hallway, past a bathroom, and into another room with a closet door half-ajar. Inside was a makeshift bed. Small. Like someone had curled up and hoped to disappear.

"Sophia!" Daryl called out, not loud, but clear. No answer. No hope, either… Giving up after he made sure the house was completely empty, he stepped outside again, squinting his eyes in the sunlight. That's when he saw it. The flowers.

Cherokee roses.

Moving slowly toward them to take a closer look, his gaze dropped just before he wanted to kneel down—and that's when his eyes widened.

You were lying there.

Blood all over one of your arms and your side. One foot was at an angle that wasn't looking quite right. Eyes closed. Lips pale.

Daryl didn't move at first and only stared. Like maybe it wasn't real. Maybe if he blinked, you would disappear and he could go back to pretending you didn't matter. But you didn't go away.

"God fuckin' dammit…"

His knees hit the ground as he dropped beside you before he grabbed your wrist first—rushed and too tight—but he needed to feel a pulse. It was there. Weak, but there. You were breathing, but shallowly.

"Shit," he hissed as soon as he saw the deep and long cut along your arm next, yanking a half-clean rug from his pocket and pressing it to your skin where the blood was coming out. "Stupid. Stupid goddamn—what the hell were ya thinkin'!"

Unable to answer, your head lolled to the side. Daryl pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.

"This what ya wanted?" He continued to yell at you, even though you couldn't hear him. He looked down at your face—smudged with dirt and sweat—and for half a second, he felt something like guilt. But it was gone before he could name it.

"Stupid girl," he grumbled again, but it sounded different now. Quieter.

Grabbing your other arm and pulling it across his shoulders, he lifted your body with a grunt. You were dead weight—not conscious, not responsive—but he got you up, holding you awkwardly against his side like you weighed nothing.

"I swear t'God, if ya don't die, 'm gonna kill ya, bring ya back, n' kill ya m'self again! Fuck!"

And then Daryl started walking. Back through the woods, back toward the farm, his jaw clenched, his face looking pissed, cursing the whole way like that would keep the anger away from him. Every step moved your body a bit, and every little noise you made had him tightening his grip.

You didn't remember much of the trip back. Just the Georgia heat and some motion above your head, all the while every breath was a fight. But Daryl remembered every step of the way.

His arms were on fire, his muscles burning by the time the farm came into view. Some of your blood had soaked through his clothes, clinging to his shirt and skin. The rug tied around your arm was doing a piss-poor job at stopping the bleeding, and you weren't doing much at all—not even mumbling like he had hoped you would do after some time.

Rick was now on the porch of the farmhouse, talking to Hershel about something—medicine, rations, or safety probably—when he caught sight of Daryl coming out of the tree line with you in his arms.

His eyes went wide. "What the hell… Daryl!"

"She's hurt," Daryl snapped, stomping past him. "Went out on her own. Found her like this, bleedin' near some old-ass house."

"What happened?" Andrea gasped, running up to him, while Lori covered her mouth with both hands as she got out of the house to see what was going on.

"Get outta my damn way!" Daryl barked, heading up the porch.

"There's no room," Hershel immediately answered, stopping Daryl from walking into his home. "Carl's still inside."

"Then where the hell do I put her?"

"The RV," T-Dog cut in, looking at Dale for his approval.

Dale didn't argue and rushed to open the RV door while Daryl climbed the steps. He moved quickly, lowering you gently onto the couch, and Hershel was following with some of his medical equipment the second Daryl took a step back.

"Let me see. She's lost quite some blood. Probably a mild concussion. I need some time."

Daryl backed off only because he had to, watching with his arms crossed and lips tight while Hershel cut the rag from your arm and cleaned the cut. It wasn't fatal. Deep, long, painful, yes, but you were lucky. Soon, Hershel said something about shock and rest and stitches. But Daryl still just stared at your face. Pale. Eyelids still closed. Lips dry. And all he could do was stand there and watch.

That night, the camp outside the farmhouse was rather quiet. Everyone from the group went to their tents as the time passed by. Glenn sat on the steps of the RV for a while like he was guarding you, but eventually even he wandered off. Daryl had waited. He was now behind the RV, chain-smoking cigarettes like it would give him a better excuse for the nervousness he was feeling.

He hated this. He hated you. No, that wasn't right. He hated how you made him feel like this. Like he gave a shit. Like he'd never forgive himself if you died. It was past midnight when he stepped back in. The RV door creaked a little as it opened, and for once, he flinched at the sound. You were still there on the couch, with a bandaged arm, and still as death.

Kneeling beside you and staring at the bandage, he imagined how many stitches on your arm there might be before he started talking.

"Y'know, I was gonna leave ya out there," he smirked. "Saw yer dumb fuckin' ass lyin' in the grass and thought, ‘Good. Serves that bitch right.'"

He suddenly sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. "But I ain't done that."

Looking up at you—your sleeping face—his eyes went to look down to your lips. Just a breath away. Daryl leaned in slowly, like even gravity didn't want to push him too fast. But when his nose nearly touched yours, he stopped and pulled back with shaking hands and a dry mouth.

"Bet ya'd punch me if ya knew." His own words made him smile.

"'N I bet ya still got some fight left. Ya always been fightin' my damn brother away. Ya remember back at the quarry?" He continued. "Me 'n Merle… we used to—fuck, we were assholes. Used to think ya were the dumbest damn slut—girl—I ever met."

Daryl laughed again, shaking his head. "Painted nails. Lil' pink bag full o' crap. Lip stuff. Glitter lotion or some shit. Whatever the fuck that was. Dunno. Shit… who the hell wears glitter durin' the damn end of the world?"

His voice cracked, but he ignored it. "Ya were always tryin' to make things pretty. That damn girly shit. Ya got a whole damn bag of soaps and creams and fuckin'... ribbons. And what did I do? I spit more 'n once on ya and yer shit, remember that? Said it was useless. Said ya were useless."

He looked away, huffing, only to look down. "Fuck… Ya always kept all o' yer things clean. Yer tent. Yer hair. Yer hands. Made the rest o' us look like fuckin' trash. Not good 'nough for ya."

Daryl paused, inhaling deeply and breathing out slowly, making sure no one was coming to look at how you were doing. "That deer I brought in? When Rick joined? Got it for ya. Was fuckin' mad at ya that day, ‘cause ya smiled at Shane or Glenn or—fuck, I dunno why it bothered me, it just… did."

He then pulled something from his pocket—a dirty little bottle of rose-scented hand cream. "Ya had one of these once, 'fore the CDC blew up," he grumbled, setting it down on the little table beside you. "Said it reminded ya of home. Heard ya talkin' 'bout it with Lori. I told ya it was useless bullshit. Made fun of ya for it while I was wasted."

He swallowed hard but then continued to talk to you while you were sleeping. "I went back to that damn pharmacy for it 'fore I went lookin' for Sophia. Saw it on the damn map 'fore ya asked me to come along. Wanted to slip it in yer stuff when ya ain't lookin'. Did that more than once. Soap, too. That fancy coconut or vanilla shit."

He dragged a hand over his face. "'S my fault that ya almost… Yeah, mine. Shouldn't have gone to that damn pharmacy. Could've kept yer damn ass safe."

His throat felt tight. Everything ached. All his muscles were tense by now, burning with shame and guilt. "Dunno what this bullshit is. I ain't never had nothin' good. But if ya died out there…" He stopped, swallowing hard, as hard as it was even possible. "I think I'd lose my goddamn mind..."

The second the words left Daryl's mouth, he flinched again. Saying such things out loud hurt worse than any injury ever could. "Ya always tried to make me feel like I ain't just shit. Like I ain't just Merle's dumbass brother and a fuckin' problem. Like maybe I'm... I dunno. Somethin'."

His forehead dropped to the edge of the couch, hiding his face. Half a sob, half a curse, Daryl shuddered like a storm was rushing through him, one that refused to stop letting him drown.

And then you moved. A groan. Maybe a whisper. But he heard it, and his head shot up. You weren't awake. Not fully. Still out cold, or so it seemed. But your mouth had moved, you had talked; Daryl was sure of it.

Another groan from you—uncertain, half-conscious.

"Fuck this," he suddenly snapped, taking the bottle and grabbing for the door handle of the RV. "Fuckin' idiot! 'M such a fuckin' idiot…"

But he didn't go far, especially since he made sure no one was nearby who might notice him. No, Daryl just sat in the dirt by one of the RV wheels, with his head leaning back against it, his teeth biting into the palm of his hand to keep himself from crying.

Soon enough, the days passed, not many—but enough for the bleeding to stop and for the bruises on your skin to start turning all sorts of ugly. Your arm was stitched up, the muscle still pulling every time you moved. It stung like a bitch. And you weren't allowed to use it much, which meant you spent most of your days lying and sitting around in Dale's RV.

Rick had stopped by more than once to see how you were doing. Lori brought soup that tasted like water and, well, just water, really. And Maggie came around sometimes with Glenn, but that was about it. It got a little easier to move your arm, eventually. Easier to breathe, too, without feeling your head spin. The farm was quiet most of the time—birds, sounds from the horses here and there, and the distant sound of shots, since Rick and Shane had started to teach how to shoot.

You started making short walks around the farm. Then to the field. Then the house.

Still, you hadn't seen him again. Daryl was nowhere to be found anymore. But T-Dog found you instead when you were leaning on the fence one afternoon, holding your arm like it might fall off if you didn't. You weren't crying, but damn if it didn't feel like you could if someone even breathed too loud.

"Doing okay?" He asked, jogging over, but you just shrugged in return.

"I guess."

"Don't push it too fast. That kinda cut, it's no joke," he nodded toward your arm and held out his own. "Guess we're some kinda twins now, huh? Same side as yours."

You managed to give him a small smile in return. "You're not still hurting?"

"Oh, I'm hurting, alright. Just not bleeding on people anymore and leaving a trail of blood for the walkers to follow."

You glanced at him, almost laughing. "Yeah. I remember your accident, too. On the highway. I've never seen so many walkers at once."

"Shit, yeah. I sliced my arm open trying to get outta the way of one of them. Thought I was done for."

Your eyes narrowed as you thought back. Back to the walkers. Back to the ways every single one of you had tried to hide from the danger. "You know… I never asked, but how'd you even get out?"

T-Dog looked at you, a little sideways, like maybe he wasn't sure if you were serious. "You don't know?"

You shook your head slowly. "No. How should I know? I was up in the RV with Andrea. It was bad enough with that one damn walker in there and next to her in such a small place. But thanks to Dale, we're still alive... So? How did you make it?"

He laughed, but it sounded more like a huff. "Daryl. He's the one who saved my ass. White boy came up to me outta nowhere and covered me and him under walkers. We lay there under those dead bodies. Didn't even move."

"Wait, wait—Daryl Dixon?"

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "Wasn't what I expected either. I mean, remember Merle? That guy was a full-blown asshole. And I figured Daryl was just like him, you know? All that racist, hillbilly shit? But he didn't even hesitate. Saved my life."

"But… I also thought he was like Merle. In fact, I'm pretty much sure he is just like Merle."

"So did I," T-Dog admitted again. "Still not sure sometimes. But I guess he's loyal. Just doesn't know how to act loyal without being a real dick about it at the same time."

"Yeah… Sounds about right."

Watching how you turned a bit away from him, T-Dog took a step back, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. "You don't think he gives a damn about you, do you?"

"Why would he?" You asked dryly, shrugging your shoulders. "He's hated me since they'd arrived at the quarry. Said I was useless. Spit at me. Mocked me for every… well, every 'girly' thing I still owned. Stuff I still own."

"But he carried you back," T-Dog answered quietly. "Didn't stop to ask, didn't wait for help. He found you and moved. That's Daryl."

You looked down at your hand, flexing your fingers slowly. The wound on your arm still ached. But this time, it didn't feel like what hurt the most. You didn't say anything else in response at first. Just looked back out toward the tree line, where the wind had started blowing just slightly.

"But I'm so sure that he hates me. You just don't treat someone you don't hate the way he treats me."

T-Dog looked at you for another moment, then shrugged as well. "Could be. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to act loyal. Loyalty doesn't always come with manners."

You huffed at that. "He didn't even stop by. Not once. And I've been stuck in that RV for days. That man does not give a damn, believe me, T."

"'Cause he doesn't do ‘checking in.' Dude's probably sitting alone somewhere, thinking too hard and pretending not to give a shit."

"Think I should go and thank him?" You asked, biting the inside of your cheek and laughing quietly.

T-Dog snorted in response. "If you can find him. It doesn't hurt to say thank you, especially if you don't care about how a man like Dixon might react."

His words made you think. Daryl had saved T-Dog. Daryl had saved you. And yeah, maybe he was a dick about it. Maybe he said mean things and looked at you like you were pathetic. But you also remembered this tiny, stupid stuff you found in your bag that you thought was from Jacqui or Amy before they'd died—cute little comforts that you couldn't even imagine may have been from someone like him.

Soap. Lip balm. A tiny comb. A little pink lighter that still worked…

Thinking back to these many things that had magically appeared in your belongings, the sun was starting to go down when you finally worked up the nerve to find Daryl. You'd been pacing near the RV restlessly for half an hour, or longer, chewing your lip, thinking of a hundred different ways to start a conversation, and hating every single one of your ideas.

Why'd you carry me back?

You chose the most neutral thing you could come up with: Ask him why. Casually. Like it means nothing.

You spotted Daryl's tent now much further from the rest of the group, like he couldn't stand the sound of humans for longer than ten minutes. He was sitting outside, sharpening the blade of a knife with that same pissed-off expression he always had when someone approached him.

You stood there for a second, watching Daryl from a few feet away, just long enough for him to notice you. But he didn't look up.

"Lost?" He then asked, still dragging the knife along whatever he used for sharpening it.

"No," you answered, stepping closer. "I was looking for you."

"Well, ya found me. Congratulations."

"I just wanted to ask you something," you swallowed hard. This was a mistake, for sure. But it was too late now.

Daryl didn't answer you, waiting for you to speak, and just kept sharpening. So you pressed further and finally asked the question. "Why'd you bring me back?"

He stopped moving, but then he scoffed. "Was out lookin' for the lil' girl. Found a body bleedin' in the grass. Figured I'd put it over my shoulder and be done with it."

"You're saying you didn't even know it was me at first?"

He looked up now, finally, and his eyes were cold. "'M sayin' it wouldn't have mattered shit. Just don't need 'nother walker out there. Woulda put a bolt in yer head if—"

You flinched, and he saw it. Of course, he did. "Hell, shoulda just left ya there. Woulda saved me a helluva walk, too."

You blinked hard. From anger, not from tears. Not this time. "Why are you like this, Daryl?"

"Like what?" He smirked at first, scoffing quietly.

"This… cruel."

Daryl's smirk was gone fast, and, putting his knife aside, he finally stood up. "I ain't cruel, woman. 'M honest. World's gone to shit, and ya still walk 'round like yer a fuckin' princess. Maybe if ya stopped worryin' 'bout bubble baths and started learnin' how to not get yerself sliced open, ya wouldn't need any damn carryin'."

Staring at him for another moment, not saying anything, not giving him the satisfaction, you just turned and walked off. You didn't run. You didn't cry. You didn't say another word. Just walked. Wanting to leave him to rot with whatever broken part of a soul made him push kindness away if it disgusted him this much.

Again, the hours passed quietly, like the world was trying to pretend it was peaceful. In the meantime, you had cleaned up as best you could. Maggie had brought you food. Glenn had made a dumb joke that almost made you smile. Almost. You went to your tent later, rubbing near the itchy spots on your arm where the stitches were pulling a little too tight. Dropping to your knees, you unzipped the flap, reached for your bag… and froze.

There, on top of your stuff, was lip gloss. Not the lip balm you always used, but the exact kind of lip gloss you'd run out of weeks ago. Next to it? A tiny bottle of rose-scented hand cream, a little dirty, but still sealed. And a small bar of soap, wrapped in light purple wax paper with floral patterns on it. Lavender. And so much more... And next to it all?

A white Cherokee rose. No note. No explanation. Just there.

No one else would've thought to bring you that kind of stuff. You were sure of it by now as you sat back. Hell, most of the group didn't even know when some of your things were empty to begin with. Nor did any of them know that you were bleeding out right next to a Cherokee rose bush. Except one. The same man who'd told you to your face that he should've left you to die.

Touching the edge of the rose gently, you laughed. A bitter, breathless, and choked laugh. "Asshole..."

You sat there on your knees in silence, with your heart beating harder than it had during the walker horde on the highway. But what you felt at that moment? It was fury. And it was the kind of fury you hadn't let yourself feel in a while. Maybe ever.

You gathered the things carefully but not tenderly. All of them, even the flower, with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Then you stood up, walking back out of your tent. Daryl was still where you left him. He was leaning over a small fire now, poking it. His crossbow leaned next to a log, untouched, and he didn't look up when you approached. Typical.

But he didn't have to. He felt you coming.

"You think I'm fucking stupid?"

Daryl flinched at your words, but his eyes stayed fixed on the flames.

"You think I wouldn't notice? The things you put into my shit? The gloss, the balm, the shampoo, the soaps, the stupid-ass lighter with the pink rhinestones? Oh! There's so much more!"

Now he looked up with narrowed eyes. "I told ya, I—"

"No! No," you cut him off, stepping forward. "Don't do that! You got me these things. You went out of your way. Hell, you got me the exact same hand cream I told Lori about, didn't you? Smells like roses!"

You kept going like your voice just had to be heard for once. "I'm not stupid. I'm not blind. But you want to treat me like I'm some idiotic little girl who can't survive without her glitter and her goddamn bubblegum lip gloss, right? Like I'm just some waste of fucking space!"

Daryl scowled. "Ain't never said—"

"You didn't have to," you snapped back. "You made sure I knew!Every single day! You spit on my things, Daryl. On me! You called me useless! You mocked everything I had left before the world ended. Everything that reminded me I was still a fucking human being!"

"I ain't done that—"

"You did! And now you brought me back? But you won't look me in the eye? You won't talk to me? You don't even admit it, you damn coward!"

"Ain't got no time to explain, woman."

"Bull-fucking-shit, Daryl Dixon," you hissed. "You owe me an explanation! Not for carrying me. For this."

You stared down at all the things in your hands. Then, slowly, you raised one of them. "You wanna know what this is?" You asked quietly, while Daryl didn't answer. So you threw it at his chest.

"It smells like lavender… and feels like shame on my skin."

You threw the next one—the lip gloss. "This one's pity, right?"

Another bottle, this time aimed at his shoulder. He flinched when the hand balm hit him. "This one's your hate… and my guilt. Smells good, doesn't it?"

You threw the last—a tiny little mirror—and it cracked when it hit the ground near his feet. "And this one, Daryl? This one's not even from you, but it's my reminder that when I look in the mirror now, I hate what I see. Because every time I see my face, I hear your voice calling me useless."

He flinched again, breathing faster now. "I never meant—"

"You never meant to?" You cut him off, shouting at him. "Stop! You meant every word you ever said to me; you just didn't expect me to remember them all!"

His hands curled into fists, and he stopped poking the fire. "Ain't done it for ya."

"Really?" You asked back. "Then who was it for? Your fucking idiot brother, Merle? Amy? Andrea? Jacqui? Lori? Carol? Yeah, right! Fuck that!"

He got up and stepped forward suddenly, with an angry expression on his face. "Don't talk 'bout shit ya don't understand."

"Oh, I understand plenty," you shot back, not moving an inch. "I understand that you only know how to hurt people who give a damn. I understand that you are scared as fuck of someone giving a shit about your sorry ass!"

Daryl pointed at you, stepping closer. "Ya don't know anythin' 'bout me."

"Oh, I know enough! I know that you'd rather make a girl cry than admit you were scared when you saw her bleeding out."

"Shut up," he growled, his voice cracking.

But you didn't. You leaned in, close, your nose almost touching his. "You don't hate me... You hate that I make such a pathetic being like you feel like a person. Human."

Daryl pushed you roughly away from him. Not enough to knock you down. But enough to get your attention. "Ya don't know shit! I carried ya back ‘cause I didn't want 'nother fuckin' dead body walkin' 'round here! 'S it!"

"Liar!" You spat, throwing the last thing he got you without even looking at what it was, almost hitting his head. "You carried me back because if I died out there, you would've had to admit you cared!"

"Ya don't get to say that! Ya don't get to decide why I do shit, 'n ya don't know what I—"

"You liked watching me bleed out, didn't you?" You then continued, your face turning red in anger. "Made you feel strong, didn't it? Because a girl like me needing a man like you meant you weren't nothing for once in your pitiful life!"

Dead quiet, Daryl stepped back. And the expression on his face? It was pain, rage, and shame, all at once. "Don't fuckin' say that," he whispered.

But it was too late.

"What, does it hurt?" You scoffed, your eyes still cold. "Good! Do you know what else hurts? Lying in the woods bleeding out, thinking the man you thought was cute at first, but who actually hates your ass to death, is the last person you'll ever listen to! Wishing you'd actually died instead of having to face him ever again! And you know what? I fucking liked you, Daryl. God help me, I fucking liked you. And you made me feel like shit for it."

Daryl didn't look up… as if he couldn't.

"Stupid fucking redneck. Giving me this shit like it means anything."

"'CAUSE I AIN'T NOTHIN'!" He suddenly shouted, with his fists gripping at his hair like he could rip his thoughts out. "'S ME WHO AIN'T SHIT!"

Daryl sank down on his knees, both hands still on his head, gasping wildly, rocking back and forth, back and forth. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

His voice broke off, and he started hitting his head with the side of his fists. Once. Twice. More and more. He did not stop until he felt dizzy. You blinked in shock, your heart pounding in your ears. That wasn't the Daryl you knew. This wasn't even the Daryl you hated. And it made time seem as if it stopped.

"W-why do you hate me?" You whispered carefully. "What did I ever do to you?"

"I didn't know how else to do it!" He shouted, his voice cracking hard. "Ya want words? I ain't got the damn words! I don't—" He broke off, breathing fast, dragging his hands down his face.

You didn't respond.

"I got ya that bullshit ‘cause ya fuckin' liked it! ‘Cause it made yer stupid ass smile! And I—I dunno—I thought maybe if ya smiled at me for one goddamn time 'stead of—!"

He sniffed loudly. Like he wanted to cry or just say something nasty, but nothing came out. Only a tiny, broken inhale. All you could do was stare, but this time? It was still shock and confusion. "God, I'm such a dumb bitch… Shit…"

You started to turn, just a little bit, ready to go somewhere and scream at yourself for what you've done—but movement stopped you. Daryl reached out. Clumsy, almost afraid to touch all of it, he picked up the lip balm first. Cracked now, dirt stuck to the side. Then the mirror. The bar of soap. The hand cream. One by one, he gathered all of it together.

You paused, arms crossed, trying not to care. Trying. Then you saw it. A single, tiny tear landed on the hand cream as he held it in his palm, the tremble in his hands impossible not to notice. He stared at it for a long moment, sobbing as quietly to himself as possible. Then he looked up. Not at you. Toward you. And he stretched out both arms, holding the little pile of things in his big, strong hands. No words. Just his eyes that were all wet and looking hopeless, like he was offering up what little was left of himself.

"Take it back…" Daryl sobbed. "I… I didn't mean to… I dunno why—"

His voice cracked again. He looked like he wanted to die. And with a deep breath, you stepped back in his direction, shaking your head. He kept staring at the stuff in his hands, his voice dropping even lower, like he hated every word coming out of his mouth.

"I don't hate ya! Just… didn't wanna care," he sobbed, and you swallowed hard. "But… ya just kept bein' all… you."

You blinked several times in a row.

"I thought… if ya hated me, then it wouldn't matter if ya left one day—if ya died... And ya weren't s'posed to be prettyand smell like fuckin' strawberries or whatever and look at me like I was anythin' other than white trash! Ya weren't s'posed to matter!"

By now, you were crouched down right in front of him. "But you were mean," you then whispered. "You hurt me, Daryl…"

He nodded slowly. "I know."

"And I almost died thinking you hated me…"

Daryl finally looked up. His eyes were red as he looked into yours. "I didn't—I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I-I know," you cut in, your voice now trembling slightly too. And then, finally, your hands reached out. You touched Daryl's cheek first, your thumb sliding along his jaw before you cupped his face, making him shudder.

"I ain't good," he whispered. "Don't talk right. Say shit I don't mean. I fuck everythin' up. And I—" His breath hitched. "I jus' wanted ya to… not die."

You saw it again. The pain. The way his mouth opened like he had something—everything—to say and didn't know how. And that was when you put a soft kiss on his forehead as you pulled him close.

Daryl made a tiny broken sound before his brain caught up, and he immediately panicked. "Don't," he gasped. "Don't do that. Don't… don't pretend!"

He looked scared when you didn't answer. But you just wrapped your arms around him and held him tight. Like you were trying to hold the broken parts of him back together with just your touch. Daryl's face pressed to your neck, his hands suddenly gripping your back like you might be gone if he opened his eyes again. You felt it—the trembling, hearing the sobs, feeling the way he pressed into you.

"M'sorry," he whispered into your shoulder. "M'sorry. I didn't mean it. I-I swear, I just…"

You didn't need an explanation. You just held him tighter. Let him feel you. Let him know you weren't going anywhere, even if his whole body desperately tried its best to relax against you. His breath hitched differently now. The sobs turned a little quieter. Less panic. More need. Not pulling away, you saw it now. All of it.

The little boy who never got love. The man who thought hatred would keep him safe.

How much time passed by wasn't on your mind as you knelt there with Daryl for a while, letting him fall apart into your arms, until the shaking slowed and the wet sobs against your skin turned completely quiet. When Daryl finally let go of you, there was this dazed look in his eyes. Like he'd forgotten where he was or who he even was.

"Come on," you then said gently, just loud enough for him to hear. But Daryl didn't move. So you pulled gently at his hand and helped him up, patiently, and as fast as he wanted to move again. He followed you without a word, stumbling a little, his head low as you helped him back into his tent before he sat down without any words on his sleeping bag.

In the meantime, you reached for the stuff he'd gotten you—picking it all back up off the ground, since he'd let it fall into the grass once you'd put your arms around him, and brought it with you. Daryl didn't even look up when you left all of a sudden; he still sat there.

Once back in your own tent, you moved as fast as possible. Wipes. Lotion. Some clean water in a bottle. A small towel. The flannel shirt you always wore on warmer nights that was way too big for you. You carried it all back in your arms.

Stepping inside Daryl's tent and kneeling down in front of him, he glanced up, confused and wide-eyed.

"I ain't…" He started, his voice shaking. "I don't want—"

"Quiet," you answered gently, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't have to want anything right now. But you need. Listen, just sit there, alright? Let me."

You took the wipes first, pulling one from the pack and warming it a little bit between your hands. Then, slowly and carefully, you wiped the dirt and tears from Daryl's face. His mouth trembled when you touched him, his lips twitching like he might say something—but he didn't. He just let you clean him. Quiet and shaking ever so slightly.

"I ain't clean," he then said, almost ashamed. "M'dirty…"

"No," you whispered with a small smile. "You're not."

Soon enough, you worked your way down his arms, wiping off dirt and sweat and the faint bits of blood that were still left on his skin. Then his hands—his big, rough hands, all calloused, but still trembling. You took your time there. Between each finger. The back of his palms. His wrists.

Daryl watched you in silence, but when you started pulling at the hem of his shirt, he finally flinched, and his eyes were going wide again. "What're ya doin'?"

"Just going to clean you up proper," you answered softly. "It's just a shirt. Relax."

He looked like he wanted to say no. Like he wanted to grab it and yank it back down. But something in him broke a little more, and he let you pull it over his head, only to turn away from you as if in shame. And that's when you saw them. The scars. Not all of them, since he wasn't fully turned away from you, but what you saw was enough to notice how deep and all over the place they were. Scars that shouldn't have been there across his back.

Daryl panicked the second he realized what you were seeing and tried to back away. "Don't—don't fuckin' look at that, a'ight? Ain't nothin'! Nothin' ya gotta—fuck, just—just leave!"

But you didn't pull away as you reached for the small towel and the water bottle you brought with you, opening it to clean him a little more. "Who did this to you, Daryl?"

"Don't matter," he grumbled, arms now crossed tight across his chest. "Ain't yer damn problem."

You leaned forward, arms wrapping around him from the side, your chest pressed to his biceps. "It is my problem," you whispered. "You are."

Placing the towel over his shoulders after you were done drying him off, you grabbed the lotion next. You rubbed it slowly over his arms, his shoulders, and his hands, all the while he sat frozen and looking confused, like it was the first time someone had touched him without hurting him.

"You smell like me now," you smiled, but he just sat there, swallowing hard, breathing shakily.

You reached out and touched his shoulder gently. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna ask."

"Yeah, 'cause ya don't even—"

"I'm not gonna ask," you said again. "You don't have to tell me anything, Daryl. But I'm not going to pretend I didn't see it. And I'm also not going to pretend it changes anything."

He turned fast. Wild-eyed. "Ya don't needa pretend nothin'. Yer—yer tryin' to be nice or some shit. Ya don't—"

Not finishing what he wanted to say, Daryl stared at you once more, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth was open like he wanted to scream or cry but didn't know which one would save him.

Using the moment, you reached for the flannel now. "Arms up..."

He blinked in confusion, maybe wondering why you were still here, which made you smirk. "Come on now, Daryl. I'm not leaving you sitting around shirtless."

He let out a weak, stunned huff but lifted his arms, watching as you slipped the flannel over his head and let it fall around his body, the sleeves way too short for him.

Then, slowly, you reached for his face. "Look at me."

He did as you held his chin, caressing it. "You don't have to be an asshole around me, Daryl. You don't have to yell. Or lie."

All he responded with was a nod in return.

"You want me to stay?"

Another nod.

And you didn't try to pull back. You just stayed there, kneeling in front of him, one hand still on his face, the other soon resting over his chest where his heart felt like it was trying to beat out through his ribs. He looked at you like he didn't get it. Like he was still waiting for the trap.

"You wanna lie down?" You asked eventually, voice soft, but he hesitated until he gave the tiniest nod again.

So you laid down first, letting your side press down on the sleeping bag before you patted the spot in front of you. "Come here."

Daryl snorted, but it came out cracked, sounding more ashamed than mean. "Shit. Ain't never—"

"Now's a good time to start."

He grumbled under his breath but crawled toward you anyway, arms stiff, not really knowing how to be held. Like it was something that needed instructions.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pulled him in close, and let your body press to his. His back pushed against your chest, all tensed up and full of confusion, still waiting for some kind of rejection that wasn't even coming. His hands stayed awkwardly near his chest, and his shoulders trembled now and then like he still hadn't run out of tears but just didn't have the strength to let them fall anymore.

"You're shaking," you whispered, holding him a little tighter.

"M'fine..."

"Nope. You're not."

Daryl didn't continue arguing. You pulled the sides of the sleeping bag up over both of you and put your face into the crook of his neck, letting your breath warm his skin there.

He was quiet for a while, and you didn't rush him, since after some time, he finally spoke up again. "Why ya always been like that?"

"Like what?"

He hesitated again. "Weird, I guess? N'... y'know. Just girly. With all them lil' bottles n' fuckin'... soaps n' shit. Creams or whatever all that stuff is ya usin'."

You snorted against the back of his shoulder and kissed the skin there, which made him squirm. "Is that such a big problem for you?"

"Nah, I just... I don't get it. Ain't never made sense. Ya know... world's gone to fuckin' hell, n' ya still put on lotion as if it matters."

"Well, it matters to me," you laughed in response.

"Why?"

You held him a little tighter. "Because it's who I am. I've always been that way. Even before the world ended, I guess. It's what makes me feel human. Like I'm still me. Not just some scared girl trying to survive."

Daryl was quiet again until he whispered. "'N why the hell would a girl like—" He started but cut himself off. "Don't need someone smilin' at me."

"Daryl."

He didn't answer, so you let your hand glide over his side. "You're the first person that ever made me feel safe back at the quarry. Shane always seemed so… impulsive. The others? Well, no one really fought like you did. I'm not saying the rest of the group can't keep us safe, but when that walker got that deer you were hunting down? Made me realize you knew more about survival than everyone else. You were the first one to point out that we need to destroy their brains. You were the first one, the only one, really, who knew how to hunt. It seemed so… natural. Not because you're big or strong or scary—though, let's be real, you kinda are—but because you see people. You look after them. Even when you act like an asshole."

He huffed out a grunt, his shoulders relaxing a little more.

"You gave me those things," you continued softly. "Little things. Stupid things. A flower. A bar of soap. So many things… So you cared. Even if I didn't know at first."

He didn't answer you, but his hand found yours, holding it tight against his chest.

"And yeah, you're… you. Sometimes a bit rude. But now I think that—" You didn't talk about it further, just pressed another kiss to the back of his neck, softer this time. "You don't have to understand it. Not all at once. But I really do likeyou. I liked you right from the start. I just didn't smile at you because… well, you know how you were acting around me."

His grip on your hand loosened, and you felt him slowly, finally, letting out a deep breath. Like he'd been holding that breath since Atlanta. And you stayed like that. Daryl didn't say anything else, but his breathing slowed after a while, sounding calmer, until he fell asleep like that, in your arms.

Like a broken, little boy who'd never been held in someone's arms for the sake of it.

And when you were sure Daryl was out, you slowly, so slowly, moved yourself away from him, pressing one last kiss to the side of his face and putting the sleeping bag tighter around him. He grumbled something in his sleep. A quiet sound where you couldn't make out what he was saying. But it didn't matter what exactly he said when you gathered your stuff back together and stepped out of his tent again. At least you knew he was feeling safe for now.

The next day when you were back on your feet, you weren't thinking too hard about the night before. Making yourself as useful as possible, you tried to help the rest of the group as best as you could in the morning.

Lori handed you a knife while Carl ran around the farm, finally able to move after he'd been out for days after the incident, and already having more energy than he should've had after being shot. But hey, Hershel worked miracles. The kid was back to running around as if nothing ever happened.

"Don't let him wear you out," Lori said with a wide smile, wiping her hands on a towel. "He'll run circles around you until you get dizzy."

You snorted. "That's what I'm afraid of. And I think he's already making my head spin. But, you know, he's feeling like a kid again for once; that matters the most, especially with everything going on…"

Carl then ran up beside you, holding out a deflated ball to play with. "Wanna play catch real quick?"

"Only if you go easy on me," you answered, pointing to your arm. "Doctor's orders."

"Deal!" He grinned and ran back a few feet, while Lori chopped onions beside the fire. For a moment, it all felt so… normal. Almost like something from the before-times—morning air still chilling and not too hot, smells of wood and watery coffee in the air, people waking up, stretching, and starting their day.

And soon enough, you noticed him from the corner of your eye before you heard him—always the quiet one.

Daryl.

He was walking in from the tree line, his crossbow as always with him. Same sweat-drenched skin while walking around in the sun, the same scowl that was more habit than emotion. But he didn't look your way, and you didn't call out, since Carl had already started playing with you. Still, you couldn't help but watch him walk toward the RV before returning your attention to the kid.

Meanwhile, Daryl pushed open the RV door. He'd been avoiding Carol for a while now—not because he didn't give a shit, but because he didn't know how to. What was he supposed to say? "Sorry yer kid's missin'? 'M still searchin'?" That didn't help anyone.

But he had remembered the roses that bloomed in the woods. Right there, where you had been bleeding near the house, like they were waiting for him again. He'd stared at them for a full minute before pulling one out of the dirt and shoving it into an old beer bottle he found.

He felt stupid carrying it back. Felt even more stupid walking up the steps of the RV, holding it. But he did it anyway.

Inside the RV, Carol was cleaning everything, trying to distract herself from the emptiness that was eating her up from the inside out. "I cleaned up," she said without looking at him. "Wanted it to be nice for her."

Daryl glanced around. "For a second I thought I was in the wrong place." He set the beer bottle with the rose down on the little table.

She finally turned. Her eyes looked at it, then back at him. "A flower?"

"'S a Cherokee rose." He sighed. "The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure, disease, and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared."

Carol froze but continued to listen to Daryl. "So the elders, they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, and give 'em strength and hope. The next day this rose started to grow right where the mothers' tears fell. I ain't fool 'nough to think there's any flowers bloomin' for my brother. But I believe this one bloomed for yer little girl."

Her eyes filled up with tears, but she shrugged it off with a laugh.

"She's gonna really like it in here," he added, nodding once. Then he turned away and stepped back outside.

But Daryl didn't head straight back to his tent. Not right away. Instead, he stopped near one of the fences, where he could see you, even though he'd made up his mind to head out again soon.

You were laughing, tossing a ball, even if your movements were stiff, and Carl almost fell when he caught it. Lori said something, probably about food or ordering Carl to be more careful. But you, you looked...alive.

Still pretty. Still you. Still 'girly n' shit,' with your beautiful hair and your clean clothes and that voice that didn't sound like anyone else's.

Daryl could still feel your hands on his skin; that damn flannel shirt still smelled like you, which he carefully left in his tent.

Raising a hand without thinking, he waved a little. Awkwardly. But you looked up and smiled at him. Really smiled. And that's when Daryl's face turned red and he damn near panicked. He dropped his hand, spun around, and stormed off toward his tent like he hadn't just spent a few hours walking through the woods while secretly hoping to see you at the end of it.

Meanwhile, Lori leaned over, grinning a little confused. "What was that about?"

"Long story," you answered, shaking your head.

Lori raised her eyebrows but didn't push any further when you turned your attention back to Carl.

"Alright," you challenged him. "Last round. The loser has to eat a whole onion raw!"

But every now and then, your eyes looked toward the tree line again, right where Daryl had disappeared again. You'd be checking on him later. And as time passed, it was safe to say that you barely saw him all day. He was nowhere to be found. Not that you were watching or anything—okay, maybe you did want to look after him. Still, you weren't about to start jogging all over the Greene's property, but damn if your eyes didn't automatically look to every movement of the trees, every corner of the farm, every second someone from the group came walking out of the woods or was near you.

Still, Daryl was just... gone.

And it wasn't like you to worry—not in the clingy, 'where's my man?' kind of way, but after last night, after everything he let you see, the way he sobbed in your arms like a hurt little boy, the way he clung to you like he'd drown otherwise? It didn't sit right with you that he could disappear so easily, like none of it ever happened.

By the time it was afternoon, you finally gave in and went looking.

Finding Glenn near the stable while Maggie stood at one of the stalls and stroked one of the horses, you heard them talking, laughing about something.

"Hey," you called as you approached. "Have either of you seen Daryl? I saw that he left again, but he's still not back."

Glenn tilted his head. "Yeah, earlier, when we came back. He asked me about the town where the pharmacy is. The one Maggie and I hit."

You nodded slowly, a little confused. "But doesn't he already know where it is? Did he say why?"

Glenn shrugged. "Said he was going scavenging again. But probably still looking for Sophia too. Guess that takes some time."

You tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. Of course, he went alone. Again.

Meanwhile, Glenn narrowed his eyes a little. "Why, are you still trying to go thank him for saving your life or for ruining it a bit more?"

"Wow. What a joke, Glenn. Maybe I just miss his charming personality," you snorted, rolling your eyes.

Maggie laughed, and Glenn wanted to answer, but your mind was already somewhere else, and your feet followed those thoughts soon after—back down the way to Dale's RV.

You stepped up into the RV with the intention of grabbing a weapon. Not a big one. Just something small enough to carry, big enough to keep you from getting attacked by a walker if you crossed paths with one. A pistol. A knife. Both.

But the second you turned and went back outside…

"Where do you think you're goin'?"

You froze. Shane was leaning up against the RV, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed just enough to let you know he'd been waiting and watching.

"Just walking around, looking, watching," you lied flatly.

He stared at you with a smirk, shaking his head. "Don't look like walkin'. Looks like you were grabbin' a gun."

"Maybe I wanted to do both," you grumbled. "Feels safer."

"What's goin' on?" Rick's voice stopped you from behind Shane, who still didn't move.

"My bet? She was about to head out on her own."

Rick frowned, stepping closer, looking at you like he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "Is that true?"

"I just wanted to check out that town Glenn and Maggie went to. That's all."

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're still not fully healed. You know how dangerous it is out there. Especially alone."

Shane was shaking his head. "What he said. Not happenin'. Not alone."

"It wasn't up for debate," you argued back. "And it still isn't up for debate. I can handle myself just fine."

"Well, now it is," Shane answered. "You're not goin'. Period."

And just like that, they were walking off, leaving you alone. But Lori showed up not even a minute later, carrying a basket and looking somewhat amused.

"Okay," she started. "What's going on this time?"

You let out a deep breath, staring at the spot where Rick and Shane just stood. "I wanted to go look for Daryl, but no, of course, the only two cops that are still alive around Atlanta stopped me from doing so."

She stopped mid-step, but without answering you, so you glanced at her. "What?"

But Lori just smiled. Not in a mean way—just a knowing one. "I'm sure he's fine," she said gently. "Come help me with the eggs, okay?"

"The chicken coop? Eggs? Really?"

"Yeah. Besides, you've got to keep your hands busy before you go out and annoy both Rick and Shane at once. Believe me, you don't want that."

You followed her, grumbling, "Not a bad idea, actually..."

"Oh, by the way," Lori added casually as you reached the coop. "Daryl actually called me Olive Oyl."

You turned your head in confusion as you crouched down. "Wait, what?"

She smirked, crouching down by one of the nests as well. "I called him selfish. He called me Olive Oyl. You figure out what that means…"

You stared at her, half confused, half in thought, and she just tossed you a couple of eggs like she wasn't just out here admitting something to you, but you weren't really sure what she meant.

Hours passed again.

Chickens were settled, dinner was halfway done, and, as always, everyone kept themselves as busy as possible.

You were wiping your hands on a towel near the porch of Hershel's farmhouse when Lori nudged you with her elbow. "Look," she said softly, nodding her head toward the tree line.

You turned. And there he was. Daryl. Finally.

He came walking out of the woods, a bag slung over one shoulder. No blood. No obvious injuries. No anger in his walk. Just calm and relaxed, like he hadn't just ghosted you the entire day. And without even looking over to the farmhouse or at the group, he walked straight to his tent and disappeared as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew that it would soon be late enough where no one would pay attention. No one would notice if you moved away during the night. And if Rick or Shane would notice? You somehow counted on Lori to have your back.

You caught sight of Daryl before you made it to him—sitting outside his tent with his back turned, searching through that bag he probably found in that small town nearby like he was checking it for something. And you could see how stiff his shoulders were, even from a distance.

Hesitating for a second, you then decided to walk over to him as quietly as you could manage in hopes of not scaring him off, your hands curled into fists like the pressure might help with the sudden nervousness you felt out of nowhere.

Being close enough after a while, you could see the fumbling of his fingers and the new bits of dirt beneath his nails. You reached out, one hand raised and your fingers stretched, just about to tap his shoulder—and the second your hand made contact?

Daryl moved fast. Too fast.

Before you could even yelp, he had you pushed on your back in the grass, one foot pressing down by your hip, the other leg straddling your thighs. His forearm came down hard near your neck, not on it, but close enough that you knew—if he'd wanted to hurt you, really hurt you, or even worse—he could've.

His other fist was in the air, ready to punch. And then he saw you. Stunned. Taken aback. Breathing hard and trying to cough beneath him.

Daryl's mouth fell open the second he realized it was you. Shock and horror were written all over his face, his eyes quickly looking around, as if unsure what part of your face they should focus on, and his fist dropped instantly.

"Shit! Shit! Fuck," he stammered, pulling back but not quite getting off you. "I ain't—fuck—I didn't know! I thought—hell, I ain't mean—shit! Shit!"

You reached up before he would freak out completely, both hands finding his face. Your thumbs slid along his cheekbones, and he flinched like you'd hit him. But you didn't say a word. You simply lifted yourself as best as possible and kissed his forehead like you'd done before—slow, soft, waiting for him to calm down. You felt the panic slip out of him in shaky breaths, his body relaxing against yours, until you pulled back and wrapped your arms around him.

Daryl didn't say anything. For quite a while, he simply let you hug him, his forehead dropping against your shoulder like he wasn't sure he deserved it.

Eventually, he crawled off you completely and helped you up, grumbling a bunch of apologies—and curses—as he did. You could barely make them out. He was red in the face, not just from embarrassment but from shame.

Brushing your palms off, you followed his eyes to the open bag beside his tent. Whatever was in there had fallen out in the heat of the moment—some canned food, a bottle of water, some medicine he'd found, a few hygiene things that looked suspiciously like they'd been taken from a women's section—and then, carefully folded underneath it all, was a dress.

Pink. With ribbons. Not over-the-top, but definitely... you. Your size. Your style.

"Well," you said with a smirk, stepping closer and crouching beside the bag. "What's this?"

Daryl went stiff. "I—ain't—look, I didn't mean nothin' by it," he answered fast, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he wanted to disappear into the ground. "Was just... y'know, ya still like all that stuff, an' I saw it hangin' there all clean-like, figured it'd maybe... I dunno... ya still like that kinda shit, right? Thought maybe ya'd... wear it. Or somethin'. Ain't mean nothin' by it, just saw it, figured it was dumb, but it made me think'a ya, and—fuck…"

"It's not stupid," you said, cutting him off gently, but he looked at you like he couldn't quite believe you meant it.

You picked up the dress carefully with your hands, held it against your chest, and spun a little around as if you were modeling for him. "You got the size right. And it's got some ribbons as well... You really have been paying attention, huh? To everything."

His head was so red by now you thought it might explode on the spot.

"I like it," you continued, more quietly this time, not wanting to push him too much. "A lot."

Daryl swallowed so hard it was almost audible, his eyes looking at the dress, then to your face, then immediately away again. "Y'do?"

You nodded.

"Yer so fuckin' weird," he responded, but it sounded like a joke. No anger behind it.

"Guess I am," you answered with a smirk. "And I guess you like weird girls who wear pink dresses and make you sleep like a baby when they hold you."

Daryl opened his mouth to argue for a second, then shut it again. Stepping toward him and sliding a hand into his hair, brushing through it gently, you watched how his eyes shut close at the contact. He was so touch-starved it somehow hurt to see.

"Ya, uh... ya gonna go back to yer tent now?"

You tilted your head in confusion at his sudden question. "Why? Do you want me to leave?"

Daryl shrugged a little, rubbing the back of his neck once more. "Just... Y'know. 'S gettin' cold and all."

"Daryl? It's warm. I won't freeze to death." Shaking your head, you held back a smile. "Are you asking me to stay?"

He huffed a breath and gave a helpless little nod of his head, not looking at you. "Yeah, yeah, right… But… Ain't askin'. Just… Would be okay if ya did, s'all."

Quickly taking a step back, you leaned down to put all the things that had fallen out of his bag back into it, picking it up and holding it out to him until he took it. Finding his other hand, you then put it into yours.

"I'll stay."

Daryl followed behind in silence as you slipped inside his tent without any hesitation, with him throwing the bag into one corner of the tent as fast as he could. Inside, it was dark, but not pitch black—the moon gave you just enough light to see everything—the sleeping bag, his gear, and the flannel shirt you'd given him that smelled like you, lying right next to where some improvised pillow was lying on the ground.

You turned toward him, still holding his big, calloused hand in yours. His fingers twitched like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to let go or tighten his grip.

"So," you said softly, smiling at him. "We sleeping or what?"

Daryl shrugged, his eyes switching from you to the sleeping bag like the situation was somehow too complicated for his brain to process. "Yeah," he grumbled, "guess so."

He sat down awkwardly first, then lay back, giving the sleeping bag a few rough pats like that was going to magically make it more comfortable. You crawled right beside Daryl and turned your back to him instinctively, expecting him to just sort of… get it.

But Daryl didn't move an inch.

Peeking over your shoulder, he just grunted at you, clearly ashamed and confused, but finally slid closer next to you. He lay on his side behind you, arms straight at his sides like he was getting ready for a casket instead of cuddles.

You waited. And waited…

Finally, you sighed and reached behind you, grabbing his wrist and putting his hand over your waist.

Daryl went rigid. Completely tensed up and unsure. So you laughed to yourself and wiggled back into him until his chest was pressed against your back and his big, strong arm rested across your stomach.

"Do you still not know how spooning works, Dixon?"

Still awkward. Still stiff.

"What, this?" He scoffed. "Ain't nothin' to it."

But his voice cracked just a little, and you could feel the hesitation in the way he touched you. Careful. Nervous, even. But you didn't push him. You just covered his hand with yours and rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

Daryl's breathing slowed eventually. You felt his nose against the back of your head, his fingers twitching now and then against your side, and soon, your body relaxed too, feeling his chest rising and falling behind your back.

You felt safe, stupidly so, when you dozed off like that. And it might've been an hour later when you felt it.

A little movement. Barely there, at first. Just the press of his hips rougher against you, and then again.

And again.

You blinked awake slowly, still a little bit sleepy. And then it hit you.

He was hard. Really hard. And he was—shit, he was humping you in his sleep.

Not fully. Not aggressively. But enough that you could feel the drag of his cock against your ass, big and hard, right through his pants, softly grinding, lazy and slow, as if he didn't even know he was doing it.

You smirked to yourself, eyes still half closed, not daring to move just yet.

Holy shit, that man was packing.

With your thighs clenching a little without even wanting them to do so, you didn't even need to see it to know. You could feel it. How thick he was. How the head of his cock pressed against you when he moved like he was grinding in a daze, with no idea you were wide awake by now.

You bit your lip at the realization of it all—Daryl Dixon, quietly, accidentally dry-humping you in his sleep as if he was desperate and didn't know how to ask for what he wanted.

Holding your breath, you tried not to giggle—because laughing would wake him up, and waking him up might ruin the moment. Or worse, embarrass the hell out of him. But shit, the way his hips rolled was so slow and lazy… His body was dreaming of something he'd never admit to wanting.

Another sigh left his lips. This one was more like a whimper. And that's when your thighs clenched for real. You pressed your lips together, closing your eyes. You couldn't help it. Couldn't stop your hand from drifting down to rest on his again. The one he still had on your waist.

Daryl's fingers twitched. He reacted. Shit, was he waking up?

"Mhm..." He mumbled. Not a word. Just a sound. And he moved again, a little more this time, his cock pressing harder against your ass, making your breath hitch.

The longer it went on, the hotter it got—him so unknowingly needy, and you, getting wet from the feel of it, every roll of his hips pressing that thick, aching cock against you like it just needed somewhere to go.

Daryl let out another soft sound behind you. Not a groan. Just a broken sigh that made you swallow hard and your pussy throb.

You could wake him up. You could turn around. You could grab his jaw, kiss him just like that, and show him what to do next. Or you could wait a few more seconds and see just how far that sleepy little grind of his was going to go.

And Daryl kept it going, his hips rocking ever so gently, pressing himself against your ass like he was in a different world entirely—a fantasy, a dream—where he got to have this. You. Where it was okay to want.

And oh, how he wanted you. You could also hear it by now, the way his breath hitched just a little more each time he moved. Louder. Another soft whimper barely made it past his lips. You wondered if he even knew he was making those little sounds and if he'd hate himself for them in the morning.

Shifting slowly, you let your thighs part just a little. Not enough to be obvious—just enough to feel him better. You let his hand go, moving back with your own until your fingertips brushed over the side of his thigh. He jerked, only a twitch, like his body felt the touch even if he wasn't awake yet.

Then, quietly, carefully, you rolled over to face him, feeling how his strong arm slipped off your waist. His brow was furrowed just a little, his lips parted, almost looking innocent. And maybe he really was.

Reaching up, you couldn't help but let your thumb touch his bottom lip softly, parting his mouth a little more.

And then, you kissed him. Only one deep kiss.

Poor Daryl had no idea. Or maybe he did and just couldn't help himself. But then you slid your tongue along his lips. That was the moment he stopped moving entirely, and you didn't have to look to know he was wide awake now.

Still, you froze for a second. So did Daryl.

Then he pulled back in an instant, realizing what kind of situation he was in. "Shit! I… fuck! What—?"

"I noticed," you whispered and gave him a loving smile in response. "And I simply kissed you in return."

He opened his mouth, like maybe he had something to say, maybe an apology, maybe an excuse, but you beat him to it. Crawling toward him, you quickly pushed him back down to keep him from escaping you, straddling him.

Daryl's face turned a shade of red you didn't think possible for a man who spent all day out in the sun. "I—I didn't know I was—fuck, I didn't mean nothin' by it! I wasn't…"

You caught one of his hands and wrapped your fingers around his. "It's okay," you said, your thumb stroking his knuckles gently. "Was kinda cute, actually."

He made a strangled noise like he couldn't decide whether to groan or storm out of his tent as fast as possible. "Cute?" He asked, clearly offended by the word.

"Yeah… You heard me," you answered, sliding your hand down between your bodies until your palm pressed against the hard outline of his cock.

Daryl didn't know what to say anymore, but he didn't stop you either.

So you kissed him again, with just enough pressure to make him gasp. You felt the way his mouth opened for you, the way he stopped breathing, so you let your hand continue to move against his cock ever so slowly, and when it moved over the thick tip of it, he choked out a sound that damn near made you moan in return.

"Jesus," he groaned, letting his head fall back with his eyes squeezed shut.

Taking the opportunity, you leaned forward and kissed his jaw and his neck, nipping gently at his skin.

He was already so fucking hard…

"Shit," he hissed through clenched teeth like the word had been ripped out of him.

"What?" You smiled against him. "You literally hump me in your sleep and then act like you don't want it when you're awake?"

He made another strangled sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan this time, his face turning deep red. "I wasn't—I didn't!"

Daryl's eyes looked into yours, wild and wide, and then lower, down your body.

"Yeah, you did," you smirked, pulling back a little, not wanting to overwhelm him. "You just didn't know I'd let you. Now..."

Making yourself comfortable to straddle him tighter, you pulled your shirt up and over your head, slow enough to make your point clear. His eyes never left your skin—staring at every inch like it was something new, something forbidden. Your bra came off next.

And Daryl looked like he forgot how to breathe. His jaw dropped, his tongue wetting his lips so fast he didn't even realize he was doing it, his eyes fixed on your tits like he was terrified to blink, and his hands twitched at his sides.

You tilted your head and grinned. "Are you going to touch or do you want to stare all night?"

Swallowing hard and not wanting to refuse, one hand came up trembling, like he was expecting you to slap it away, but then he stopped halfway.

"Daryl... I'm letting you. Just try and touch me."

That certainly helped. His fingers moved up your waist first, cautiously, like he needed to warm up to the idea. Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he brought his hand up to your chest.

And fuck, the look on his face… As if he'd never seen a naked woman in his life and wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or about to die from it.

Daryl's palm cupped one of your tits with doubt, but also hunger, like he wanted to devour them but was too scared he'd hurt you if he squeezed too hard.

He didn't even squeeze. He held.

But when you gasped—when your back arched a little more and your mouth dropped open in a silent moan—then he started to touch, kneading gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, where he didn't even realize what he was doing until you shivered from it.

His eyes looked up to yours, panic on his face, thinking maybe that noise meant he did it wrong.

Reassuring him, you shook your head, smiling gently. "That was good, baby. Don't stop."

Daryl didn't. He kept touching. You could see the way his jaw clenched, see the tense muscles in his neck, and feel the way his cock twitched hard beneath you in an attempt to hold himself back from thrusting up against you.

Leaning down, you let your tits rub across his chest up to his face, just enough to tease, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Daryl whimpered. He whimpered, the poor thing…

You could feel the tremble in his thighs now, his hand still clinging to your tit with a look that said he was afraid you'd change your mind. But his fingers tightened further, wanting to make himself believe that your sounds weren't even pity, but want. Real want.

"Do you want to come for me, Daryl?"

His hips bucked up without permission, and his breath hitched again at your words, all the while you kept your hand on him—pressing and sliding your palm over the bulge in his pants, feeling how hard he was, but still trying to hold himself together, which was getting harder with every second that passed.

"I, uh," he stuttered, almost too quiet to hear. His eyes went shut when your fingers squeezed just the tip of his cock through his pants out of nowhere. "F-fuck—don't… don't... PLEASE."

You bit back a grin. There it was.

His hips bucked up once again, just a little, trying to get you to touch him some more. It was obvious that his body didn't care that he had no real idea what he was doing—it wanted more of you.

Leaning in close, you let your tongue lick over his parted lips. "You sound like you're begging for it, you know..."

Daryl's eyes snapped open at your words.

Wide. Confused. Embarrassed.

You watched the realization hit him—watched him remember what sounds came out of his throat. His mouth was still open, attempting to take it back, maybe deny it—but nothing came out. Only another moan. By now, he was all whimpers and stutters and fuck-me eyes.

You laughed softly, rolling your hips against his thigh. "Didn't even realize, huh? You're just so damn worked up you don't know what you're saying anymore."

Tilting your head, you pressed another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before dragging your lips along his jaw. "You never had someone make you feel like this before, Daryl?"

"N-no…"

"Mhm," you smiled against his skin. "I didn't think so."

Daryl whimpered again, and you felt his cock twitch under your palm.

You leaned closer, letting your breath tickle his ear, whispering. "Does your dick get hard like this for just anybody, sweetheart?"

His head turned to the side with the expression of someone who was more than just ashamed.

"I'm gonna touch you for real, Daryl," you whispered, not moving your hand further for now. "And you're going to be good and let me. You're going to say ‘thank you,' too… like a sweet little boy who listens."

"I…"

"You what?"

"I… thanks," he stammered, hardly able to say it out loud.

"Good boy. All the while you're begging for it without even meaning to."

His hips jerked up again—uselessly on instinct—and he made the softest sound you'd ever listened to in your life. Was it a sob? You weren't sure with his fingers still on your tits and him looking too stunned to do anything.

"Oh, baby…" You smirked, pretending to be all sweet and kind while grinding down against his thigh. "You want it that bad?"

Daryl nodded. Just a tiny, helpless nod—but he meant it.

You sat back some more, sliding your hand from his cock up to the button of his pants, but didn't open it. Not now. Reaching up, you started to open the buttons of his own flannel shirt instead, one by one, only to kiss your way to the middle of his chest. One kiss. Then another. Then lower, sliding your lips and tongue down to his stomach.

He was panting now, his chest rising and falling wildly, his other hand twitching like he didn't know where to put it. "Please," he whispered. It slipped out quietly. But you heard it. Hell, you felt it.

"Please?" You asked, not stopping your trail of kisses down to the skin just above the waistband of his pants. "Please, what? Tell me."

"Dunno," he whimpered, almost desperate. "Just, just—don't leave."

You couldn't help but giggle at his words, kissing his skin just above his belly button. "Don't worry, Daryl. I won't leave, and believe me, I'll tell you what to do."

He blinked down at you, looking like he'd agree to anything if you just kept touching him like this.

As soon as you got off, kneeling down beside him, you grabbed his jaw. "Lay back onto the sleeping bag."

He obeyed immediately, lying down flat on his back and breathing like he'd run for miles, his eyes looking from your face to your tits and back again.

You straddled him again, slowly, getting comfortable like you had all the time in the world. "Wanna suck on my tits now?"

His mouth dropped open at your question. No sound came out. Just an overwhelmed, shaky cough. Suddenly cupping your own tit in your hand, you gave it a light squeeze, then brushed your thumb over your nipple, watching how Daryl's eyes followed the movement of your finger.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm letting you, Daryl," you whispered. "Come on. You can do that. Be a good boy for me and do as I say."

Daryl nodded slowly, pushing himself up on his elbows and thinking he might still be dreaming of a fantasy. A fantasy he's had since the first time he saw you at the quarry outside of Atlanta. But he already knew it back then… how you'd become his undoing.

You guided him gently, making yourself comfortable next to him now, and arched a little closer so he didn't have to reach far. He stared for one more second—just one—and then leaned in. Awkwardly so. His mouth was unsure at first, with quivering lips brushing over your nipple that didn't quite know what was allowed and what was not.

So you sighed and put your fingers into his hair, caressing the back of his head. "Open that pretty mouth, sweetheart."

Daryl obeyed. You brought your nipple to his mouth and watched him. Watched him take it in, his lips wrapping around it as if he was scared. "That's it," you whispered. "Suck."

He did. Carefully at first—then with more confidence when your hand returned to his hair, guiding him. His tongue flicked over your nipple, his lips sucking gently, then harder when he heard you moan. You felt the way his cock throbbed beneath your thigh, how he was still so hard it probably hurt—but he didn't ask for anything. Didn't even grind up to feel more. He just sucked. Sweet. Quietly. Needy.

"You're doing so good right now," you whispered, letting him take the other nipple into his mouth next, his tongue moving with more urgency now. "Look how well you listen."

Daryl whined again but never stopped. By the time you looked down at him again, his lips were shiny, and his cock was leaking so much precum that his pants were dark and soaked through a little.

But you let him continue to explore your tits as long as he wanted to—slow little licks, then sucking gently, then sucking harder when he was sure you liked it as much as he did. One of his hands came back up too, holding your tit, trying to memorize the feel of it while he kept going, switching sides when your hand in his hair pulled it a little.

And all the while, he kept making those noises. Not words. Just quiet, breathy sounds. Whimpers. Moans. Every now and then, a broken little 'fuck' or 'shit,' wanting to try and hide that he couldn't really handle it. Pulling back after a while, only enough to see his face, you smiled down at him.

Daryl only blinked at you, so you kissed his temple. "Do you realize how sweet you are? I bet I could make you come like this. Just from sucking on my tits."

That made his hips buck again. And the noise that came out of him? Practically a whine. You knew it now—knew Daryl. How desperate he was. How careful. And you could tell that he was already close. Only from this. The thought alone turned you on.

You couldn't help but press your knee between his legs to tease him a little and to feel it—that cock throbbing against you, for you, and still aching. Poor boy was losing it, and you hadn't even taken his pants off yet.

Reaching down slowly, you let your fingers tease the skin near the waistband, making him shiver. Daryl froze for a moment like he was trying not to run away. But he didn't stop you, even though he was still fighting with himself. You worked his button open, then, patiently, pulled the zipper down just enough to slip your hand into it. His breath hitched when you brushed over the front of his boxers. So warm. So hard. Fuck, he felt like steel, and he throbbed so wildly under your hand when you barely even touched him.

"You're so cute," you whispered, letting your lips kiss his jaw as your hand started moving over his cock. "So sweet…"

Daryl moaned—not even loud enough, really, making it sound like a broken whimper. He looked down between you with disbelief in his eyes. It was clear no one had ever touched him that way before. And he wasn't even able to concentrate on touching you as well when you teased him for a while through his boxers.

Long strokes. Nothing fast. And enough to keep him on edge.

Watching him being this close so easily felt almost unfair.

"Don't," he whined all of a sudden. "I—I can't!"

"You can, believe me," you hushed him softly, watching him hide his face out of embarrassment, but you could still hear every broken little noise that left him. Then you slid your hand down, right inside his boxers.

Trembling and barely able to hold himself together, he gave you a shocked gasp when your fingers wrapped around his cock. His body betrayed him, wanting more before his mind could even catch up.

"You poor thing." You said, kissing his neck. "I hope that didn't hurt?"

Daryl didn't answer. He couldn't. His hand had grabbed part of the sleeping bag, eyes shut tight when you started to move your hand—once. Just a pump. Twice. Again. Watching the way he reacted to every single one. He couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop gasping.

"Already this wet and leaking," you smirked, feeling the precum dripping down along his shaft. "It's quite impressive how much you're trying to be good."

"Please…" He then sobbed, and you looked up at him. That red face. Those quivering lips. His pleading eyes.

Oh, shit.

Your brain just kind of stopped working when your fingers wrapped harder around his cock at that sight. He felt so warm. So thick. And Daryl groaned—deep, broken, as if in actual pain—and his hips bucked up just barely. Lord... He really was desperate.

Slowly pumping his shaft with your hand moving up and down, you kept the pressure torturously gentle, making his abs clench every time you reached the base of his cock, his breath shuddering.

He was losing it, and his hand found your wrist suddenly, gripping—not to stop you, but to beg you without words.

You leaned down, lips brushing over his jaw. "What is it, baby? You wanna come for me?"

A strangled groan left him. He was too scared to say yes.

"You think I'll stop if you come too fast?"

Daryl didn't know if he should nod or shake his head at your words, and it turned into a mix of both. It looked almost pathetically wholesome how this strong man let himself go in a way you could've never even imagined. Especially not a few days ago.

"Good thing I want to see you come." And then, without warning, you changed your rhythm, pumping his cock harder now, faster.

"F-FUCK—m'sorry—I can't!" He moaned, louder this time. His back arched up off the sleeping bag, unable to control his body anymore, even though he wanted to.

Your other hand went to his hair again, stroking it gently. "Look at you. So cute. And I haven't even started riding you."

"I—I'll do anythin'! Just wanna come for ya… fuck! I'll be good!"

"Oh, I know you'll be good," you giggled. "But good boys wait. Good boys hold it back."

"Please," Daryl whimpered in response. "Please, please, please…"

You hushed him, cupping his cheek as he shook, letting it overwhelm him. Every twitch. Every breath. Every bit of feelings he didn't know how to handle.

"That's it, baby," you encouraged him. "Good boys come when they're told... Do it."

His whole body jerked and tensed up. A quiet, choked groan, a full-body tremble, and then a broken moan that ripped itself from his throat as he came—hard—right in your hand.

You felt Daryl's cum shoot into his boxers, his cock pulsing against your palm while he gasped for breath, hoping that maybe you wouldn't see how ashamed he was.

"N-no," he whimpered to himself. "I—I didn't wanna! Fuck!"

"You didn't want to?" You teased softly, licking your lips. "Seemed like your dick had other plans."

Daryl groaned again as he let himself fall back down onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face, totally embarrassed. He didn't even realize your hand was still inside his pants, but you felt him shiver beneath you, his cock still throbbing in your grip.

He was quiet. Not because he didn't have anything to say—but because he didn't know how to handle this situation. Even when his sticky cum in his pants had to be starting to feel awkward, he just lay there, soon with his hands over his face.

But eventually, you moved just a little and smiled, "Let me clean you up."

Daryl stiffened immediately. "Ya don't gotta—"

"No arguing. Be quiet. Give me something to clean you with. I want to. Now."

He flinched at that as if it hurt more than helped, but he obeyed, reaching for a cloth near him. You sat up gently and took it from him, just when he tried to push you back down—his hand on your body feeling so unsure, like he didn't even know how to ask you not to leave. But you just kissed his forehead.

"Just a few seconds, sweet boy. Then you can go back to hugging me."

It made Daryl grumble, but he let go. You pulled his pants and boxers down slowly, cleaning him up with care. Like taking care of him was just what you did. And Daryl watched in silence. Red in the face, lips parted, still breathing a little too fast.

He didn't say thank you. But his hand found your thigh, poking it to make you notice him. It was a nervous apology for coming too soon, for shaking too hard, and for needing too much.

Once you were done, you smiled and kissed his forehead again. Then you crawled back into his arms, and this time, you were facing each other. Daryl's hand trembled where it rested on your back. Not from exhaustion—though you knew he was exhausted—but from a little bit of fear. So you hugged him. Let him breathe. Let him come down for a while. And when he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

"Yer not… just doin' this 'cause—I dunno," He started. "Told ya… ya don't gotta pretend."

You tilted his face up, kissing the tip of his nose. "Daryl. Stop. Stop it right there."

Without saying anything, he put his head beneath your chin, one arm trying to pull you closer. You were still shirtless, and you felt the way his breath stuttered against your skin when his cheek pressed to your tits once more, but he didn't try to pull away this time. Didn't want you to cover up, either.

He just grumbled something into your skin, probably some curses, and you couldn't help but giggle. Another grumble. And his arm only held you tighter.

"You know… I know that you know that Maggie and Glenn went to the town not far from here, right? The pharmacy's still got a stash… I bet," you smirked, kissing his hair.

That made him lift his head just a little more. "What kinda stash?" He asked, confused.

"Oh, I dunno. Things a girl might need. Like... lip balm. Some body lotion. Maybe even condoms."

You ran your fingers through his hair again, and Daryl stared at you. Clearly shocked. His mouth opened, but he couldn't say anything, just like before.

"And if there are still some left," you added in a thoughtful voice, "maybe I'd put on that pink dress… Let you lay back. Let me climb on and ride you until I come."

Daryl whined. Honest-to-God whined and dropped his face back against your tits so fast it made you laugh. "Oh, you like that idea," you teased, stroking the back of his neck.

Without answering that question, he nuzzled deeper against your tits, praying that if he hid there long enough, the shame would go away. You stayed like this a little longer, just feeling the way his body stayed tense against yours, but Daryl feared that maybe if he moved again, he'd come a second time just from breathing the air you were breathing as well.

"Hey," you soon whispered into his hair.

A muffled grunt answered you.

"I've been thinking…"

Another grunt. Thinking was clearly dangerous right now.

"About that pink dress you got me," you smiled against his head, sliding your fingers up the back of his neck gently. He didn't say anything. But you could feel the answer.

Leaning back just enough to search for his gaze, you looked down at him. His eyes, still a little glassy, still wide and panicked, blinked up at you.

"Daryl," you continued, "do you want me to wear it for you?"

His mouth dropped open. Then shut it again. "I—I dunno…"

"You don't know?" You asked sweetly. "Or do you not want to say it out loud?"

He looked away fast, so you just giggled and cupped his cheek. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. But maybe…" You let your thumb slide slowly across his skin, making him shiver. "Maybe I should try it on right now."

His whole body tensed up immediately when you pulled away, trying to reach for the bag where the dress was still inside, along with the other things he'd scavenged.

"What? No... No, don't!" Daryl reached for your wrist, panicking, but his pants were still half-down his thighs, and he couldn't move worth shit. "Just wait! I didn't... I just—fuck!"

But you were already crawling to the other side of his tent as you reached for the bag to get your hands on that dress again.

"Don't," he still begged, sitting up halfway but unable to stop you. "Ain't—just… Just wear it t'morrow!"

You turned to look at him, though you were a little confused by his weird reaction. "I could wear it tomorrow, or I could just wear it right now. Where is the difference? Why are you freaking out about a dress?"

"I ain't freakin' out!" He snapped back, his voice rising, and yanked his boxers and pants completely down to get them off and to finally move. "Just don't—ain't no need for ya to wear it now!"

"Daryl, stop… I'm sorry, but," you laughed, grabbing the bag anyway, "now I have to wear it. Whether you like it or not. And I think you will like it. Calm down."

Daryl groaned and dropped back flat onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face. "Jesus...shit…"

You pulled the first couple of items out that you've seen before: the canned food, the bottle of water, the medicine, and other hygiene things that he probably got for you. But once you reached for the dress, your hand touched something else at the bottom of the bag.

Pulling it out slowly and turning it over in your hands, you had to blink several times in disbelief.

"...Daryl." He didn't answer, and you stared at the condoms in your hand. "Are these… what I think they are?"

He groaned once more and turned his head away from you, feeling how the shame was about to kill him. "I ain't—I wasn't—I just found ‘em!"

"Found them?" You responded, grinning by now. "And you just happened to put them safely into the bottom of your bag? For what, for emergencies?"

He grumbled something you couldn't make out, so you turned back and got closer to him, waving the condoms in front of his face on purpose. "Daryl Dixon," you whispered playfully, "you got these because of me."

"Nah. I didn't."

"You little liar," you smirked. "You didn't think I'd find out? Or were you just hopingyou'd need them in the future?"

"I didn't even think ya'd—" He sat up finally, his face red all over, and ran a hand through his hair. "I ain't even know if they're good; I just…"

Leaning in close, you reached down between you both, putting your hand on his thigh and feeling him shiver. "You've been dreaming about fucking me, haven't you, Daryl?"

His breath hitched.

"Don't worry, baby. I won't do anything… yet. But…" You leaned in to whisper right into his ear. "I love knowing that you thought about it."

Moving slowly, you gently pushed him back down by the chest until he lay flat again, with his eyes shut tight and parted lips.

"I should reward you," you continued, crawling onto him. "For being brave enough to even think about it."

Daryl's hands twitched at his sides as you straddled him, not right against his cock, but close enough.

"Undo my pants," you smiled, and he froze. "You heard me."

"I—I don't…" His voice cracked. "I never—"

"Doesn't matter," you promised, nuzzling his neck now. "All you gotta do is use your hands."

With shaky fingers, he actually reached for your waistband, but still, he looked at you once, pleading in confusion, and you gave him a nod. "Go on, baby. You can do that."

The button popped open under his fingers.

"Good boy," you praised softly. "Now the zipper."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. But he did it. Slowly. Carefully.

You moved your hips to help him, watching as he opened your pants, and when your panties peeked out beneath them, Daryl let out another shaky breath.

"Want me to take them off for you?" You asked, all gentle and sweet.

He nodded fast. Desperate. Unsure if he should've said no and shaken his head instead, especially since he didn't know what you'd say next.

"No… You do it."

"W-what?" He asked in shock, staring at you.

"You're the one who wants to see," you teased. "So go on, sweetheart. Take them off as well. Not just my pants."

He was breathing harder again now, his chest rising and falling fast, his hands shaking like he didn't dare to touch.

"Don't be scared. You won't hurt me. I promise."

Slowly, shakily, his hands slid to your waistband. With a quiet grunt and a whole lot of effort, he tugged them down your hips.

"I—" His voice cut off into another broken groan. He was getting hard again. You could feel it. Your position over his thighs was perfect, and that little bit of pressure was definitely waking up his cock.

"Shit… Please…" He begged, though he probably didn't even know what he was asking for.

But it didn't matter. You were going to give it to him anyway. Let him take off your panties. Let him see everything.

Out of nowhere, you stood up and got off of him slowly. He was still laid out on the sleeping bag, not wanting to move unless told to. Picking the pink dress back up from where you left it, you watched the way Daryl's eyes stayed on you while you played around with it.

"You want me to put this on for you, baby?" You asked, your voice sounding as sweet as sugar. "Me wearing this while I ride your dick like I promised?"

Daryl let out another groan and tried to hide his face behind his forearm.

"Oh no. Don't be shy now," you grinned, getting him to peek at you from under his arm in return, trying not to smile in embarrassment.

You held the dress up and slowly put it on, not pulling it all the way down just yet—only down to your hips, holding it there. You knew what you were doing, and so did he.

"You're thinking about it right now, aren't you? Me in this little thing… climbing on top of you, telling you how to fuck me? Or maybe I'd ride you with it bunched up around my waist, my tits out of the top for you to suck on like before…"

Daryl whimpered again with a visibly harder cock that wanted more, even if he wasn't sure he should.

Stepping further away from him, you pointed down at the end of his sleeping bag in front of you. "Crawl to me."

Daryl wasn't sure he'd heard you right and tilted his head.

"You heard me. Crawl. To. Me."

He opened his mouth to protest, but you looking at him like that stopped him before a word came out. Shame-faced and trembling, he started to move. And it wasn't exactly graceful. Daryl was awkward as hell trying to crawl with his cock hardening against his thigh, but he did it—hands on the ground, knees following as he moved closer, his face burning red the entire way.

Reaching down, you grabbed his jaw to make him look at you. "Good boy," you praised him with a smile. "Do you really want me to wear this dress when I ride you? Tell me."

"Y-yeah," he nodded shakily.

You smirked, letting out a relaxed sigh. "You really wanna be inside me while I'm wearing it, huh?" Another whimper. A twitch from his cock below. "But you know what you have to do first, don't you?"

Daryl swallowed, looking away from you. "N-no?"

You grinned a little and slid your other hand into the waistband of your panties but didn't pull them down. "You still need to take these off for me. But not with your hands."

He stared at you again, lips parted, a confused expression on his face. "Huh?"

"With your mouth, Daryl," you answered dryly, biting your tongue after those words left you.

His eyes widened. "With… with my—my…"

"Use your teeth," you continued sweetly, letting go of his jaw. "I'm not using my hands. And neither are you. Go on."

Daryl stared at what was in front of him, right at your panties, swallowing hard. And you? You just stepped a little closer. Close enough that your thighs were almost touching his face. "Do it, Dixon."

He stopped, but then you felt his breath on your skin as he leaned in, trembling. With his mouth open, he slowly caught the edge of the waistband between his lips, his nose pressing against your lower stomach. You gasped softly as the warmth of his breath hit your skin, his teeth barely biting into the fabric as he pulled at it. It took everything in you not to moan at how careful he was.

Working your panties down awkwardly slow, Daryl was clearly unsure if he was doing it right. But you just sighed calmly and stroked his hair, praising him further. "That's it. You're doing so good. Keep going, sweetheart."

He grunted, pulling them further down inch by inch, kissing your skin accidentally between his pulls, his stubble brushing your inner thigh—and by the time they slipped past your hips, his nose was buried close enough to your pussy that you felt his shaky breath there.

"That's good, baby. Now pull them all the way down."

Daryl obeyed. His teeth pulled them lower until your panties dropped to your ankles, and you stepped out of them, one foot at a time. You bent to pick them up, but not before giving him a full view of your pussy. Though you didn't have to ask—his eyes were already staring, wide and stunned.

"Gonna let me ride your dick with nothing but this pretty little dress on?" You asked once more to get his attention back, running your fingers over your thigh.

No answer.

You looked down at his cock; by now it was already leaking.

"Now, look at that," you smirked. "I think you liked that more than you want to admit."

Daryl simply nodded, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch you, to taste, but was too scared to do so.

"Can you wait for me?" You asked, wanting to calm him down softly. "Can you stay good a little longer?"

He nodded when you leaned down, giving him another kiss on the mouth, slow and soft, before you took a few steps toward the bag, grabbing one of the condoms. Daryl was still kneeling, his eyes looking from your fingers to your face, trying to commit the whole moment to memory in case it was just a fever dream in the end, even after everything that has happened so far.

"Lie back down."

Crouching down after you said those words and helping Daryl with pushing him onto his back again, you suddenly moved to press a kiss to the tip of his cock—just a quick one—and he almost sobbed. You then crawled up into his lap, straddling him, your pussy just above it, not touching it yet.

"Arms over your head," you said next, watching as he obeyed without any words.

Stretching them and holding one wrist with one of his hands made his biceps flex instantly, while he himself was looking all helpless beneath you.

That was the moment you were the one almost losing your mind—just because of him.

You hadn't expected how immensely strong he looked laid out like that. The second his arms flexed, you stopped breathing. No, you hadn't expected it at all. You'd known he was strong, sure—years of hunting, tracking, and surviving life—but seeing it? Your mouth went dry.

"Goddamn…" You stammered before you could stop yourself, blushing slightly.

Meanwhile, Daryl looked at you kind of confused, not understanding what was wrong. "What?"

"N-nothing," you answered quickly, hoping he wasn't able to notice the effect he had on you. "Just… stay still. Eyes on me."

He obeyed again. Good boy. Too good. So good that you had to let out a deep, long breath. And he saw it. But you caught yourself quickly, pressing your thighs a little together to hold back the trembling building between them, your knees pushing against either side of his hips.

"Don't move," you whispered. "Not a muscle."

Leaning back ever so slightly and spreading your legs wide enough to show off everything, you then slid your hand down the dress. "You will stay quiet and watch me," you explained to him. "That's all you're allowed to do for now."

You slid your fingers down over your belly, past the edge of the dress, and let your touch slip between your thighs, making your breath hitch, and his too. Daryl's hips twitched slightly, but he still didn't move his arms. He just bit his lower lip, which was trembling a bit now. But you kept your movements slow. One finger was sliding between your pussy folds, parting them. Then two fingers, spreading them wider and teasing yourself, rubbing them softly over your clit while you moaned—just for him.

Daryl groaned in return, and you pushed your fingers deeper, pressing inside enough to feel how wet you were before pulling them out and bringing them back to your mouth. You sucked one finger clean—still watching him—and his body shivered, his fists clenching where they lay above his head.

"Poor baby," you teased him on purpose. "You're trying so hard, aren't you?"

Daryl nodded desperately. No words, just him nodding, wanting you to save him from himself. Then, he did something again that made you stop.

Only one thing.

One tiny, unplanned, accidental thing.

Something he'd done since you'd woken him from grinding and humping against your ass in his sleep. It was him looking at you. But not at your tits, not at your pussy, but at your face. Daryl looked up at you with those goddamn blue eyes, as if he was already in love with you and wanting you to notice that this wasn't only about lust—it was all about you, you, you.

"God… f-fuck… Daryl," you whispered with a shaky voice.

Immediately grabbing for the condom next to you, you quickly bit at the edge of it, fast, tearing the package open with your teeth. Daryl's eyes went wide in confusion as you held the torn wrapper between your teeth, letting him see it there while you stared him down, lips parted around the piece you bit off, before spitting it away to the side.

Taking out the condom and throwing the rest of the package away, you moved lower over his body until your face was right above his cock. You watched Daryl flinch, his legs tensing as you reached out, gently wrapping your fingers around his shaft. He hissed through his teeth, whimpering at the feeling of your touch.

"Hush now," you whispered and began pumping him slowly, with just your fingertips at first. He throbbed in your hand, his head dropping back against the sleeping bag as you worked him up.

Still keeping your eyes looking at his, you leaned down toward his cock and pressed your lips to the tip, making it leak even harder, but you did manage to hold him still.

Smirking at him next, you brought the condom to your face instead, putting the ring of it carefully between your lips, and used only your mouth to roll it down over his shaft, inch by inch, holding his shaft steady with one hand. It took effort. But you managed it. When the condom finally slid all the way down, you pulled back, leaning over him again and letting your tits press against his chest.

Daryl moaned quietly, so you just kissed him again—really kissed him.

Not like before. This time, you kissed him roughly, letting your tongue slide into his mouth. He gasped and shivered under you, his tongue all clumsy but wanting more, his body shaking all over.

"Look at you," you whispered against his jaw when you pulled back. "Lying there and just waiting for me to fuck you."

Daryl swallowed hard at your words. Then you moved, sitting upright on his thighs and moving forward until your pussy pressed to the length of his cock, still not letting him inside, just grinding yourself down along the shaft.

The warmth of his cock, the shape… Shit, it felt good.

"F-fuck," Daryl breathed out when you rocked forward again, sliding up slowly, notching the tip ever so slightly against your clit before grinding back down.

"Shit—please—fuck."

You laughed as a response, short and sweet, and reached up to grab one of the straps of the dress, letting it slip slowly off your shoulder. It slid down, giving him another chance to look at your tits again.

"Wanna suck?" You asked him, and he nodded helplessly, staring up at you with an overwhelmed expression.

Leaning back down, you offered it to him. His mouth found your tit instantly, his lips sucking on your nipple while you kept grinding down along his cock. You could feel how close he was again, his cock throbbing with every little movement.

"God," you moaned. "You make me feel so good, Daryl..."

He whimpered against your skin, sucking harder at your nipple, until you straightened up, letting it slip from his mouth, only to reach down and grip his cock, guiding the tip right where you wanted it to be next.

That first moment—simply letting the tip of his cock push against your soaked pussy—was almost too much. Even through the condom, you felt everything. The thickness. The throbbing of it. The sheer size of him.

Jesus Christ. He really was big.

Then, slowly, so goddamn slowly, you sank down onto him. The tip of his cock pushed into you with such a deep, thick stretch, it made you both moan—louder and longer, but not too loud. And you took your time. Letting inch after inch of his cock fill you up until he was completely inside, your ass pressing down onto his lap.

"Holy… holy shit," you breathed out, half-laughing, half-groaning, your hands now on his chest to steady yourself as you rocked your hips forward, letting yourself feel him pulsing inside. "Daryl, you're—fuck…"

Looking down at him, Daryl choked on another moan, but still, he didn't look. That wouldn't do.

"Look at me, baby."

He shook his head, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Don't wanna fuck it up," he sobbed in return. Your heart damn near broke at that, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you reached out to caress his cheek.

"You're not doing anything wrong. You're doing good. Now open those eyes and look at me."

His eyes opened slowly, almost afraid, but when he looked up at you, they seemed to relax.

And shit, there was that same look on his face again, giving away that he'd never seen anything so unreal in his life. You, in that pink dress, breathing hard, your tits bouncing just slightly as you ground your pussy on his cock, your eyes looking into his like you owned him. Like this moment, this man—was yours.

"There we go," you whispered. "Keep your eyes on me."

And then you lifted yourself just a bit, leaving only the tip of his cock inside of you before you sank back down.

Your mouth dropped open as he slid in again, inch by aching inch, and all you could do was to start riding him faster—and you meant it—your hips rolling, your ass slapping against his thighs. And the more you moved, the harder it was to stay calm. Especially when you looked at his reactions.

"Keep looking," you reminded him with a breathless voice.

Daryl tried; he really did. But his eyes looked down, then back to your face with another loud groan. His hips pushed up once, involuntarily, and you whimpered at the sudden, deep, rough thrust.

"Oh, fuck! Y-you like watching it go in, don't you?"

Daryl bit his lip and nodded, but then looked back at your face as if it was the most important part of you.

Smiling, you began to move faster again, your rhythm picking up, riding him harder now, which had both of you gasping, cursing, and trembling. Your soaked pussy was taking him again and again, his cock filling you so perfectly, stretching you with every movement, so deep you could barely concentrate.

And you loved it. Loved how shy he looked while his cock was buried inside you, loved how he watched you so insecurely, not wanting to hurt you.

Your hands moved to your tits, pulling out the other one, squeezing them right in front of him, and pinching your nipples as you bounced on his cock. That got you a grunt—and a broken, whispered, "Goddamn..."

Now he was really watching.

"Yeah… just like that," you breathed. "That's it, baby. Watch me."

He moaned again, his mouth open now, totally lost.

And you were getting close. You could feel it—the way your clit ground down against him just right, the muscles of your thighs aching from the effort of riding him. But you didn't stop. You could feel him fighting it, staying still beneath you, letting you use him just like you'd promised. But then he bucked again. Out of nowhere, his hips thrust up once more.

"Oh God—fuck!" You nearly screamed, your whole body tensing up as the thick tip of his cock slammed as deep into you as it possibly could.

Your hands searched for his shoulders as you struggled to hold on, and Daryl instantly panicked. "Shit—I—I didn't mean to!"

Not wanting to answer him, one of your hands grabbed for his wrists, holding them down roughly.

"Don't move," you hissed, but your voice cracked, sounding more like begging than an actual command he'd have to follow.

Daryl's biceps flexed, though he didn't resist as you leaned down, kissing him at first, only to bite him next, right on the muscles of one arm. Your lips left a bruise, your teeth a mark, and still you didn't stop moving, your pussy continuing to clench around his cock.

You couldn't even talk anymore. All the words were gone. All you had left were the noises you made. Breathy, broken moans. Shaky, little whimpers every time his cock filled you up completely. Soft, short gasps that escaped between kisses to his arms, his neck, his shoulder—anywhere you could reach his body with your mouth, but without ever letting go of his wrists.

"Fuck, fuck…" Daryl was groaning beneath you, ragged and fast, his muscles twitching under your grip.

He was trying his hardest to hold back, knowing it would be beyond any kind of hope if he let his body continue to respond to your every little touch.

You felt drunk on it. Wild. Overstimulated and insatiable all at once. Then it hit you, that deep feeling inside that told you that your orgasm was coming fast, and you barely managed to choke out the warning.

"S-shit! I'm about to—"

You had to slow down. With shaking hands, you let go of his wrists, putting your palms on his thighs instead, and leaned back—arching your body and trying to keep calm. It was right there… right there.

"Hold me," you then gasped. "Now. Please."

Daryl obeyed. His hands quickly moved to your hips, trembling and sweaty, but still as strong as always. And as soon as he gripped you, it slowed down everything. You didn't exactly know if time had stopped, but it sure felt like it. Just long enough to see him.

"Look at me," you whispered. He already was, and you knew that, but you felt the need to convince yourself that he wouldn't look away.

"I don't want to come without you… I want to come with you. With."

You weren't sure if you were begging or controlling anymore—maybe it was both. Maybe that's what desperation looked like on you: shaking, wet, aching, and stretched full with him, your voice almost nothing but that one plea.

With.

Daryl's fingers tightened just a little on your hips, but he didn't answer. His mouth opened in hopes to answer, to say anything, and to give you everything in return, but nothing came out except a long, needy moan that turned into a needy, broken sound as you rolled your hips slower, with Daryl feeling himself twitch inside you.

"Please," you said again, but this time it was quieter. You were so close it almost hurt—it was just too much—but you waited. You held it back with every bit of strength you had left. Simply to make sure.

Daryl looked done, even scared to let it happen. "'M tryin'…"

His voice broke off, and you nearly screamed. Everything inside you tensed up. "Come with me, Daryl, come on… Touch me."

His hands finally grabbed your ass hard, pushing you down onto his cock, and his hips bucked up into you, uncontrolled now, losing himself. Then it hit you both at once.

You cried out but didn't care. Couldn't hold back the sob as you came hard on his cock, taking your breath away, your everything. Daryl came the same second. You felt it. The way he shook. The way he groaned with his lips trembling and eyes squeezed shut as his cock pulsed hard inside you.

As soon as it was over, you leaned forward, your forehead touching his, kissing him softly several times in a row. And for a while, neither of you moved. Nothing but the sound of panting. Of hearts trying to calm down. And Daryl… poor Daryl looked like he wasn't sure he'd survived it.

"Still with me, sweetheart?"

He didn't answer at first but nodded. His voice, when it came, was sounding kind of hoarse and unsure.

"Y-yeah… I… goddamn..." He trailed off, burying his face in your neck, without being able to stop himself from remembering something. Something he'd already been trying to push away, probably the moment it happened.

"Ya bit me," he then whispered, his voice quiet like he was trying not to draw attention to it. "‘S'pose that was on purpose?"

Looking back at him, you raised an eyebrow, smiling knowingly. Not teasing in a way that might confuse him. Just amused. And maybe still a little… hungry.

"What, you didn't like it?"

Daryl looked away instantly. "N-no, I, uh, I didn't say that. I just—" He swallowed loudly. "Was kinda… surprised, I guess."

"Surprised?" You repeated, moving your hand across his chest and further until it stopped above the spot on his biceps that you'd bitten. Biting your bottom lip, you then grinned at Daryl as if you were about to devour him all over again. "I simply told you to keep still."

"But I did…"

Your smile turned into a tiny smirk. "Then maybe I was simply proud of you."

Daryl didn't know what to do with that answer. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked like a man who'd never been praised for anything except maybe not dying. "Flex your arms for me..."

"What?"

You pulled back just far enough to look right into his eyes again, your hand not leaving one of his strong arms. "I told you to flex for me. Be a good boy and flex your arms again. Come on, show me."

Daryl closed his eyes and still hesitated. Really hesitated. His brows were furrowed in thought, checking if you were messing with him. Knowing that his first instinct was to run away from being seen again, you continued to wait patiently until he breathed out slowly through his nose and obeyed. The muscles under your touch tensed, feeling ever so strong and still trembling a little from everything you'd done to him before.

Hell, he had no idea what that did to you.

You immediately leaned down and dragged your mouth along his bicep, soft at first, just a teasing little kiss. Then your tongue came out, licking along it until he shuddered, before your lips were pressed to the mark you'd left earlier, sucking a little harder this time.

"Shit," Daryl whispered. "What're ya doin'…"

But he didn't stop you.

"I'm making sure you know," you said quietly, pulling back again, "that you didn't imagine this."

He didn't answer, but his eyes looked at his arm to where your lips had just been, then back up to your face, unable to believe it. As if all of this—your mouth, your voice, your gentleness—was too much to understand. And that was when you could feel how something changed. It wasn't even noticeable at first. The way his hands twitched and then went still. The way he stopped looking at you, even though your face was still so close to his.

"Hey, hey," you whispered softly. "Daryl, are you okay?"

His jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened further beneath you, making him uncomfortable. "…Yeah."

"Did I hurt you?" You sat up a little, carefully, and that's when he hissed again.

"N-no," he answered with a strained voice, not really convincing you.

"Okay, okay, wait," you whispered, slowly lifting yourself off him, trying to be gentle, but he winced again, his eyes squeezing shut as his cock slipped out. He turned his face to the side, biting down on his tongue, wishing it would help, since he didn't want you to hear him make another pitiful sound.

Once you slipped off him, you instinctively reached down to take care of the condom. Kneeling between his legs, your fingers cautiously slipped it off, tying it together and tossing it aside without saying anything, trying to keep things quiet.

But Daryl was trembling again by now. He was lying there with his face turned away, seemingly chewing on the inside of his cheek with his teeth. His hands were curled into fists on either side of him, his arms all stiff, not knowing what to do with them anymore.

Daryl only then realized that you'd pulled off him. Not because you weren't on him anymore, riding him. No, you weren't with him anymore. That was when his thoughts started screaming. That this was over. That you got what you wanted, and now you'd realize what an asshole he was underneath it all. He hated how much he wanted to pull you back down. Onto his lap. Onto his cock. Onto him. Just to feel safe again. Just to feel needed. But he didn't say a word. Didn't even breathe right.

Reaching out to caress his chest, you were caught off guard the second your fingertips touched him, his arm shooting out, grabbing your wrist.

You gasped, and Daryl realized what he was doing too late. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly let go. You pulled back a little from the shock of it, holding your wrist, and the expression on his face?

He looked like someone had just hit him. "Fuck, 'm sorry! This ain't—"

"Hey, it's okay," you cut him off fast, holding up your hands, even though your heart was still racing a little bit. "It's okay, Daryl. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm okay."

But you weren't sure he heard you when he sat up. His face was turning pale now, his hands shaking as he slid them through his hair, back and forth, over and over again. He was grumbling something—probably to himself—but you couldn't make it out.

"Stupid… stupid fuckin'—goddamn—shouldn't've…"

"Daryl," you said softly, still kneeling in front of him, but he didn't look at you. His eyes were somewhere else, far away.

"I fuckin' touched ya like that," he finally whispered. "Grabbed ya."

"Yeah, and then you let go," you said gently, but your voice was shaking now too, but not because of any pain he thought he'd caused. "Daryl, you didn't hurt me."

Then you realized he wasn't breathing right. Short, shallow gasps, like he was trying not to cry or scream or vomit. Or maybe all three.

"I ain't like that," he whispered. "I ain't—I ain't him!"

You didn't know who 'him' was, but your heart sank at the sound of it. Some memory, or so it seemed. Some long-buried monster, maybe.

Daryl looked at you once again. But there was no man in front of you. He looked like before—just a boy. A boy who never got held after someone hurt him. A boy who was taught that love was dangerous and wanting love made you weak. A boy who'd never been looked at like he was wanted, let alone loved, and now that he'd let you see all of him—let you use him, take him, and especially care for him—it was too much. And now the shame was devouring him from the inside out.

"I fuckin' spat on ya," he then remembered. "Treated ya like shit. Told ya that ya were nothin' but some fuckin'… useless dumbass…"

"Daryl—"

"Ya should hate me," he simply continued, louder this time. "Ya should. Ya should hate me, ya should leave, shit, ya should go!"

He moved to get up, but his knees wouldn't let him the second he stood. His legs gave out, and you caught him in time, your arms wrapping around him as he leaned against you, trembling harder.

"Daryl, hey… hey," you quickly said, holding him up, or trying to as best as you could. "I'm here. Listen to me… I won't leave. I won't."

Pressing his face into your shoulder, he didn't answer you and went silent. Breathing hard. Twitching a little in your arms like he was cold. Or scared. Or both. You sat down slowly, pulling him with you, holding him in your arms, sensing that he didn't know how to hold himself up anymore. You didn't do anything else for a while. You only held him.

Eventually, you felt one little, wet drop hit your naked chest. Then another.

And you said nothing, but Daryl had gone quiet now, with his forehead pressed against your collarbone. Eventually, he tried to put one of his arms around your waist, and the twitching of his muscles definitely wasn't the good kind. They twitched way too fast for someone who wasn't really moving.

As soon as you moved slightly away from him, he sobbed in shock, thinking you would really just leave.

"Easy, baby. Just grabbing something for you."

Daryl's eyes followed you, wide and glassy, unsure if he should stop you or not, so you gave him a tiny smile—just enough to convince him you weren't going anywhere for real. Then you crouched by the corner of his tent, searching through the clothing you left on the ground. His pants, your panties, his boxers, your bra, and your shirt were all tangled together, looking through it until you found what you were searching for.

The flannel shirt you gave him. You picked it up and brought it back over to where he was still half-sitting, dazed and shivering.

"Arms up," you whispered, remembering how you'd told him those same two words before.

But Daryl only sobbed.

"Come on now," you said gently, watching how he moved awkwardly and unsure. "Only the shirt."

You slipped the sleeves on, one at a time, then buttoned the middle lazily. Not all the way. Just enough so it wouldn't slip off his shoulders if he moved again.

Then you leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Lie down."

He did. Not all the way at first, but once he did, you lay down next to him, pulling the edges of the sleeping bag slightly over both of you, hugging him close until his leg rested over your hip, your hand on his chest, and his forehead against your temple.

You thought maybe Daryl would fall asleep like that. But his breath stuttered.

And the next sob came out of him so suddenly, so harsh, it didn't even sound like crying. It sounded like a choke. Like his body was wanting to push away the pain and couldn't keep it in.

Daryl then grabbed onto you like he was scared, and you could barely keep him still. Even with both arms around his shoulders, his sobs cracked, and he stuttered every time he tried to apologize, repeating it over and over as if it were the only words left in his throat.

"…'M sorry. 'M sorry. 'M sorry…"

"I know," you whispered and kissed his cheek. "I know. I know."

It went on for a while. You lost track of how long. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been thirty. But you didn't care. Eventually, Daryl's crying stopped. He was still trembling, but not violently. His hands relaxed around you, though they didn't let go.

"Daryl?" A hum was the only answer you got. "Can I ask you something?"

This time, he didn't answer with a hum. Just a slight nod, the tiniest one, like it was all he could manage.

"I wanted to know," you started softly. "When you came out of the woods and went up to the RV…" You waited, wanting to see if he remembered what you meant or if he would simply brush it off.

"Just gave Carol a damn flower..."

You nodded and smiled. Not a big smile. Not the kind that told him he did something wrong or something right. It was a quiet, understanding little smile, as if saying, I understand.

But once Daryl realized you weren't answering him, he looked up at you like he couldn't figure out why you weren't mad. Or confused. Or disgusted. Or whatever he thought he deserved. His hand then came up fast, moving in a way that wasn't really familiar for him, with his fingertips brushing against your lower lip once while looking at your mouth. And for a second, it really did feel like the world had gone normal again. As if all that crying and shame and panic never existed.

For you, it seemed Daryl just needed to remind himself that you were real. That your mouth hadn't cursed him out in secret, hadn't spat in his face like he used to do to you. That you were still kind. Still looking at him like he wasn't just white trash.

You then kissed the tip of his finger gently. That was all it took to undo him again. His eyes got wet instantly, and the little shaky breath he took like he was trying not to cry again—it hurt you. Moving closer, your nose bumped against his, one of your hands moving to caress his cheek with the back of it. His skin was still a little sweaty, and he swiped under his eye, even though the tears hadn't fallen again yet.

"You don't have to look at me like that," you whispered.

His voice cracked. "Like what?"

"Like you expect me to leave for good."

Daryl looked at your arm then, the one with the healing injury where you'd sliced it open, the one he thought he was guilty of, in shame and silence. He looked so tired. So tired from thinking that he was the one that almost killed you.

"I don't know what you told Carol," you then continued gently, brushing your nose along his cheek. "But you got her that rose for a reason, right?"

He swallowed once but didn't answer.

"She's not me," you whispered with a smile. "And I'm not her. But I understand."

That got him. He wasn't sure if he should move, if he should do what his twitching hands wanted to do right now. To hold you in his arms as well.

So you reached down and took one of his hands in yours and brought it to your chest. Laid it flat right over your heart. "I know the story," you continued. "The history of the Cherokee roses."

Daryl's lips were parting slightly, but he was nodding in silence.

"That flower only grew when their women cried. Their tears watered it. And when it bloomed, it protected them. It gave them strength. So they were able to keep going. So they could protect again as well."

"Yeah..."

You smiled when Daryl finally spoke, but still, you wanted to remain careful. "It's kinda like... it's a promise."

He tilted his head, still looking unsure.

"Like… no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much shit is in the way," you said, sliding your finger lightly over his chest through the flannel shirt, "there's this rose that grows. It's the courage to keep going, the strength to protect what matters. It sounds familiar, don't you think? Thinking it's invisible... but still holding on. Still here."

"But I hurt ya…" He answered and immediately buried his face in your neck, reaching for your waist so hard that it almost bruised, but not from aggression. Just panic and instinct.

"You didn't mean to. You were scared. You still are."

You looked Daryl straight in the eye so he wouldn't flinch too far away. His lip trembled. Then he did it anyway, apologizing again.

Sighing softly, you pulled his arm a bit tighter around you, letting him feel how warm you still were, how unbothered, how there.

"You're not a bad man, Daryl," you smiled. "But you're a man who got too used to losing."

He didn't answer but held you again, this time much more gently. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, then stopping like he was still afraid he'd fuck it up. But you just cuddled close and let him.

For once in his whole life, someone was feeling warm, safe, and simply there, and it was him getting to keep it. And for the first time since the world ended, Daryl Dixon let himself fall asleep with someone in his arms—with no fear, no distance, no shame, and no guilt.

Just with you.

And he slept like he knew you'd still be there come morning.

𝑻𝒂𝒈-𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕: @cokeangell

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theonetheycallhannah · 5 years ago

Text

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 13: SNAFU

Characters: Captain Syverson, various original minor/supporting characters.

Summary: Sy has some time to think about his past, present, and future while roughing it in the Virginia wilderness which leads him to a revelation about what he really wants…but is it too late?

Need to start from the beginning? Miss an update because Tumblr? Click me!

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: Mild language, mature themes, military and weapon terminology, discussion, and use. (For those who don’t know, SNAFU is a term coined in the military. It’s an acronym for “Situation Normal, All Fucked Up.” And since this is from Sy’s perspective, I thought a military term, as opposed to a therapy term would be appropriate.)

Author’s Note: Despite this being the longest chapter, clocking in at almost 5k, it was one of the easiest to write, and came the quickest. I love writing from Sy’s perspective, and the pure love he has for Shane. I’m hoping to be able to write a bit more of his POV before the story is complete. We’ll see. I apologize if it seems like one long rant about Sy’s feelings…I guess that’s what it is, with various activities peppered in. He can be a sensitive guy, and I wanted to show that.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

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Hope I’m not forgetting anyone! If you want to be notified when I post a new chapter or work, I’ll be happy to add you to my tag list! Stricken blogs are getting personal messages from me when a new chapter is uploaded because Tumblr’s faulty tagging system will not stand in the way of me delivering what the people want!(?) lol! (Although…their lackadaisical notification system might…sorry for that. I have no control. lol!)

X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Sy was no whimp. That much was certain. Missouri winters had toughened him up more than most men in his battalion and most of the participants in the training he was currently undertaking.

But it was more than that. Sy was uniquely prepared for the elements. He remembered a particularly harsh December night during Christmas break, before he joined the service when he was home alone and had to let the dog out. Fool that he was, he wore no shoes. Greater fool, he'd allowed the door to the back yard to close…and unfortunately, it had a tendency to lock. Which it did. He tried fruitlessly for a while to break back in, but being without a cell phone, he knew he'd have to walk a good distance for help with the lock.

He slipped out the gate and started up to the road, to follow it to his grandparents a few miles away. The county road wasn't the best kind for walking, particularly barefoot in the late fall, but his feet were soon too numb to feel the gravel and whatever else was lacerating the soles of his feet. After about an hour, he made it there, shivering, knocking frantically and waking his frail old grandparents up to rescue him from his own negligence. He'd regret that until the day he died. Not that they were angry about it. They shrugged it off. His grandma cleaned the blood and dirt from his feet and bandaged the shallowed abrasions. They didn't look too bad, considering the area they lived in and the trash that could have been waiting to carve him up. Then she set about cleaning up Sy's messy footprints from her normally immaculate floor. Grandpa looked all over for their spare keys to Sy's and his mom's house, and finally found them. He lent him a pair of shoes, drove him back home, and let him in the house. After that, Sy found himself eager to spend time outdoors during colder weather. As if determined to build up a tolerance to it in case he ever found himself in such a situation again.

Now, despite the time of year being only late August, it was unseasonably cool, especially at night, as if Christmas was right around the corner, and Sy was wishing more and more that he had someone to cuddle with during the nights he'd be doing cross country training here at the beautiful Shenandoah National Park. He had packed only the essentials for the expedition, a mess kit, bed roll, canteen, modest rations, first aid supplies, et cetera, plus a rope and a tarp for building a shelter. On his person, he had a compass, a topographical map of the park with checkpoints indicated, waterproof, strike-anywhere matches, a hunting knife, a tactical knife, an M17 pistol, and three .9mm clips. He was also given a flare gun to use in case he got stuck for any reason and needed extraction.

On his first night in the wilderness, he'd taken a lot of time falling asleep. Thinking.

He thought about his last week at home. He wondered how Mr. and Mrs. Stevens were doing with Aika. Shane had offered to watch her, and he considered it. He had appreciated her eagerness to help after her…less than enthusiastic response to hearing about this trip. But he decided since Aika had a close relationship already with Fred and Caroline, and she was still getting to know Shane, they'd better be the ones to take her. She understood, and had offered the second reason that since she worked so much, she wouldn't be able to give her the kind of attention she was used to. That had made a lot of sense. He felt like kind of a bad dog parent for not thinking of it, himself.

He thought about the week he'd been here already at the compound. His first day filling out paperwork, he was asked for an emergency contact. He was used to putting his mom…but she wasn't in the best of health, herself. He had nobody. Nobody but Shane. He put her down, instead of his mom. He thought about the seminars on company approved methods of subduing and detaining targets and combatants. He should have taught Shane some self-defense moves before he left. She could handle herself, and she'd proven so, but still. A refresher, or an advancement on one's skills was always a good idea. But he was sure she'd be fine. He thought about her the most in the torturous policy and procedure lecture. What he wouldn't'a given to have her here with him. She would have made everything fun. And she would have been a way better study partner than Keith. Keith, a Navy vet from Little Rock was a good guy…he just…didn't get Sy's jokes. He was a very literal kind of thinker, and it took extra effort for Sy to communicate with folks like that.

Shane, though…he and Shane wouldn't have gotten too much done, study-wise. They would have been…distracted.

As he hiked along the trails to his first checkpoint, he breathed in the clean, crisp air and stopped at the odd overlook here and there. The park was nestled on the outer edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and they were too gorgeous not to appreciate while he was here. He found himself…uniquely emotional. He didn't feel lonely often, but since he'd met Shane, he'd hardly gone two days without seeing her, even if it was for just an hour. She'd love all of this. She'd probably want a tent, and coffee in the mornings, so they wouldn't be able to travel quite as light, but they'd make it work. Maybe one day they'd take a trip like this. Just for fun. No checkpoints. No deadlines. No semi-automatic weapons…well, honestly, he'd probably still bring a gun, anyway. You never did know about people these days, he thought. Of course, that's probably what people think of me carrying a pistol, he also thought…anyway, he was almost to the checkpoint.

Said checkpoint was a big tent, like the ones they sold fireworks out of leading up to Fourth of July. Inside there was a single lane shooting range set up down one half of the tent. On the other half, there were stations set up with dismantled weapons that you had to assemble in a certain amount of time. Someone had beaten him to the range, so he started with the guns. No problems whatsoever. He was familiar more or less with all of the models, or some version of them. When the previous participant, a small blonde woman, had finished on the range, Sy stepped up to the counter.

The attendant reset the target for Sy so he could do a close range shot, then again for mid and long range ones. He shot well, although he still wasn't used to the lighter weight of the SIG Sauer M17s the armed forces switched to back in 2017. They'd offered him an M18 at the compound, but he favored the heaver pistol, instead. Maybe the M18 was more packable, but Sy just didn't feel right firing a weapon that felt like a feather in his hand. If it was up to him, he'd take a Colt Python .357 Magnum Revolver. That, however, was more than just a question of how the firearm felt in his hand. Being out in the wilderness like this made him think back to how it must have been before these lands became civilized and gentrified. Back to the days of the cowboy, Wyatt Earp and the OK Corral. Back when it was just the wild and free land he could pretend it was now. He thanked the attendant, who was writing his name on his targets to take back to the compound along with his graded weapon assembly timesheets, and then was back on his way.

There was an eerie beauty about this unsullied land, he thought, as the dusk fell the second night of the excursion and he began setting up his camp about halfway between the first and second checkpoints, by his estimation. With his fire built and his shelter up, Sy took out some of his rations, cured meat, hard cheese, and some walnuts, and had a light supper before cleaning his gun and turning in while the ground still held some heat from the waning sun, wishing again as the cold set in that his woman was there to warm him.

His sleep was fitful. And he awoke before dawn, from dreams he couldn't remember but which still left him feeling empty. They must have been about her. He was starting to feel regret. The last time he'd seen Shane, he'd said some things that he meant to be selfless. But he didn't mean them. He meant the parts about loving her, of course. But the last thing he wanted was to come home and find her moved on with someone else. He couldn't stand to think about it. As he walked into the next checkpoint area, the range was already set up for close range firing. He riddled the target with .9mm holes and could barely wait until the attendant got the fresh sheet set to mid range before he began firing.

"How about you let me fully clear the lane before you start on the long range target, okay, Syverson?"

"Sorry, man. I'm a little…on edge today. Won't happen again."

The short, sandy-haired buck trotted out to replace the riddled sheet with one more for the long range leg, pulled it down and lacked it in to long range position, then hoofed it back up to safety, sensing the captain's impatience. Sy shot cleanly, but with cold anger, as if the silhouette on the page out there was trying to take Shane away from him. He put two square in the chest, and two in the head without hesitating.

"Man, I've never seen a long range shoot like that! What's the deal, you pissed at an ex, or something?" Sy checked the man's lapel for a name tag.

"Not exactly, Mister…Daniels."

"Call me Jack." they shook hands, and Sy chuckled, questioning.

"I'm Sy. You're name is Jack…Daniels?"

"Yes sir. No relation to the Lynchburg Daniels, unfortunately. Momma wanted to name me after her granddad, and my old man, well, he had no problem with it given his affinity for the spirit."

"A wise man, your dad. Some of my best nights have included Tennessee Number 7." He didn't elaborate, but he was getting very specific flashbacks of drinking games in his kitchen with Shane. And he was gonna have to shake it off before the weapons assembly drill, or else he'd end up putting together an assault rifle backward.

He made it through without any trouble, thank the good Lord. But that didn't mean that his mind wasn't still reeling. He was thinking of Shane and the possibility that she was being courted by Chris Evans look-alikes and young Harrison Ford doppelgangers, and it was making him furious. He was pretty sure that she was about as interested in taking a break as he was, but he couldn't help himself from making the offer under the circumstances. He kicked himself as he made his camp for the evening, not very far away from the third checkpoint, but too far away to get there by dusk when the daily deadline was. He was a shoe in to get there first in the morning, though, if he was reading his map correctly, and he was damn good at maps, if he did say so, himself. And who would bitch at him for bragging out here, anyway. The odd cricket or squirrel? He didn't think so.

It was colder tonight, and he was thankful that he thought to boil some water for his canteen and put it at his feet. He curled his surly, burly body up under the layers of blanket and thermal sheeting. He was almost warm enough…but he still needed something.

His sleep was plagued by strange dreams that he unfortunately remembered tonight. The scene began with Shane in a bright pink dress and matching gloves, dripping with diamonds, like Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. She looked so glamourous and beautiful, but she was getting passed from man to man to the tune of Madonna's Material Girl, which was not the correct song, and he knew it in that moment, but couldn't correct anyone, because it was all playing out on the big screen TV in his basement. When he realized this he turned it off and noticed a familiar head of hair on his lap and stroked it, about to say "Hey, sunshine." until the figure sat up and looked at him, and it was Jordan, the PTA, batting his eyelashes at him, and asking, "You ready for bed, babe?" The therapist leaned in for a kiss, but Sy leaned back, tumbled off the couch and landed on those crutches again, standing right in front of Shane in the lobby of the therapy clinic.

"Hey sunshine." he said warmly. She looked confused.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Well…I should hope so…it's me. Sy."

"Sorry, not ringing any bells. I'll look you us and see who you're with, though. Usually Heather tells the new patients which therapists they get their first day. What's your last name?"

He felt like he was getting kicked in the gut with a soccer cleat worn by the Incredible Hulk. He answered with defeat.

"Sy's a nickname. Last name Syverson, first name Logan."

"Oh, there you are. Looks like Cory gets to take care of you today. I'll let him know you're ready. As long as you're all done with the secretaries?"

Sy nodded and collapsed to the floor blacking out. When he woke up, his neighbor, Mr. Stevens was standing over him, insisting it was time for him to get ready. He kept handing him things to put on. Pants, a nice shirt, a vest, a light blue tie, a jacket, nice shoes. The whole enchilada. They got out of Fred's car at a little white chapel outside which, his neighbor pinned a small boutonniere of powder blue hydrangeas to his lapel and walked in with him.

"Come on, boy. She'll be here any minute."

Sy was nervous, but excited. He was obviously marrying Shane. But he couldn't remember proposing, or planning the wedding, or an engagement party, or bachelor party, or rehearsal dinner, nothing…but none of that mattered. He heard the first notes of "Here Comes the Bride" and everything faded away, anyway. He began to cry as she got closer. She was moving slowly, he presumed out of nerves. Or perhaps she'd chosen the wrong shoes. It didn't matter. They'd dance the night away barefoot, and make love until dawn. He wished her veil wasn't so thick. He couldn't even see her bouquet. Let alone her stunning face, no doubt smiling as she cried with him. When she stood in front of him, he broke protocol and removed the veil to find Aika in a white dress on her hind legs panting, tongue lolling happily to one side.

"You may now kiss the bride." said the wizened old minister, causing Aika to knock Sy to the ground licking his face until he blacked out again.

This time, he woke to the chirping birds of a mountain morning in Virginia. His campfire long snuffed, his canteen now chilled as his blood. Those dreams…those were traumatic. He didn't want Shane to see anyone else. The thought of seeing anyone else himself repulsed him. Thinking about what his life would have been like if they'd never gotten to work together made him physically ill, and he was terrified that if he didn't act on these feelings, he'd end up with no one but his dog. Why did it take a trip out of state and all these nights of solitude to figure this out? She was all that mattered. He could dig ditches, flip burgers, get a teaching certificate and coach, or teach gym. Whatever. He also liked history. He could think of something if the people at Secure Source couldn't keep him in consistent work. It would be fine. He understood his purpose now. And it wasn't just to do his duty to his country. He'd served proudly for years. He had a new purpose now. And it was her.

He packed up camp in what he was sure was record time and hauled ass to the last checkpoint where the brass should be waiting for finishers. He was the first one there this morning, but he wasn't sure if anyone had made it yesterday. He didn't try to make small talk with the attendant today. He was on a legit mission to get back to his locker at the compound, turn his phone on and call Shane. He fired four shots, but only made two holes on the long range target. One in the chest, one in the head. The attendant was impressed, giving the highest possible grade.

"Man, Syverson. I pray I never do anything to piss you off."

Sy nodded in acknowledgement and went on to the weapons drill booths. Today, there were distracting sound effects playing on a speaker in each booth, and each one was different. Sy ignored the cacophony, pretending it was white noise, and focused on the puzzles at hand, breezing through the new weapons in better time than ever.

As his cards were being scored and turned in for review to Jane Freitag, the administrator over acquisitions and training, he got himself a cup of coffee and a doughnut, and just observed her, tactically, and objectively. She was a redhead with sharp features, freckles, and light eyes. She was slender, but dressed simply, and modestly. The consummate professional. Sy had honestly barely registered her gender, and it wasn't because she wasn't beautiful. She was. Full red lips, lashes for days, and although her clothes didn't exactly accentuate her shape, he could tell he had a decent figure. He just wasn't interested. And would never be interested in anyone but Shane again. Miss Freitag startled him out of his thoughts.

"Mr. Syverson." She beckoned him to the entrance to the tent near her vehicle.

He picked up his gear and coffee and trotted over to her.

"Ma'am?"

"Jane, please."

"Sy, then, for me. What's next on the agenda?"

"Well, you're the first participant across the finish line. I'm very impressed. It seems as though you almost could have finished last night."

"Yes, ma'am, if I hadn't taken a little extra time for sightseeing, I might have made it here by dusk last night. I just haven't had the hustle I had today."

"Well, that's nothing to sneer at. Normally, the deprivation of food, regular water supply, and proper sleeping conditions make participants sloppy. The opposite seems to be true for you, as you've done better at each checkpoint than the one before. Now, let's get back to the compound and get you a proper meal, and a shower, and talk about what's next for you here at Secure Source."

"Yeah, about that. Before we go much further with this, I need to know one thing."

"What's that?"

"I need to know if you'll be able to find me work near enough to St. Robert and the base there so that I don't have to relocate and travel all the time. I've got a life there, and…it's not something I can just pick up and move on a whim, and I don't want to be away for weeks and months at a time. I know I made this trip work, but I'm praying it didn't already ruin everything." He wasn't going to waste time mincing words. He needed to know right away or else this wouldn't work.

"Sy, with your talent…they're gonna want to put you on the high profile cases. Celebrity security. Concerts, movie premiers, things like that. You'll be wasted as a small town rent-a-cop." there was true concern in her face and her voice as she drove them out of the park and onto the main road to Secure Source's compound.

"If there's a need I can fill, how is that a waste? There's lots of talent in this program. Just 'cause I finished first don't mean I did it the best. And I'm sure most of these folks have the people skills to take them farther'n me. And if you wanna gimme first crack at those, I'll hear ya out. Just…let me reserve the right to turn down the out of town jobs. Especially if they're short notice. And if it takes me away from another security job, I want you to send me a replacement a few days in advance so I can meet 'em, train 'em, and introduce 'em around."

"Seems reasonable." Jane said.

"Well, alright, then. I think we got ourselves a deal. I'll shower up in the locker room real quick, then meet ya in the commissary for a sandwich so we can handle the particulars?"

"Sure, Sy." she agreed as they pulled into the parking structure.

They went their separate ways, Jane to her office, and Sy to the quartermaster to return his supplies and get the key to his locker. He practically danced there, he was so giddy to get to call Shane. He did need a quick shower first, though. Which he took, grabbing some shampoo and soap out of his travel bag. When he got back to his locker, towel around his waist, he replaced the products and grabbed his phone. He sat on the bench between the rows of lockers as it booted up.

When it did, it began alerting him as if it's life depended on it. Three text messages, three voicemails, … and twenty four missed calls. That was odd. Maybe a telemarketer had gotten his number.

He checked the texts first. One was a picture of Aika from Fred, his neighbor, the other two were from Shane…two days ago. The day he went into the park.

Hey, hope you have a great first day of Survivor: Virginia! Lol! Be safe! I love you!

OMG, nutty day today! I'm gonna be doing notes for hours! I'll text you in the morning! <3

And then nothing…he chuckled at Survivor: Virginia, but was a bit concerned. Maybe she'd decided not to waste time texting him if he wasn't going to respond? He didn't know. Maybe some of the calls or voicemails were from her. He'd check before calling.

One from his mom, one from the Stephen's house phone, and the rest were from Fort Wood Therapy. That was weird. He was discharged and didn't have any appointments…surely he wasn't missing any…Shane would have said something. He listened to the voicemails. The first one was from Heather.

"Hey, Sy, it's Heather, Shane's friend here at therapy. Hey, give me a call when you get this. Thanks."

Weird…the next one was from Susan, Shane's boss. In the same tone.

"Captain Syverson, it's Susan DeForrest here at Fort Wood Therapy Clinic. Please give us a call when you get this. Thank you."

Again, weird. The last one was Susan again and far less friendly and measured.

"Mr. Syverson. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but you need to bring Shane back to work and stop screwing around. One or both of you is in serious trouble. Either you're being hot-lined for abduction or she's fired for not showing up for work. The choice will be hers." and the line went dead.

Sy felt his stomach twist into nauseated knots at Susan's words. Shane hadn't been to work. For how long? He had to call them. He didn't want to think about the horror that might have befallen Shane while he'd been away.

"Fort Wood Therapy Clinic, this is Heather, how may I help you?" Heather said, trying to hide the obvious worry beneath the cordial demeanor.

"Heather, it's Sy, what the hell's going on with Shane? What do you mean, she hasn't been to work, I don't…"

"Let me give you to Susan, Sy. I'm sorry." She added the last two words in a whisper. After a brief moment on hold, Susan picked up.

"So, Mr. Syverson. Finally decided to call us back?"

"Cut it out, Susan." He let her blatant ignorance of his rank slide in favor of getting to the point. "Tell me what's going on."

"Shane left work Monday and hasn't been back since. No one has seen her. Apart from you, I presume. I knew letting her date a patient would come back to bite me. I should never have--"

"Shut up! This isn't about you, and it isn't because of you. And you had no right to tell Shane who she could and couldn't date, anyway. I haven't seen her in about a week and a half. I'm training out of state for a job. I've been away from my phone since Monday, and I just got back to it now."

"She isn't…with you? I assumed…"

"Well, you know what they say, Susan. I'm coming back early if I can manage it. See if I can do something to help find her. Thanks for calling me. I know your intentions weren't the best when you did, but ultimately, it worked out. I may not have found out otherwise, at least until… much later."

He hung up before she could respond. He had to talk to Jane about cutting his training short. This was all his fault. If he had just come to the realization of just how important, how vital Shane really was to him before he left…well he never would have gone in the first place. She was his life now. His world. His future, and his whole heart. Tears stung his eyes as he dressed to meet Jane in the commissary. She'd have to be okay with this. She'd have to understand.

As he got closer to the smell of fry oil, seasonings, and sizzling meat on a griddle, aromas that usually made his stomach grumble with hunger, he had to swallow back the bile that crept up his throat. He found her seated at a small round four-top, already eating a salad. He sat across from her, startling her from whatever she was reading on her phone, and again when she looked at his expression and complexion.

"Sy, what's wrong? You look downright green!"

"Listen, Jane, I'm going to have to leave training early." She scowled at him, but he was more concerned with the putrid smells of boiled egg and onion coming off her chef salad. He had to get this over with quick before he wretched in the middle of the mess hall.

"That's a big ask, Sy. Gonna have to have a reason."

"I just got a call that my girlfriend is missing. I need to go home and help find her."

"Oh…yeah, that's…that's some reason. I'm really sorry to hear that. Any leads so far?"

"No, I just got off the phone with her useless boss and all she told me was that she hasn't been to work since Monday and can't be reached on her phone. I have my suspicions, but I wanna talk to the authorities."

"Okay, well. Maybe when things calm down at home, we can set you up with some online courses like we do for our assets who need refreshers, but are on assignment. I'll approve that for you."

"Thanks," he said, gratefully, "I'm also wondering if the company has any…transportation solutions for me…of an immediate nature?"

"Man, what were your letters to Santa like as a child?"

"Oh, you know, a little red wagon, end of poverty, world peace…that kind of stuff." he grinned his most charming grin.

"Why am I not surprised? Okay, but you have to return the favor somehow, Sy."

"How about, one assignments of your choosing, no questions asked?"

"Hmmm, what about five assignments?"

"Three?" he countered.

"Done." they shook hands across the table. "I would have settled at two." she smirked.

"I would have done ten." he winked at her as he turned to retrieve his belongings from his bunk and locker. He had a plane…or perhaps a chopper to catch.

Up Next: Chapter 14: No Call No Show

#Sand Castle #netflix sand castle #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #henry cavill #henry cavill fanfic #sigh for sy

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